Sword Born ss-5

by Jennifer Roberson

  "There has been an accounting," she said.

  As I’m sure she knew, there are many types of accountings in this world. I waited for her to explain which one this was.

  "The winehouse sent it up this morning."

  Ah. That kind of accounting. The owner was fast with his figures. Then again, he’d probably started tallying costs the minute the first winejar was flung.

  I waited longer, anticipating a discussion of Herakleio’s continued failings and her expectations of my plans to correct them as soon as humanly possible.

  Instead she said, "I shall be extending your term of service."

  There are times I can be as cool and calm as Del. Or the metri. This was not one of them.

  Alarm bells went off. Noisily.

  I hate alarm bells. And so I told her explicitly that I was under no "term of service," nor had any intention of being held accountable for the damage done to the wine-house by her relative, nor would pay a single whatever-the-lowest-coin-of-the-island-was when I had been on her business in the first place bringing her errant heir home. At her request.

  "I shall be extending your term of service," she repeated, "to cover the cost of the damages for which you are responsible —"

  "How in hoolies am I responsible?"

  "— and to further educate Herakleio in the proper ways of manhood." She fixed me with a cold stare. "That was neither proper manhood nor acceptable behavior."

  "Well, then I guess I’m not the man for the job," I shot back. "We might as well just call it off right now. And you can find someone else."

  She arched expressive brows. "And how then shall you discharge your debt to me?"

  "In the South," I began with careful precision, "such things are often settled in the circle. If you would care to hire a sword-dancer to contest this debt, I will be more than happy to meet him in the circle."

  "Her," she said.

  "What?"

  "Her," she repeated.

  "Who her — ?" And then I understood.

  I don’t know how much of what I said the metri understood — likely none of it, since it was a polyglot of languages and none of it polite — but the tone was clear enough.

  Finally I ran out of breath. "No," I said simply.

  "She has already agreed."

  "Del agreed to this?"

  "She explained that sword-dancers dance for coin and debt dischargement as well as for honor."

  "Doesn’t matter," I said crisply, refusing to acknowledge her accuracy. "I’m not going into the circle against Del."

  Not ever again. Never.

  "She has agreed."

  "I don’t care."

  "You yourself suggested I hire a sword-dancer to contest the debt. So I have done. And now your part is to meet her." She smiled faintly. "Happily, I believe you said."

  "I won’t do it."

  "Then you have no choice but to agree to my extension of the term of your service."

  "I have every choice," I retorted. "I refute your reasoning, to begin with — I did not personally, as far as I know, break a single table, or even a lamp; fingers, maybe, and a jaw or two, but the winehouse owner can’t exactly charge me for that, now, can he?"

  "Discharge the debt in coin, or accept additional service with me." She gestured regret and helplessness. "What I ask is not unfair. It does not approach usury."

  "Maybe slavery."

  She disapproved. "Hardly that."

  I shook my head. "I could walk out of here today, right this minute, and get the hoolies off this gods-cursed island." Which was beginning to sound like the only possible course of action.

  "And have you learned to swim?"

  I frowned. "What has swimming to do with it?"

  "How do you propose to get off this gods-cursed island if you cannot swim?"

  "Little matter of boats," I answered. "You know — things that float."

  "But none of them will float for you."

  "Unless you have somehow contrived to sink all of them, I suspect I’ll find one that’ll float for me."

  "You have no coin."

  "I’ll work for my passage."

  "For whom? No captain will hire you on."

  "No?"

  The metri smoothed a nonexistent crease from her tunic skirts. "Have you not yet come to realize that the very reason people desire power is so they may use it?"

  "And?"

  "And," she continued, "I have sent to have your description carried to the owners of every ship, every boat, every raft on the island. You are an easy man to describe; one need only tell about the scars on your face."

  There were things a man might do to disguise himself, but peeling the skin of my face off was not one of them. "And?"

  The metri smiled. "I have power."

  It took effort to remain calm, with the ice of apprehension spilling down my spine again. "The Stessoi are one of eleven of the so-called gods-descended families," I said. "Of those ten others, I have no doubt one among them will be pleased to put me on a ship. Because when you have power, you also have enemies."

  Her smile was gone. "They will not aid you."

  "No?"

  "I own every grapevine on the island," she said simply.

  "So?"

  "Would you have them denied wine — or the income from its trade — because of so little a thing?"

  We locked glances for a long moment, weighing the quality of mutual determination. Neither of us so much as blinked.

  "So," she said eventually, "you have found me out."

  "And you me."

  "And I you." She relaxed in her chair, loosening only slightly the rigidity of her spine. "I should be grateful that you are as willing as I to stand your ground simply for the sheer ability to do so, no matter the consequences, because such men are occasionally valuable, but…"

  It wasn’t like her to not finish a sentence. "But?"

  "But it makes our situation more difficult."

  "In what way?"

  The metri’s cool glance appraised me. "In the matter of honor, a man may choose to be manipulated. Through custom, if nothing else; or perhaps he has no temperament for finding the way to win if it entails hardship in his house."

  "A woman is indeed capable of causing hardship in a house," I said dryly.

  "But a man who makes a rock of himself, a mountain of himself to stand against the wishes of the wind for the sake of honor or intransigence can only be moved when the gods decree it. As they decreed Skandi should break itself apart so many years ago."

  "I rather like the idea of being a mountain."

  "You promise to make a substantial one," she agreed with irony. "But you forget one important thing."

  "And what’s that?"

  "I am gods-descended," she said with startling mat-ter-of-factness, "and I can break apart even the largest of mountains into so much powder and ash."

  "You," I said finally, "are one tough old woman."

  "So old?"

  I displayed teeth. "Older than the rocks."

  It did not displease her. She was beyond the flatteries of youth and the needs of middle age. "So old," she agreed serenely. "It is well you recognize it."

  "Herakleio doesn’t stand much of a chance."

  "Herakleio stands no chance," she corrected. "No more than you."

  "Ah, but I’m the mountain."

  "Mountains fall."

  I smiled back. "And become rocks."

  "But I am the island," she said, "and the island shall always prevail, even in catastrophe."

  "Is Herakleio a catastrophe?"

  "He has it in him to become one," she said, amused, "but I think he will not. He claims the stubborn fickleness of a child trying to make a path where no one has gone before, but lacks the werewithal to insist. He will turn back."

  "Then you don’t need me at all."

  "I need you," she told me, "for things you cannot imagine."

  I went very still. "And is that supposed to make me feel better?"

&
nbsp; "What it isn’t," she said, "is to make you afraid." She smiled faintly. "Do you think I intend to draw you into deadly and dangerous plots?"

  "I think," I said, "you would. If you felt it would benefit you. Now, as for me —"

  "I need you," she repeated, "for things that will strengthen this household."

  "What I need," I said, "is to get off this island."

  "What?" It was false amazement, dry as dust. "And not take your place as heir to Akritara?"

  I scoffed. "I am no more your grandson than you are gods-descended."

  Her eyes gleamed. "Truth means nothing," she said. "Perception is all."

  "And since you are accepted as gods-descended…"

  "If you would be accepted as my heir," she said quietly, "you might consider behaving as one worthy of the place. I have requested you teach Herakleio the responsibilities of a man, not to encourage him to behave as a boy by behaving as one yourself."

  "For what it’s worth," I declared, "I didn’t start the fight."

  "Perhaps not. But neither did you end it."

  No. That had been Del.

  "Maybe you should hire her," I muttered between my teeth.

  For the first time since I’d met her, the metri laughed. "But I have. Should you not go meet her now? She is waiting in the circle."

  I found Del on the terrace where I’d begun teaching Herakleio. As requested of Simonides, the stones were swept and scrubbed clean. My bare feet, trained to such things, appreciated the surface. I was callused from years of dancing on all sorts of footing, but nonetheless my body responded. It felt right.

  She sat upon the low wall encircling the terrace. Wind rippled linen, set hair to streaming. Her face was bared, unobscured by stray locks or scowls, or even the mask she wears when uncertain of surroundings; she was at ease, and her expression reflected it. She was lovely in the sunlight, laughing at something her companion was saying.

  He, unlike me, had taken time to set himself to rights. Freshly bathed, clothed, shaved, and showing few signs of the fight the night before, save for one modest bruise beginning to darken a cheekbone and a slightly swollen lip.

  Hoolies, maybe I should have taken the time to clean myself up. "Excuse —"

  But Herakleio was up and taking his leave of Del before I could finish the sentence, thereby depriving me of the opportunity to send him on his way. I stared after him sourly as he strode smoothly away. Then recalled why I was here, and why Del was here.

  I rounded on her. "What in hoolies do you mean by hiring on with the metri?"

  "Work," she replied matter-of-factly, unperturbed by my thunderous expression. But then, she’s seen it before.

  "But a sword-dance? With me?" I paused. "Against me? Why? Why would you? What do you hope to gain, Del — some bizarre form of reparation for something I’ve done that I’ve forgotten I’ve done? Or something you expect me to do, today or ten years from now?" I glared down at her, locking fists onto my hips. "If you think for one moment I intend to step into a circle with you, you’ve gone loki. You know I won’t. You know why. You know why I can’t. I refuse. I told the metri I refuse. You knew I’d refuse; so, what? — is this a plot hatched by you and the metri, women both, to manipulate me into staying here longer? Some kind of wager? An idle whim? A trick to make me step into a circle with you?" I sucked in a noisy breath. "Just what is it you hope to gain?"

  "Swords," she replied.

  "Of course, swords," I said testily. "That’s why it’s called a sword-dance. Swords are required. It’s not a knife-dance, or a just-dance, now, is it? It’s a sword-dance. Which I’ve vowed never to undertake against you. Again. Ever."

  "Well," she said musingly, "I thought this might be the easiest way to get swords. On an island where there don’t appear to be any."

  "Which makes a whole lot of sense! It’s a little difficult to undertake a sword-dance when there are no swords."

  "Exactly," Del said.

  "Then we can’t dance."

  "That’s true."

  "Which means nothing can be settled."

  "That’s also true."

  "So why did you accept when the metri offered the dance?"

  "She didn’t offer the dance. I suggested it to her as a means of settling the question of extended service."

  "You suggested it? Why?"

  Del smiled a little. "Swords."

  "Yes, but we don’t have any…" And then I ran out of fuel altogether. My face got warm all at once and, I didn’t doubt, red as a Southron sunset. I said something self-castigatory in succinct and vulgar Desert, the tongue of my youth, and plopped myself down on the wall. After a moment I cleared my throat. "Was there any particular reason you allowed me to make such a fool of myself?"

  "You were having such a grand time getting all hot and bothered that I didn’t dare stop you." She paused. "Besides, you do it so well."

  "And did you find it amusing?"

  Del grinned. "Yes."

  I sighed, shuffled callused feet against grit-free stone. "So."

  "So."

  "So the metri will find us swords."

  "So the metri will."

  "Thereby saving us coin we don’t have."

  "And time, and effort."

  I squinted into the morning sun. "I knew there was a reason for keeping you around."

  Del made an exceptionally noncommittal noise.

  "So," I said again, "now that we’ve figured out how we’re to get ourselves swords —" As expected, she cast me a pointed sidelong glance. "— there’s something else we have to do."

  "What is that?"

  I caught her hand, pulled her up from the wall. "Go see a man about a horse. Or, in this case, a woman about a ship."

  "Why?"

  "To test a theory."

  "What theory?"

  "The one that says the metri can’t sink every ship." I tugged. "Come on."

  Del resisted. "What are you talking about? Why would she sink every ship? Why would she sink any ship?"

  "It’s a figure of speech," I said. "Will you come?"

  "I’ve already been aboard one ship that sank out from under me," Del said darkly, arm tensed against my grasp. "I’m not interested in repeating the experience."

  "Our ship is fine. It’s Herakleio’s that’s sinking. Bascha — will you come on?"

  Reluctantly she allowed me to pull her up and toward the nearest narrow stairway leading into the house. "Tiger, whenever you get cryptic, it means there’s trouble on the horizon."

  "Not this time. I just want to see if there’s a ship on the horizon."

  "And if there is?"

  "See what it would cost to sail on it."

  "Last time it cost us everything we had."

  "She owes me," I explained, "for that and other things. It’s her fault I’m in this mess."

  "That won’t convince her to do anything."

  "Oh, I’ll think of something."

  Whatever Del said by way of observation was declared in idiomatic Northern, and I didn’t understand a word. Which was probably for the best, being as how the bascha has as great a gift for malediction and vilification as I do.

  TWENTY-TWO

  When it became clear Prima Rhannet was not in the household, I dug up Simonides and asked where she was. He responded by asking what I wanted her for; possibly he could help me instead.

  Since I knew very well he could not and would not give me any kind of answer that might permit Del and me to hire the renegada captain to sail us away from Skandi — and by default away from the metri and her spoiled godling — I simply said I needed to ask Prima Rhannet a question.

  Whereupon Simonides, with unctuous courtesy, said perhaps I might ask him the question, as perhaps he might know the answer.

  Impasse. We exchanged a long, speaking look, measuring one another’s determination not to say what each of us wanted to say, and our respective experiences with outwaiting others in identical situations. Whereupon Del sighed dramatically and inquired as to
how old we were to be before the verbal dance was settled. Which reminded me all over again that the metri expected Del and me to dance with swords to settle the question of my "term of service," which in turn made me anxious to be going.

  "Never mind," I said. "We can walk."

  Simonides’ expression transformed itself from confident servitude to startiement, followed rapidly by mounting alarm. "Walk?"

  "One step after another all strung together until you get somewhere else," I clarified. Then added, "Somewhere you want to be."

  "You cannot walk," he said severely.

  I smiled cheerfully. "Actually, I learned a long time ago."

  He waved a hand dismissively, familiarly; clearly he had accepted me as someone who required his very special attention and personal guidence. His version of Herakleio, maybe. "You cannot walk," he repeated. "That is what molah-men are for."

  "Fine. Can we borrow one?"

  His expression was infinitely bland. "In order for me to summon a molah-man and his cart, I must know where you are going."

  "Nice try," I said dryly. "But all you really have to do is summon him. You don’t have to tell him a thing. Which means you don’t have to know where we’re going, and I don’t have to tell you."

  Simonides inclined his head the tiniest degree. "You do not speak Skandic." Clearly he believed he’d won.

  "I speak enough," I said, dashing his hopes. "All I have to do is say ’Skandi.’ I think he’ll catch my drift."

  "Where in Skandi?" Simonides inquired diffidently.

  "We could be there and back by now," Del observed.

  Simonides switched his attention to her. "Be where and back again?"

  Exasperated, I permitted my voice to rise. "What does it matter, Simonides? We’re not prisoners here —" I paused with great elaboration, letting the implication hang itself upon the air in glowing letters of fire. "— are we?"

  I had succeeded in horrifying him. He said something quickly and breathlessly in Skandic, which eluded both of us, then clasped both hands over his heart in a gesture of supplication. His breathing came fast and noisy, as if he were overcome.

  "I’ll take that as a ’no,’ " I said dryly. "Now can we have our cart?"