Sword Sworn ss-6

by Jennifer Roberson

  I stopped looking at soil and the edges of the plateau. I looked instead at the tumbled carpet of porous smokerock, quartz, and shale spreading out from the huge boulders like a river of stone. I squatted, searching for the tiniest detail that might tell a story. And there I found one: chips knocked off of rock, showing raw, unweathered stone; the hollowed bedding where rocks had been seated until hooves knocked them loose; the tiny trails left by insects and others fleeing the heat of the sun when their cover was stripped away.

  It was impossible to judge how many horses, or if one was being ridden double, because the stones and their crevices held too many secrets. But a horse had certainly gone this way.

  So I played the game. If I were Nayyib, left with an injured woman, I’d want to get her to help as soon as possible. But going back to Julah the way I’d come could be dangerous; who knew how many sword-dancers were out looking for the Sandtiger? And it was no secret he traveled with a Northern woman; they’d recognize her immediately, assume she knew where their quarry had gone, and question her regardless of her health. So I — Nayyib — Would head for Julah another way, attempting to leave no tracks.

  I would take to the rocks and, since I now had safe passage thanks to the fingerbone necklet, cut through Vashni territory. I’d already done it once on the way to Julah, going for the healer. It was tougher footing for the horse and thus tougher on Del, but safer in the long run.

  I went back to the gelding, grained him, watered him. Then collected bedding and saddlepouches. "We’re staying the night," I told him. "We’ll lose the light soon enough. First thing tomorrow morning, we’re going hunting."

  I dumped pouches at the shelter, then knelt down to spread my blanket. "Fat’s going into the fire," I muttered. "My fat’s going into the fire."

  Because if anyone had seen Nayyib and Del on their way to Julah, likely it was Vashni. And I didn’t have safe passage.

  EIGHTEEN

  I slept poorly, and awoke tired and unrefreshed. Despite circumstances that might provoke them, I hadn’t dreamed at all — at least, that I could remember. And I usually remembered something of my dreams, even if they lacked the dramatics of dead women lecturing me about swords. I got up with stinging eyes that felt full of grit after a day spent squinting hard at the ground, and even more itchy stubble clothing my jaw. I needed both shave and bath. But I didn’t suppose the Vashni would care.

  The gelding, of course, also did not take note of such things, but he did suggest from across the way that I should move him to fresh grass, give him water, and portion out more grain. I did all of those things, among others; then I shoved dried cumfa down my gullet, swallowed a few gulps of water, tacked out and loaded the gelding. But this time I put the halter on over the bridle (and tassels), tied loose reins to saddle thongs, and paid out the lead-rope to a distance that would keep the gelding off my feet while still being close enough to manage.

  "You get the day off," I told him, slinging a bota over my shoulder. "I’m afoot, too."

  I led him to the place I’d found hoof scars in the rocks, inspected it a moment in hopes of seeing some kind of route, but there was nothing indicating such. All I could do was head out and hope that eventually, upon trading stone river for sand and soil, I’d locate Nayyib’s tracks. They’d likely be obvious in softer ground: either a man on foot leading a horse; a horse carrying double and thus leaving much deeper prints; or two sets of hoof-prints — if the stud had come back.

  I sighed. "Let’s go, Snowball."

  The footing was worse than bad. If it wasn’t me tripping over stationary rocks or having loosely seated ones roll out from under my feet, it was the gelding. Hooves were not made for balancing atop rounded rocks, be they firmly seated against one another or treacherously loose; and my sandaled feet were no more appropriate. This was a place for boots, but I’d left mine somewhere along the way. Possibly in Haziz, if I remembered right. Foolish decision, even if I had been trying to save room in saddlepouches. I could not even imagine Nayyib leading a mounted horse carrying an injured woman through here, but I didn’t have to; from time to time I found additional signs of their passage. I wondered if the kid’s horse would be lame by the time he got through; I wondered if the gelding would be lame by the time we got through.

  Slowly, carefully, I picked my way, trying to find some kind of route between stones and boulders easier on the gelding. He was a game horse, coming along willingly without hesitation. At some point I noticed the rocks were decreasing in size. Footing remained a challenge, but the way was less demanding. Better yet, more sand and soil was in evidence, which not only made it easier to walk, but held prints better. I was still on Nayyib’s trail.

  "Almost," I murmured to the gelding. "Not much farther."

  And indeed, neither of us was required to go much farther at all, because even as I turned back to encourage the gelding, I heard other horses approaching. I counted them by sound: four. They clopped down through rocks, rolling and knocking them one against the other.

  Finally. I turned to face the Vashni, purposely not drawing my sword. I simply waited, easing my body into a poised awareness that wasn’t obvious.

  The gelding, spying other horses, pealed out an ear-splitting whinny of greeting. I winced; even the Vashni seemed somewhat startled by their mounts’ answering noise. So much for the momentousness of the meeting.

  In one sweeping glance I noted each man. Oziri was not among them. I didn’t have the slightest grasp of Vashni politics, nor did I know if these four warriors were even of the same band, so I didn’t attempt to invoke his name as safe passage. Besides, Oziri was not my goal.

  What I wanted to do was immediately demand if they had seen Del and if she were alive. But haste is not the best strategy among strangers, especially dangerous ones. Instead, using the gift I’d gained in Meteiera, I told them in their own language, succinctly and without flourish, that I was the jhihadi, and the jhihadi was looking for the Oracle’s sister.

  No more, no less.

  Vashni are not a demonstrative race on the whole, but I saw a faint ripple of response in their dark faces. They said nothing aloud, yet eloquent fingers, as they examined me from a distance, spoke a language I did not; apparently what I’d gained was limited to oral tongues. But possibly it didn’t matter, because my gut was certain they knew very well who, and where, Del was.

  I just needed them to tell me.

  I waited for confirmation. The clenching of my belly tightened. It was all I could do to breathe. I applied every shred of discipline learned atop the spires to hold my silence with no indication of concern.

  There was no confirmation. They simply rode down through the rocks, took up positions in front, on either side, and behind me, and gestured at the the gelding. They closed in once I had mounted, making it clear with no speech that I was to go with them.

  Time turned backward. Years before, Del and I had ridden into a Vashni village. Now, as then, word had been given before we arrived, so that by the time I entered the cluster of hyorts built in the foothills, men, women, and children had turned out to witness my arrival. They formed up in parallel lines facing one another, acting as a human gate into their home. I wondered how many people had ridden the double lines to their deaths.

  The lines ended in the center of the village, a common area surrounded by oilcloth hyorts. I was escorted there, still hemmed in by the four warriors, and made to wait. More conversation with hand gestures ensued, even as the double lines of villagers threaded themselves into a single circle of Vashni, a human wall between my little party and the hyorts.

  Quietly, carefully, I drew in a breath, held it a moment, released it. My right hand felt naked, empty of sword. But this was not, I knew, the time to unsheathe. I sat in silence atop the gelding, ostensibly relaxed.

  Then, from somewhere beyond the village, I heard the ringing call of a stallion.

  My head snapped around. I knew that voice. That arrogance.

  Inwardly a small knot untie
d. A flutter of relief blossomed briefly in my belly. I grinned like a fool.

  The grin dropped away as a voice called out. At once the circle of Vashni parted, allowing a warrior to step through. He approached, flanked by two other men, both younger, both bigger, both bearing traditional Vashni swords across their backs, though he was unarmed save for a knife. Black hair was threaded with gray, and a childhood disease had left his face pocked. The seam of an old scar nicked the corner of his right eye, extending to his ear. He wore an intricate bone pectoral across his bare chest.

  I know a chieftain when I see one. But I was the jhihadi. Preordained by the Oracle himself, whom Vashni had hosted for years. I did not so much as incline my head.

  The chieftain halted. He eyed me briefly, then made a rapid gesture. The four warriors surrounding me absented themselves. It left me atop the gelding in the center of the human circle, facing the chieftain on foot with his two bodyguards.

  Inspiration was abrupt. I eased myself out of the saddle, aware of the sudden tension in the Vashni. Without hesitation or affectation — and without offering any manner of physical threat — I moved out in front of the gelding, ran a hand down his muzzle, and knelt on one knee. I pressed two fingers into the packed soil and sand and drew a line. Shallow at one end, deeper at the other, with a slight depression made by the heel of my hand. Then I unhooked the bota from my shoulder, unstoppered it, poured water in the shallow end of the line, and watched it trickle its way to the other. I placed the blade of grass I’d pulled from the gelding’s bit into the filling depression. Smiling, I looked up and met the chieftain’s eyes.

  After a lengthy consideration, he inclined his head very slightly. Then he turned and walked back through the ring of villagers.

  For an odd suspended moment I thought I was going to be left to fend for myself in the middle of the village. But then a warrior appeared at my elbow as another took the gelding’s reins and led him away. I was escorted through the silent villagers to a hyort. There the warrior pulled the doorflap aside and gestured me to enter.

  I ducked in, aware the flap was dropped behind me. The light was permitted entry only through the smoke hole in the narrow, peaked top of the hyort, concentrated in the middle of the carpeted dirt floor, but it was enough. I saw the blanket-covered pallet and the woman upon it. That she slept was obvious even though her back was to me; I knew the skyward jut of shoulder, the curve of elevated hip, the doubling up of one knee intimately. Del had always stolen more than her share of the bed.

  Relief was so tangible it sent a spasm through my body. I took one step, stopped, and just looked at her, letting the tension of tear, the tautness of anxiety, bleed slowly out of my body. The knot that was my spine untied itself.

  I sat down then, next to the bed, close enough to touch her. I did not. I simply sat there, watching her breathe. Smiling. Happy — and whole — merely to be in her presence.

  I’m here, bascha.

  * * *

  Del slept a long time, but I didn’t care. I stretched out on my back, contemplated the peaked roof where the smoke hole opened to sky, and waited in patient contentment until she turned over onto her back, releasing a breathy sigh. I rolled onto hip and elbow and leaned upon my hand. Her eyes were still closed, but her breathing had changed. I marked the pale lashes against fair skin, the threading of bluish veins in her eyelids. She wore a burnous that hid most of her body, so I didn’t know if she was still bandaged or not. She was too thin; that I could tell from the bones in her face.

  Del’s eyes opened. She blinked up at the smoke hole. Then, frowning, she turned her head and looked right at me.

  My smile broadened. "Hey."

  She gazed at me a moment. "Where in the hoolies have you been?"

  I grinned. "Not a very good effort at sounding angry, bascha. Want to try again?"

  An answering if drowsy smile curved her lips. She reached out a hand. "You won the dance."

  I met her hand with my own. "I won the dance."

  "Was it Abbu?"

  "No, he wasn’t there. Somebody named Musa. I didn’t know him." I arched both brows. "I take it Nayyib told you what Umir planned?"

  "He said Rafiq and the others were quite taken with the idea of facing you in a circle in order to execute you."

  "I think everybody was quite taken with the idea of facing me in a circle in order to execute me. Fortunately, they forgot I wouldn’t be so enamoured of it, myself."

  "Are you hurt?"

  "Nope.".

  Her eyebrows indicated subtle doubt. "Nothing?"

  "One little cut along a rib." I traced it against my burnous. "Honest, bascha. You can see for yourself the next time I’m naked." I wiggled eyebrows at her suggestively, then let go of her hand to stroke a lock of hair out of her face, letting fingertips linger on the curve of her brow. "What about you?"

  "I," she began, "may now rival the Sandtiger himself for the dramatic quality of my scars."

  I winced. "I’m sorry, bascha."

  "Why? Did you attack me?"

  "No, but —"

  " ’No, but’ nothing," she said firmly. "The last thing I remember is going down beneath the sandtiger. That I’m alive and uneaten likely indicates you killed him before he could kill me."

  "Yes, but —"

  "No ’yes, but,’ either," Del declared. "Understood?"

  I knew when to appear to surrender even if I disagreed. "Fine. Now give me details."

  She caught my hand in hers again. Neither of us was the clinging sort, but we did like physical contact. "I will do very well, Tiger. The wounds are almost healed, thanks to you, Nayyib, and the Vashni healer. The poison is out of my body. Mostly I’m a little tired still, and bone-sore, but that will pass." She grimaced. "Except the healer keeps sending me to bed. I’m tired of naps."

  Having years before been badly wounded and poisoned myself by a sandtiger, I knew very well why the healer kept sending her to bed.

  "But we can go in the morning," Del said.

  It caught me off-guard. "Go where?"

  "After Nayyib."

  "Where is he? And why do we have to go after him?"

  "He’s looking for you."

  "He left you here?"

  "When it became obvious I was fine, and when I insisted, yes. He did."

  "You’re not ’fine.’ "

  "Fine enough. Anyway, two days ago I sent him to look for you."

  It astonished me. "You sent him to Umir’s?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?" An idea occured, preposterous as it was. "Did you expect him to rescue me?"

  Del contemplated my aggrieved expression in silence a moment. "Actually, I expected to rescue you. But I needed Neesha to scout for me first."

  "Neesha?"

  "Nayyib. Neesha is his call-name."

  "You sent Nayyib-Neesha to scout for you, so you could come rescue me?"

  "That was the plan," she confirmed gravely.

  I was only half teasing. "You didn’t think I could handle it on my own? A sword-dance? When I’ve been dancing for almost twenty-five years — which is likely longer than the kid you sent has been alive?"

  "You’ve been dancing longer than I’ve been alive."

  Which was a devastatingly effective way to remind me just how old I was, and how old she wasn’t.

  "Hoolies," I muttered.

  Del was laughing. She carried my hand to her mouth, kissed the back of it, then rested it beneath hers against her chest.

  I noted again how thin her face was, and there were shadows beneath her eyes. "Did you really think I’d lose?"

  ’"Only an idiot believes he may never be defeated,’ " Del quoted. "You said that, once."

  "Yes, but I didn’t expect you to believe it. You’re supposed to believe I can do anything."

  "And so you have."

  Well, so far. Sort of.

  "Anyway," Del continued, "I think we should go after Nayyib."

  "Why? He should have reached Umir’s by now, and he’l
l know what happened. I won. I left. I’m here."

  Del gazed at me. "What if he needs rescuing?"

  This whole conversation was bizarre. "Why would he need rescuing? He’s not worth anything."

  "That’s unfair!"

  "To Umir," I elucidated. "He’s not worth collecting. He’s just a kid."

  "He’s twenty-three."

  "That’s a kid."

  "I’m twenty-three, Tiger."

  It shut me up, as she fully intended.

  Del smiled, pleased to have won. "As for not being worth anything to Umir, of course he is. Neesha can tell Umir and any other interested parties where I am. Because they know wherever I am, you will eventually be."

  "He could simply not tell them."

  "Under torture?"

  I scowled. "Why doesn’t he just tell them you’re dead? You almost were."

  "Well, perhaps he will. But that doesn’t mean he won’t be tortured before he says it."

  "Then he should have stayed here."

  "He went looking for you. Isn’t that worth something?"

  "I don’t know," I growled. "Depends on if you think I’m worth something."

  "Sometimes."

  I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, rubbed a hand over my face.

  "He saved my life, Tiger."

  "I thought I saved your life."

  "You, and Neesha, and the Vashni healer."

  I squinted at her. "This isn’t another of your cockamamie female ideas, is it? I mean, he’s human, a man, not a cat or dog. He’s not astray."

  "You were."

  "I was?"

  "Yes. All those years ago when the shodo accepted you for training. He took in a stray human and gave him a home."

  I drew myself up. "And I repaid him by becoming not only his best student but the South’s greatest sword-dancer…" I thrust an illustrative finger in the air. "… which is, I might add, a title very recently reaffirmed."

  Del’s tone was elaborately innocent. "I thought you said Abbu wasn’t there."

  I glowered. "We’re not talking about Abbu. We’re talking about the kid. And now you’re telling me you want me to ride back into Umir’s domain, even though there will be men looking to kill me?"