Sword-Breaker

by Jennifer Roberson

  “Aqivi!” I called to a plump cantina girl already laden with cups, and a jug of something. “And two bowls of mutton stew, with danjac cheese on the side!”

  Del paused at the table, glancing around in silence. Her distaste is never blatant, but I read her easily.

  “Sit down,” I said curtly. “Do you expect it to be any better?”

  Del’s head snapped around. She studied me a long moment, then sat down on the other stool. The table was tucked into a tight corner, away from the raucousness; the stool I left to Del would ward her back and two sides. I had made an effort. She just chose not to see it.

  The cantina girl arrived with the things I had ordered. A jug, two cups, two steaming bowls with spoons. I opened my mouth to ask for water, counting coppers in advance, but Del cut me off. “I will drink aqivi.”

  I very nearly gaped. But hid it instantly, merely raising an eyebrow. “Heady stuff, bascha.”

  “It seems to agree with you.” She reached for the jug, poured both cups full. The pungent aroma was so thick I thought a sword could cut it in half.

  I flipped the cantina girl an extra copper, then waved her on her way. I had other concerns to tend. “Look, bascha, I know I’ve said in the past that you have no call to chide me for drinking so much of something you don’t approve of, but—”

  “You are right,” she said quietly, and lifted the cup to her mouth.

  “You don’t have to, bascha!”

  “Drink your own,” she said coolly, and took a decent swig.

  I have no subtlety: I laughed into her face. “Oh, gods, Del—if you could see your face!”

  She managed to swallow the mouthful with elaborate dignity. Then took another one.

  “Bascha—enough! You have nothing to prove.”

  Blue eyes were steady. She managed this swallow better, and the expression afterward. “One cannot judge a man until one has tried his vices.”

  I blinked. “Who told you that?”

  “My an-kaidin, on Staal-Ysta.”

  I grunted. “Northerners. All pompousness and wind.”

  “Did your shodo not teach you something similar?”

  “My shodo taught me seven levels of swordwork. That was all that mattered.”

  “Ah.” A third swallow. “Southroners. All sweat and buttock blossoms.”

  Always in the middle of a swallow… I sputtered, choked, wiped my face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Del considered a moment. “Something you do in your sleep, after too much cheese.”

  “After—oh. Oh.” I scowled. “I can think of better topics.”

  Del smiled sweetly. Drank more aqivi.

  “Be careful,” I warned uneasily. “I told you what happened to me. One cup of that too fast, and I was falling-down drunk.”

  She pulled her braid free of burnous, letting it dangle against one shoulder. “There are things I do better than you. This may be one of them.”

  “Drinking? I doubt it. I’ve had years more practice. Besides, I’m a man.”

  “Ah. That explains it.” Del nodded, swallowed. “It is part of a man’s pride, then, to drink more than a woman.”

  I thought back on contests to establish that very thing, though always among men. Women were not included, except as the reward.

  Warmth stole up my belly, blossomed at my neck, traced its way into my face. Del, seeing it, smiled; my answer was implicit.

  Which made me a bit touchy. “Men do a lot of things better than women. Men do things better than other men, too. There’s nothing wrong with that. There’s nothing wrong with pride. And there’s nothing wrong with a competition to see who is best.”

  “Out-drinking one man is a way of proving yourself?”

  “In some cases, yes.” I could remember many.

  “Pissing contests, too?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “I had lots of brothers.”

  I grunted. “I don’t make a habit of it. But I won’t deny it’s happened.”

  “What about women?”

  “What?”

  “Have you competed for a woman?”

  I scowled. “What is this about? Are you angry with me about something? What have I done now?”

  Del smiled, and drank aqivi. “I am merely trying to understand what makes a man a man.”

  I swore. “There’s more to being a man than drinking and pissing—and whoring.”

  Del rested chin in hand. “And there’s more to being a woman than baking bread and having babies.”

  “Hoolies, don’t I know it? Haven’t you made it clear?” I splashed more aqivi into my cup. “Do you want more?”

  Del smiled. “Please.”

  “Eat your stew,” I muttered, digging into my own.

  “The cheese is green,” she remarked.

  So was the mutton, a little. “Eat around it, then. You won’t find any better.”

  She excavated in her stew. “No wonder Quumi faded. How many survive its food?”

  I found a chunk of meat-colored meat. “There’s cumfa in our pouches.”

  Del grimaced. I grinned.

  “Eat,” I advised kindly. “So you’ll have something to throw up.”

  Twenty-five

  She drank more than expected. Ate less than I’d hoped. But one thing I’ve learned is, you can’t tell a woman anything. Especially a drunk Delilah.

  Except, I wasn’t sure she was. A little maybe. A bit on the warm side, with a glitter in blue eyes and pale rose blooming in her cheeks. But mostly, she was happy.

  Now, you might argue being generally happy is not a bad thing for a man. A happy woman is even better. A happy Del might be best of all—except I didn’t know what to do with her.

  Well, yes, I did. But she was in no condition.

  Or was she?

  But it was a bad idea. She’d only argue that I’d taken advantage of her, and I suppose she’d be half right. And saying half is a big concession; we were bed partners. How do you take advantage of someone who shares your bed anyway?

  By letting her get herself drunk, then taking her off for a coupling she wouldn’t remember anyway in the thumping of her head and the upheaval in her belly.

  I like to think I leave a woman with a better memory than that.

  Left, more like. I hadn’t had a woman other than Del for—oh, I can’t remember.

  Which worried me, a little.

  Shouldn’t I remember?

  Shouldn’t I want to remember?

  Hoolies, it wasn’t worth it. I poured more aqivi.

  Del saw him before I did, which wasn’t really surprising since she sat with her back to the wall, and I sat with mine to the room. Which meant that when the man arrived, Del was already watching every move he made with intent, almost avid eyes.

  Hands hung at his sides. Rings glinted in poor light. Gauzy saffron underrobe, embroidered with golden thread; copper-dyed burnous of exquisite cut and fabric; a wide leather belt studded with agate and jade. “I have coin,” he said. “How much will you sell her for?”

  For only an instant it caught me off-guard. And then I remembered: this was the South. I’d been north for long enough to forget some of the customs, such as buying and selling people whenever the urge struck.

  I looked at Del. Saw the illusory blandness that was prelude to attack.

  I beat her to it. “Who? Her?” A flick of a newborn fingernail indicated the subject. “You don’t want to buy her.”

  “I want her. How much?”

  I didn’t look up at him. Didn’t have to. I knew he had the coin. He wore too much of it. “Not for sale,” I said, and drank more aqivi.

  “Name your price.”

  Inwardly, I sighed. “How do you know she’s worth it?”

  “I buy—differences.” The word was oddly inflected.

  “I judge differently than other men… worth is what I make it.”

  Carefully, I set down the cup. Swiveled slightly on my stool and looked up at the
man. Contained my surprise: he was about my age, and very fair of feature. A Southroner, no question, but crossed with something else. The sharp tribal edge was blunted, softening his angles. The aqivi-pale eyes were intelligent, and very, very patient.

  This could be trouble.

  “No,” I said briefly.

  “What do you want?” he asked softly. “I have more than merely coin—”

  “No.” I glanced at Del, expecting a comment. She waited mutely, leaning indolently against the wall, which is not to suggest she was unprepared; then again, she was drunk. “She’s not mine to sell.”

  “Ah.” Enlightenment flickered in nearly colorless eyes, and I realized I had demoted myself without intending to. Now he thought me a bodyguard, or some other kind of hireling. “Then whom do I see regarding her purchase?”

  “Me,” Del answered.

  Dark brown eyebrows arched slightly, expressing mild surprise. “You?”

  “Me.” She smiled her glorious smile; I snapped out of aqivi-induced relaxation into taut wariness. When Del smiles like that.…

  “You?” This time he was amused. “And how would you price yourself?”

  White teeth glinted briefly. “More than you would be willing to pay.”

  Pale eyes were amused. “Ah, but you have no idea how much I have to spend.”

  “And you have no idea how much it would cost you.”

  “All right,” I said, “enough. This serves no purpose. Let’s just end it right here, right now, and let all of us go on about our business.” I started to rise. “I think it’s time—”

  “Sit down, Tiger,” she said.

  “Bascha, this has gone too far—”

  “He has taken it this far. As I am the reason for it, it will be my decision.” Her voice was cool, but color suffused her face. Blue eyes glittered. “I want to find out exactly how much he will pay.”

  I managed not to shout. “And if he pays it? What then?”

  “Why, then he will have bought me.” Del languidly pulled the leather thong confining her braid, shook loose pale hair, sectioned it again.

  “Enough,” I hissed. “If you think I’m going to sit here and let you bargain yourself into slavery—”

  “Not a slave,” the man interjected. “I don’t purchase slaves. I purchase—differences.”

  “Who cares?” I snapped. “You can’t buy her.”

  Del rebraided her hair. “Don’t you trust me, Tiger?”

  I stared back at her, grinding teeth. “You’re drunk,” I accused. “Drunk and stupid and foolish—”

  “As you have been often enough.” The smile was perfectly bland. “Have I ever stopped you from doing exactly as you wished?”

  “This is different—”

  “No, it isn’t.” She smiled at the man. “You will assume responsibility for paying my price?”

  Pupils dilated. He thought she was his already. “I have said I will pay it.”

  “No matter what it is.”

  “Yes.” Rings glittered as fingers twitched. “Name your price.”

  Del nodded once, tying off her hair. Pushed her stool back and rose. Unbelted her burnous, unhooked the split seam from her sword hilt, slid soft silk to the floor. The harness bisected breasts, accentuating her body. It snugged her tunic tight.

  Bare arms were pale in burnished, malodorous light. Silver hilt glinted pale salmon. “Choose a man,” she said.

  “A—man—?” For the first time, he was nonplussed.

  “For the dance. Choose.”

  I stirred. “Now, Del—”

  “Choose,” she repeated. Then blonde brows rose. “Unless you mean to dance yourself?”

  “Dance?” He looked at me. “What is she talking about?”

  Resignation outweighed annoyance. “Ask her, why don’t you? She’s the one you want.”

  “My price,” Del said. And drew Boreal, setting tip into tabletop. The sword jutted upright, braced against falling over by a single long-fingered hand wrapped loosely around the grip. Softly, she said, “I love to dance.”

  She’s drunk, I told myself. She’s drunk, and on the prod—what in hoolies do I do?

  Could I do anything?

  No one had ever stopped me.

  He protested instantly. “I am not a sword-dancer—”

  “I am.” She smiled. “Choose another, then.”

  “You are not—” He stopped. One had only to look at her. And then he looked at me. “She is not.”

  “Tell you what,” I said lightly, “why don’t we wager on it?”

  “But—she is a woman—”

  “I did sort of think you had that part figured out.” I warmed to the verbal skirmish, beginning to feel relieved. Del didn’t mean to dance. She was playing games with him. “I don’t know a soul who could miss that fact.”

  “Choose,” Del said. “If I lose, you have won.”

  By now, of course, everyone else in the cantina had discovered our discussion. Silence filled the taproom, along with all the stink.

  Which reminded me of something. “What in hoolies are you doing here?” I asked him. “You don’t seem the type to spend much time in Akbar’s place. Another, better cantina, maybe…” I shrugged. “You’re sadly out of place.”

  “I have informants. One came with word of a woman worth the trouble of putting myself out of place.” He smiled faintly, turning my words back on me. “I will have to give him a bonus.”

  “She’s a Northerner,” I declared. “She isn’t for sale. They don’t do that, there.”

  “Here. There. It makes no difference. Most of the things I own were never for sale. But I bought them anyway.” He shrugged delicately. “One way—or another.”

  A man pushed out of the throng. Young. Southron. Eager. A scabbarded sword hung from his hip, which meant he wasn’t a dancer. He just wanted to be one. This was probably the closest he would ever come. “I’ll dance against her.”

  Del’s eyes narrowed. She assessed him carefully.

  The rich man smiled. “I will pay you, of course.”

  “How much?” the young man asked.

  “That can be arranged later. I promise, I will be generous; I see no point in shortchanging you, if you win the dance.”

  Now I did stand. “This has gone far enough—”

  “Tiger—sit down.”

  “Del, don’t be ridiculous—”

  She said a single word in clipped, icy Northern. I reflected silently she knew more of gutter language than I’d given her credit for.

  “Fine,” I said agreeably.

  Then overset the table and walloped her one on the jaw.

  Twenty-six

  Del folded, dropping her sword. I caught her, missed the sword, dumped her ungently into the corner, then spun to face the others.

  Samiel was in my hands.

  “My name is the Sandtiger,” I said. “Anyone who wants to dance can take it up with me.”

  A ripple ran through the room. But nobody said a word.

  “No?” I flicked the sword, throwing a bi-colored flash across the cantina: silver and black. “No one? No one at all?” I glanced at the man who had wanted to buy Del. “How about you?”

  His mouth was set tautly, but he said nothing, also.

  “No? You’re sure?” Another glance around the cantina. “Last chance,” I warned. Then I locked gazes with the young man who had offered to dance against Del. “What about you? You were awfully eager. Would I satisfy you?”

  Nervously, he licked his lips. “I didn’t know it was you. I didn’t know she was yours.”

  “Not mine,” I said clearly. I looked around the room yet again. “I ought to challenge every one of you to a true dance. I’m bored, and I need the work.”

  “Sandtiger.” The young man again. “No one here would stand a chance against you.”

  I smiled thinly. “I’m glad you realize that.”

  Behind me, Del stirred.

  “Stay put,” I snapped, not even bothering
to look. I stuck a toe against Boreal, slid her toward the corner. I doubted anyone would try, but I didn’t want to take the chance. He would thank me for it. “So,” I said, “why doesn’t everybody go back to whatever it was they were doing?” I turned toward Del’s “purchaser,” lowering my voice. “Because unless you want to dance, the entertainment’s over.”

  Aqivi-pale eyes glinted. Rings glittered as fingers stiffened. But he shook his head in silence.

  “Then go home,” I suggested. “Go back where you belong.”

  He inclined his head briefly in elegant acknowledgment, then turned and walked out of Akbar’s.

  That much done. Now for the rest.

  “Show’s over,” I declared.

  They all agreed hastily.

  When I judged the cantina sufficiently settled, though not quite itself again, I sheathed my sword and turned to Del. She had gathered up Boreal and sat against the corner, cradling her sword.

  “Here.” I reached for Boreal. “Let me put her away before you cut off a leg.”

  Deftly, Del flipped the grip into both hands and angled the sword upward. I discovered the tip threatening intimate knowledge of my suddenly sucked-in belly. Unexpectedly, the blade was rock steady.

  “Back away,” she said.

  “Bascha—”

  “Back away, Tiger.”

  I took a sharper look at her eyes. Then backed. Del watched me every step, judged the distance between us sufficient, pushed herself up the wall as she scooped up dropped burnous. The misleading brightness of eyes and cheeks was banished, betraying the truth I’d missed: Del was not drunk. Del had never been drunk.

  “What in hoolies—”

  “To the room. Now.”

  I debated arguing it with her. But when a man’s at the end of a sword—the sharp end, that is—he usually does as he’s told. I did as she suggested.

  The room was tiny, a rectangular sliver tucked away on the northern side, with a lopsided window block cut through chipped and flaking adobe letting in muted, lopsided light. The wall between the room and the next was of heat-brittle lath and paste-stiffened, bug-eaten cloth. Not the room I’d rented from Akbar, or the one we’d shared before. It was, I thought somewhat inconsequently, not so much better than the stall housing the stud. Possibly smaller.