Sword-Breaker

by Jennifer Roberson

  “Nezbet?”

  “You don’t know he wouldn’t.”

  I snickered. “With enemies like Nezbet, I’ll live forever.”

  “I heard them. What they said. A borjuni. Why?”

  “Why did I make him one? Or how did it come to be?”

  “Both.”

  “I didn’t make him one. It was his choice. And he made that choice by relinquishing his honor, according to the codes.” I dug a cumfa string from between two teeth. “You know about codes. You know about honor.”

  “Yes.”

  “When a shodo-trained sword-dancer knowingly relinquishes honor merely to win, or kill, he relinquishes himself. He exiles himself from the circle.” I shrugged. “He doesn’t have to become a borjuni. But I don’t know of a single sword-dancer who would be content to raise goats, or scratch a crop from the Southron desert.”

  “There are other things.”

  “Caravan guard, yes. But caravan-serais prefer to hire the real thing, not a dishonored man. They can’t be certain of his allegiance—what if he was a borjuni, and leading them into a trap?” I shook my head. “There is no greater, truer freedom than being a sword-dancer. And no greater dishonor than breaking the codes. It follows you for life, mocking you every day. Until all you can think to do is become a borjuni, because none of them care. They just want you to be like them: to kill quickly and effortlessly.”

  “And you made Nezbet one.”

  “Nezbet is young. Nezbet came from somewhere. He could petition to reapprentice, starting all over again—but if he’s smart, he’ll go back where he came from and forget about the circle. He wasn’t suited for it.”

  “Is that why you broke his wrist?”

  “No. Well, maybe. Mostly, I did it because I knew I didn’t have another chance to give him. If he’d tried one more time, he might have succeeded.”

  Del grunted. “No.”

  I smiled. “Misplaced faith.”

  “You are the best I have ever seen.”

  “Except for Abbu?”

  Silence.

  “Well?” I prodded.

  “Abbu is—good.”

  “Umir says he’s the best.”

  Del rolled onto her side. “Do you listen to the word of a man who would steal a woman?”

  “A man’s morals—or lack of —don’t affect his judgment of sword-dancing.”

  She muttered something in uplander.

  “Of course, he hasn’t seen me dance. Only heard about me.” I paused. “I think.”

  “Vanity,” she murmured. “Vanity—and pride.”

  I was tired, and sleepy. I rolled onto my side carefully, showing her my back. “You’ve got your own share of both.”

  No answer.

  I drifted, sliding toward the edge.

  Then she touched my back, tracing the line of my spine with a single soothing finger. “Real,” she said softly. “Am I not proof of that?”

  “You?” I asked sleepily.

  “I am not an afreet. If you were not real, what then could share your bed except an afreet?”

  I smiled into darkness. “How do I know you’re not? Your say-so? A bit biased, I would say.”

  The finger departed my spine. Then prodded a sore spot gently. “If I were an afreet, I’d have neither pride nor vanity.”

  I grunted. “Then I guess we’re both real.”

  Del turned onto a hip, bumping against me. “Go to sleep.”

  “Stop nattering, then.”

  The night was filled with silence.

  Unless I snored, of course.

  Del swears I do. But I never hear it.

  Thirty-one

  Inside me, something—rustled. It rummaged around in my mind, stirring up old memories, and replaced them with its own.

  It was Shaka. Shaka’s fault. He twisted childhood truths and made them over into falsehoods, because he was jealous of me. Of the things I had learned to do. The magic I could wield.

  The things I had learned to Make.

  It was all Shaka’s fault.

  And my task to put it right—

  I sat up, choking, and spat out a clot of—something.

  Beside me, Del roused also, levering up on an elbow. “Are you all right?”

  Breathing steadied. The world righted itself.

  I looked at her, scratching at the stubble I hated. “—’m all right. Just got something caught in my throat.” I hacked, cleared it, spat. “Sorry.”

  She scrutinized the morning. “Dawn,” she announced. “We may as well get up. As you would say: we are burning daylight.”

  “Not yet. The sun’s not even up.”

  “Close enough.” Del moved over, knelt in sand, began folding her blanket. “We should be on our way.”

  “We should,” I agreed. “But that means I have to move.”

  The answering smile was crooked. “Can you not heal yourself again? Restore all your aching bones?”

  I snorted in derision, then thought about the suggestion. If there was a chance I could do such a thing.… “Tempting,” I agreed thoughtfully. “You know—”

  But it was gone.

  Just—gone.

  Something else was in its place. Not a thought; a lack of thought. A sort of absence of anything.

  Except for Chosa, knocking at my door; rapping on my gate; tapping at my soul.

  Do it. Do it.

  Do it NOW.

  Oh, hoolies, bascha… he’s here. He’s back—

  I squinched my eyes shut and willed him away. Willed him to go, to leave me alone. After all, there was only a little piece of him inside me. Tucked away somewhere. I was much bigger, much stronger.

  If I concentrated on what Del had said, maybe I could give him the slip. If I tried what she suggested—

  No.

  I vividly recalled the last time I’d done it. Something flared, promising much; something else waited impatiently. Wanting me to do it, because then he would have power.

  My belly rolled. I shivered away from the image. “I—don’t think so. I think I’d probably better leave well enough alone.”

  “But if you can do such a thing…” She shrugged, going about her business. “Imagine what kind of legend you could become if no matter how badly you were injured in the circle, you came back the next day as good as you were before.”

  “Imagine,” I muttered, massaging a stiff shoulder. “Imagine what else they might say—maybe call me a sorcerer?” I shook my head. “No thanks. I’ve already got a magical sword. I don’t need a magical me.”

  Del began packing saddle-pouches. “I only meant you look like you hurt this morning. I just thought, if there were a way—”

  “I know. But I don’t want to—” I left it at that, biting off the end of the sentence I’d meant to say: “—risk it.” No need to tell Del I felt odd, disoriented, and somehow unbalanced. Let her think I just didn’t want to do it, period. Somehow it seemed safer.

  I got up very slowly, moving in sections, biting my lip on curses. I was bruised and stiff and sore from the ambush by Umir’s men. Kidneys were afire. “Right now I just want to take things slowly, and get on our way.” I made my way toward the stud, who would provide a measure of privacy.

  Del had to be content with what I was willing to give her. I had to be content with knowing something more: that Chosa wasn’t gone. Chosa wasn’t quiet. Chosa was growing impatient.

  I slung an arm across the stud’s brown rump and leaned, shutting my eyes. The bruises would fade, I knew. The pain would diminish. The kidneys would remember what it was to do their task without producing blood. But Chosa would remain.

  And continue trying, with brute force and intricate subtlety, to leech me of my will until I had none left, so he could claim the body.

  If I used any more magic, I gave him the means to succeed. Because every bit I summoned, no matter the intention, gave him that much to play with.

  Chosa Dei, collector—much like Umir the Ruthless—who gathered all kinds
of magic so he could “melt” it down and remake it in his image.

  As he would remake me.

  Del tapped the mare a step away from the stud. “How much farther to the oasis?”

  I glanced around, squinting. “Not much farther. Two or three hours.”

  “And then Rusali tomorrow?”

  “Depending on how hard we want to push the horses.” I scrubbed the back of a hand across my forehead. “And how hard we want to push ourselves.”

  Del’s brows knitted as she assessed my expression. “Is it your kidneys?”

  I scowled. “Kidneys are fine.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Yes, well…” I shifted in the saddle. “Nothing a little rest won’t cure.”

  Her frown deepened. “We could stop for a while.”

  “Can’t afford to stop,” I said brusquely. “Our best bet is to keep on going as long as we can, and put as much room between Umir and us as we can.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Just ride,” I snapped irritably. “We’re wasting time even discussing it.”

  Del offered no reply. She just shook up her reins and rode on.

  Time—blurred. I sat atop the stud, who pulled at reins in irritation: he wanted to go after the mare, but I was holding him back.

  I didn’t know why.

  Del, ahead, twisted in the saddle to glance back. Frowned. “What’s the matter?”

  I wanted to tell her “nothing.” But it wasn’t the proper answer.

  “Tiger?”

  I just sat there, shivering.

  Del turned the mare, heading her back toward me. Her tone sharpened abruptly. “Are you all right?”

  No. I felt—thick. Heavy. My skin felt stretched and tight.

  Inwardly, I asked it: Is that you, Chosa?

  Inwardly, Chosa giggled.

  Oh, hoolies. The sun hurt my eyes.

  Del reined in the mare before the stud could quite reach her. Her assessment was intense. “What’s wrong?”

  Something cold ran down my spine. Let her go, Chosa suggested. You don’t need HER.

  “I don’t—” I shook my head. “Nothing. Just—tired.”

  She swore between her teeth. “Do you think I am blind? Your color is terrible. You’re sort of a greenish-gray, in between all the bruises.”

  Let her go, Chosa said. Right now, I only want you.

  I wondered if maybe I should. He’d been very clear about wanting Del before, to collect the magic in her sword as well as Del herself. I knew it was safer if she was somewhere else, where he couldn’t hurt her.

  But how do I tell her that?

  Del’s voice was unrelenting. “There is a way, Tiger. You could call on the magic again.”

  No, bascha. I don’t dare.

  “It’s stupid to ignore the chance to heal yourself. Why turn your back on a gift?” The tone grew more pointed, “And if you don’t, you’ll never make it across the Punja.”

  I gritted teeth. “I said I’m just tired. Sore. It’ll pass, Del. I’ve had worse.”

  “Then why are you sitting here?”

  I managed a lopsided grin. “It seemed the easiest thing to do.”

  Her jaw tightened. “I don’t believe you. Not a bit.”

  “Too bad for you,” I jeered.

  Eyes flickered. Mouth tightened. “If you wish to be so foolish… very well. But if you need to stop, say so. The oasis is not so far.”

  I shivered. I felt—swollen. “Then let’s go on.”

  Let her go, Chosa said. I’m beginning to lose my patience.

  I tapped heels to the stud and let him go on with the mare.

  Mistake, Chosa whispered. I don’t like mistakes.

  I shivered. But I kept riding.

  Del’s legs approached. Stopped before me. I saw them at knee level. It hurt too much to look up from where I sat slumped on the blanket.

  “How much longer?” she asked tautly. A dropped bota slapped sand by the hand braced to support my arm, braced to support me. “It has been two days since the dance with Nezbet, three since Umir’s attack, and you are worse.”

  Much worse. “I don’t know,” I mumbled.

  Frustration and fear made her strident. “You can’t even ride, Tiger! How are we to escape the threat you say is coming if you can’t even ride?”

  I tilted my head back, setting my jaw against the pain. “What in hoolies do you want me to do? Pray? It’ll pass, Del—I just got beat up worse than I thought. It’ll pass.”

  Deep inside, Chosa gloated.

  “Will it?” She squatted. Her face was a travesty, stretched tight and pale and thin, but the words were brutal. “The bruises are worsening—you are black and blue and swollen, because you are bleeding under the skin. And from the inside, also—do you think I haven’t seen it when you spit?”

  “So maybe a rib broke loose.…” I gathered myself, shifted. “Look, bascha—”

  “You look!” she retorted. “If it goes on like this, you could die. Is that what you want? To fulfill Iskandar’s fate, so everyone knows you really are the jhihadi?”

  “I just need some time to heal. All this running…” I let it go, summoning the strength to stand. “All right—just give me a moment.”

  Del’s voice was glacial, as it is when she is very angry—or very frightened. “You are still passing blood.”

  I stood exquisitely still, giving my body no reason to protest. “Because someone—or several someones—kicked and punched me in the kidneys,” I rasped. “What in hoolies do you expect?”

  “I have seen a man die from that.”

  I stopped testing things. “What?”

  “I have seen a man die from it.”

  Anger flared, burning away what little strength remained. “There’s nothing I can do!”

  “You can tend to yourself,” she said. “You have the magic—use it!”

  It was all I could do to answer. “I told you why I won’t.”

  “No, you didn’t. You just said you won’t. Nothing more.” Del stood up stiffly. Her face was tight and pale. “I think you’ve given up. I think you want to die.”

  I wavered on my feet. “Oh, in the name of—”

  “So you can die as the jhihadi, and be better than Abbu that way.”

  “What?”

  Her mouth was rigid. “He’s only a sword-dancer. You are the jhihadi.”

  No, no, bascha—it’s because I feel so bad.

  But why tell her that?

  “Del—”

  “If you can’t beat him in the circle, you will beat him in your death.”

  I managed a laugh. “You’re sandsick.”

  “Am I?”

  “Do you really think I want to die to prove myself better?”

  “More,” she said bitterly. “To prove yourself more.”

  “Sandsick,” I muttered. Hoolies, couldn’t the woman see I just needed to rest? To lie down again, and sleep, and rest, and let the body recover?

  Let her go, Chosa said. For now, I only need you. She will come later.

  It was easier to give in. “Go on,” I croaked. “If you feel that strongly… look, I need to rest. Go on to the oasis. I can catch up later.”

  Clearly, it surprised her. “I don’t want that. I want us both—”

  “Go on. You. Go on.”

  “The oasis isn’t much farther. You can reach it, then rest.”

  “Go on without me. I’ll catch up.”

  The line of her shoulders was impossibly taut. “If you would simply use the magic…” She gritted teeth. “You only refuse because you hate it so much. Because you won’t admit you need more than yourself.”

  I laughed once. Sat down very carefully. Tented my knees and rested my brow against them. “You don’t understand at all—you have no idea what kind of toll magic takes—”

  Self-control frayed. “It makes you sick,” she snapped. “So? Too much aqivi does the same, but that does not dissuade you.”

  I mumbled so
mething against my thighs.

  Del swore. I heard her walk smartly through the sand, pause—muttering—then come back again. “I will go,” she declared. Part threat. Part plea. But also a familiar conviction I knew better than to dismiss.

  I dragged my head up. Something deep inside me flared from apathy into fear.

  Del’s face was cold as ice. Blue eyes glittered. She spat it out all at once, almost sing-song, acquiring determination with every syllable. “You have given me leave, though I take it anyway. And so I say this: If you will do nothing—if you make no attempt to try—then I will not stay here to see it. The death of the jhihadi will have no witnesses. And so his body will be consumed by the Punja until only bones are left, and they will be scoured in time, and carried away, and scattered unto dust… until there is nothing left. No jhihadi. No sword-dancer. And nothing at all of Tiger.”

  Stung, I applied a rather uncomplimentary term to her.

  “Yes,” Del agreed, and marched away to the mare.

  I watched her go. I watched her saddle the mare; split the botas, leaving me half; then mount. She reined the mare up short. “I will be at the oasis until dawn. If you are not there by then, I go on.”

  She didn’t mean it. I knew she didn’t mean it.

  Del’s face twisted briefly. Then she spun the mare and left.

  I watched Del go.

  “Hoolies,” I croaked, “she meant it.”

  Sand drifted in her passage, dusting me with grit.

  Dull anger flared anew. “She’s only doing this to make me come after her.”

  Of course she was. She’d tried everything else.

  Anger died to ash. No one—and nothing—answered. Inside me, Chosa was silent.

  There is a time to set pride aside. I sighed deeply, nodding. “All right, bascha… I’m coming.” I pressed myself to my knees, prepared to try for my feet.

  The world turned upside down, spilling me like meal.

  Fear punched into my belly: what if I couldn’t reach her?

  “Wait—” I rasped. “Del—don’t go yet—”

  But Del, meaning well, was already gone.

  Chosa Dei was not.

  Fear faded. Replacing it was a dull, colorless surprise, that Chosa could do so much when I wasn’t even looking.

  “Punja-mite,” I croaked.

  It occurred to me to wonder, as I sprawled across the blanket, if Shaka Obre’s construct was coming apart at the seams. Unraveling from inside out, because Chosa was cutting into pieces the fabric of my begetting.