Sword-Breaker

by Jennifer Roberson

  “You pointed that way, toward the mountains beyond Julah.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, bascha. It’s gone.”

  She chewed at a lip. “Perhaps…” She let it go, then sighed. “Perhaps you should ask Chosa Dei.”

  “Chosa Dei has had entirely too much to say of late, thank you. I’d just as soon keep it that way.”

  “But he would know. He is the one who imprisoned Shaka Obre.” Her expression altered. “Is that how you know we must go to Julah? Because of him?”

  Unsettled, I hunched shoulders. “Some things I just—sense.”

  Pensively, she nodded. “There is that part of him in you—”

  I turned back to the stud, undoing buckles again. “For the moment, he’s being quiet.”

  “Is he?”

  “He isn’t trying to unmake me, if that’s what you mean. I’d know about that.” I pulled down pouches and saddle, stepping away from the sweat-drenched stud to set things damp-side up to dry in the sun. “I promise: I’ll let you know.”

  “Do,” Del said pointedly, and turned back to her mare.

  I sat bolt upright in the middle of the night, then thrust myself up and ran two stumbling steps before I stopped, swearing, and scrubbed sweat from my face. As expected, Del was awake also. Waiting.

  I turned back, blew out a deep breath of disgust and self-contempt, walked back to the blankets. Stood aimlessly in the sand, feeling its coolness between my toes. Saw the gleam of Del’s jivatma: three feet of naked steel.

  I waved a hand. “No.”

  After a moment, she put it away. And waited.

  I squatted. Picked up a chunk of smokerock. Flipped it into darkness and excavated for more. “Cold,” I said finally. “Cold—and closed in.”

  “Is it Chosa’s memories?”

  “And mine. They’re all tangled, layered one on top of another. I saw Aladar’s mine. And Dragon Mountain. And some place I don’t know, but I know that I should know it.”

  “Chosa,” she murmured grimly.

  I shivered, moved to sit on the blanket, drew the burnous over bare legs. “You know what happened to me. You saw. When Aladar threw me in the mine.”

  “I know.”

  I tasted bitterness. “It doesn’t go away.”

  “Someday it will.”

  “It was bad enough when we were with the Cantéada, in their canyon caves…” I shivered. “Dragon Mountain wasn’t much better, but at least Chosa made me think about something else. Once he had you, I didn’t think of it at all. I just knew I had to kill him.”

  Her hand settled on my right leg, smoothing burnous and flesh. “What was it tonight?”

  “A cold, small place. Funnels and tunnels and pockets…” I frowned. “And I was in it.”

  “Well, perhaps it was just a dream. A nightmare.”

  “I don’t dream anymore.”

  It startled her. “What?”

  “I don’t dream anymore. I haven’t for a few weeks.”

  “What do you mean? Everyone dreams. You did before.”

  I shrugged, “It’s not the same. What I see are memories now, not dreams. Over and over again. Shaka and Chosa, but Chosa’s always blurred. As if—” I broke it off with the flop of a hand.

  “As if you and he are one?”

  I grimaced. “Not quite. Chosa’s still Chosa, and I’m still me. But the memories are tangled. I see mine, and I see his—and sometimes I can’t tell the difference.”

  Del’s hand tightened on my leg. “It will end. It will be over. We will find Shaka and discharge the sword as well as your memories.”

  “Maybe,” I said grimly. “But if we purge me of Chosa, how much of me goes, too?”

  Thirty-six

  Beyond reared the mountains: raisin-black, dusty indigo, tumbled croppings of dark smokerock. Before them clustered Julah, a crude, ragged encampment of lopsided hovels—

  No.

  Julah?

  Julah was a city, a full-fledged domain city, rich from mines and slave-trade.

  I blinked. Frowned. Rubbed eyes. Glowered at the city again, as the Chosa-memory and mine traded places. This time it was a city.

  Del’s tone was grim. “I hoped never to come here again.”

  “No more than I,” I agreed, recalling our subterfuge. Del, chained like a slave, with a collar around her neck, walking behind the stud.

  It had been the only way. I took her to a known slaver, saying I wanted to breed her, and that I needed a Northern male; he, in turn, had sent me to the tanzeer’s agent, who had agreed she deserved a proper partner. It had been designed to flush out her brother, stolen five years before and sold on the slaveblock; in the end, it had gone wrong, putting her in Aladar’s hands and me in Aladar’s mine.

  We’d both of us escaped. But Del had killed the tanzeer, and now his daughter ruled in his place with vengeance on her mind.

  Julah was a warren of close-built dwellings toppling one against the other, if you looked from certain angles. Narrow streets were choked with stalls, wares, livestock, refuse, turning passages into bazaars. The Merchant’s Market proper was in the middle of the city, but bargains were best had in shaded corners tucked away from the heat of the day, and the rituals of the Market. Julah smelled of wealth, but stank of the means to gain it. The city was the largest slave market in the South, thanks to dead Aladar, whose mines ate living people and vomited bodies.

  I’d nearly been one of them.

  We rode through the variegation of midday, blocks of shadow and sunlight falling in angled, sharp-edged slants across adobe dwellings huddling one against another, laddering packed dirt streets. Awnings drooped over windows and doors, all deep-cut against the glare; one could tell how prosperous the family by the condition of awnings and paint. Bright, fresh-sewn awnings and clean pale-painted adobe boasted a successful family. Those of lesser luck trusted to the sun not to rot through fabric too quickly. And if the luck was truly poor, there were no awnings at all.

  We wound our way through the outskirts into the crowded inner city, regimented by thick block buildings and the narrow streets cutting skeins in all directions. Dark-eyed children ran everywhere, chattering and shrieking, ducking beneath the stud’s head, and the mare’s; goats and fowl and cats and dogs added to the racket.

  “What do we do?” Del asked over the noise.

  “What we always do. Find a cantina with rooms, rent one, have a drink or two while sitting in the shade.” I smiled. “I’d also suggest a bath, but it would wash out your Borderer blood.”

  Del shrugged. “I have more dye and stain.”

  The stud sidled over toward the mare, swished a lifted tail, opened his mouth to bite until I reminded him I was in charge and reined him away again. “We forgot to trade the mare in on a gelding in Rusali.”

  “She’s not so bad.”

  “We’ll get rid of her here.”

  “Or you could get rid of the stud.”

  That did not deserve an answer. “We can cut through this alley here and head for Fouad’s cantina,” I suggested, pointing the way. “It’s a clean, decent place, well up to your standards—” I grinned. “And Fouad knows me.”

  Del arched a darkened brow. “In our present circumstances, I’m not certain that’s wise.”

  “Fouad’s a friend, bascha, from the old days… besides, I doubt anyone down here knows about our troubles. Too far from Iskandar.”

  “They will know, once Sabra returns.”

  “We’re ahead of her.”

  “For how much longer? She was a day behind us, Nezbet said—”

  “Umir said two.”

  Del shrugged. “Either way, we have little time. We would do better to conduct our business quickly.…” She slid a sidelong glance at me as we slanted mounts across the road toward the narrow alley I’d indicated. “If you know what business there is to conduct.”

  “Chosa knows,” I said grimly. “He knows all too well.”

  Del looked uneasy. “I wish we knew
what to do. What it will take to discharge the sword.”

  “And me.”

  “And you.” She guided the mare around a pile of crudely-woven rugs piled in rolls against the wall. “Your sword is Northern-made, using Northern rituals, blessed by Northern gods—I can only hope Shaka Obre understands we mean him no dishonor.”

  “We don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

  She sounded a bit annoyed. “Then you can ask that of Chosa, when you ask him where to go.”

  I grinned. “A lot of people in this world can tell me where to go. But it isn’t to Shaka Obre.”

  Del’s mouth tightened. “Where is this cantina?”

  “Right up ahead. See the purple awning?”

  Del looked. “It is purple. And the bricks are painted yellow.”

  “Fouad likes color.”

  Del’s silence was eloquent.

  “You just don’t appreciate the finer things in life, bascha. Here. Fouad has boys to take mounts—you can hand the mare off.”

  I reined in, jumped down, waited for the swarm of dark-eyed Southron boys all clamoring for the job of taking the horses to livery. The streets were much too narrow and choked to add anything more, and so Fouad had begun the practice of hiring boys to stable mounts at the end of the block, between two dwellings.

  They came, as expected. Brown-skinned, black-haired boys wearing thin tunics and gauze dhotis, with brown, callused bare feet. They all vied for the job, promising better care than the next boy could give.

  I chose a likely looking hand, set the reins into it. “Bring the pouches back,” I said. “We’ll be taking a room.”

  “Yes, lord,” the boy said. He was nearly identical to all the others.

  “He can be testy,” I warned.

  “Yes, lord.”

  It was all I could get out of him. I gave him a copper, watched Del abstractedly select a boy for her mare, and grinned when she finally turned toward me, wading through the boys. “Isn’t it nice to see helpful, ambitious children?”

  Del grunted. “Isn’t it?”

  “It keeps them out of trouble.”

  She had tucked the blanketed sword bundle beneath one arm, unwilling to part with Boreal. “Is your friend to be trusted?”

  “Fouad knows everyone, and he knows what everyone’s done. If he sold out his friends, he’d be dead already.” I gestured toward the deep-cut, open doorway. “I’ll get us a room. If you want to sleep first, go ahead; I’m going to sit down in the shade for a bit and relax with aqivi and food.”

  Del shrugged, passing by. “I’m hungry, too.”

  Indoors, it was cool, cavernous, shady. I sighed, stripped off harness, found the perfect table near the door, and hooked out a chair. “Fouad!” I shouted gustily. “Aqivi, mutton, cheese!”

  As expected, Fouad came out of his back room and threw open welcoming arms. “Sandtiger!” he cried. “They said you were dead!”

  Del, pausing, looked meaningfully at me.

  I ignored her. “Do I look dead to you?”

  The Southroner laughed. “I didn’t think it was true. They always say you’re dead.”

  I shrugged, settling back against the wall as Del acquired a stool. “Hazards of the profession. One of these days I suppose it will be true, but not for a long time.”

  Fouad stopped by the table. He was short, small-boned, friendly, with gray streaking black hair. He wore a vivid yellow burnous and a scarlet underrobe. Dark eyes glittered avidly as he smiled down at Del. “And is this the Northern bascha?”

  Del did her best not to give the game away. But Fouad wasn’t buying it. He grinned as she explained she was a Borderer who had hired the Sandtiger for escort. And he nodded, agreed politely, then shot a bright-eyed glance at me full of amusement and understanding as he moved away to fill my order.

  “It’s not working,” I mentioned. “I just thought you should know.”

  Her mouth hooked sideways. “You might have chosen a cantina where the proprietor doesn’t know you.” She paused. “If such a place exists.”

  I sighed noisily. “Right now, I’m content. You may as well relax, too. By morning I’ll know what to do, so we may as well enjoy the rest of the afternoon.”

  She’d hooked elbows on the table, but now sat more upright. “By morning?”

  I glanced around the room, marking a few men here and there, dicing, drinking, talking. Glumly, I murmured, “You may have the right idea. About asking Chosa. It’s time I gave him his chance to punish his brother.”

  “That’s what you’ll tell him?”

  I snorted. “Let’s just say I’ll let him know I won’t oppose him. I don’t think Chosa can ignore the chance to punish Shaka, so he’ll have to tell me where he is.”

  Her brow puckered. “Just like that?”

  Some of the amusement faded. “Nothing to do with Chosa is ‘just like that.’ Given a choice, I’d never talk to him again—but in order to get that choice, I have to talk to him.” I scowled gloomily. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  Fouad arrived with aqivi, mutton, cheese, and set everything down on the table. “Bascha,” he said respectfully, “may the sun shine on your head.”

  Del smiled faintly. “And on yours, Fouad.”

  Content with that, he left. I poured us both full cups—accepting no protests from Del—and pushed hers across the table. “Watch the accent,” I suggested.

  “I’m a Borderer,” she murmured. “Borderers have accents.”

  “Border accents, yes. Yours is uplander.”

  “They won’t know the difference, down here.”

  “Fouad does. But Fouad doesn’t matter.” I lifted the pewter cup. “To the end of a quest, and to a future of adventure.”

  Del’s mouth crimped a little, but she tapped her cup against mine. “The quest is hardly ended, and the adventure is growing old.”

  “Oh, now, let’s not be down in the mouth about it. Look at all we’ve accomplished.”

  Del sipped, nodding. “Indeed, look. We are both of us panjandrums—but I’m not so certain it’s good.”

  I drank half a cup, then grinned. “Neither of us is the sort to do anything without stirring up attention. It’s the kind of people we are.”

  Del swallowed more aqivi, then set the cup down. “And shall we alter our habits when your sword is finally free of its inhabitant?”

  “I don’t know. Should we?”

  She leaned forward on one elbow, cupping chin in hand. “Short of changing the sand to grass, there is nothing you can do to convince anyone of the truth: that you are the jhihadi. If indeed that is the truth.” She sat back, sighing, picking dyed hair out of her eyes. “Will we always be running away?”

  “Not always.” I shrugged. “You accomplished your goal. Ajani’s dead, and now you have another future. I still have to accomplish my goal, and then I’ll decide mine.”

  “The ‘threefold future,’” she quoted.

  Uneasily, I stirred on my stool. “Let’s worry about that later. Right now I just want to eat a little, drink a lot, and sleep in a decent bed.” I glanced up idly as a man halted by the table, standing behind Del. I was accustomed to them staring at her, poking companions with eloquent elbows, or stopping to get a closer look. But this man stared at me.

  He said something. Don’t ask me what; it was incomprehensible. Clearly it wasn’t any kind of Southron; just as clearly neither was he. He was too big, too broad, too light-eyed, with hair a russet-brown shade close to mine. I shrugged my ignorance of his tongue as Del turned to look up at the man. Her idle scrutiny sharpened.

  He stopped speaking, seeing my blank expression. Frowning faintly, he switched to heavily accented Southron. “Forgive me,” he said briefly. “I mistook you for Skandic.” He spread eloquent hands, smiling inoffensive apology, then took himself out of the door.

  “Whoever he is,” I murmured, lifting my cup again.

  Del, pensive, stared after the man. Then the pensiveness faded as she turned b
ack to me. “Do you know him?”

  “No. Or Skandic either, whoever he is.”

  Del sipped aqivi. “I thought he looked a little like you.”

  “Who? Him?” I glanced at the doorway, empty of foreigner. “I don’t think so.”

  Del shrugged. “A little. The same height, the same kind of bone, the same kind of coloring.…”

  I stared again at the doorway, sluggish interest rising. “You really think he looked like me?”

  “Maybe it’s just that he doesn’t look Southron.” She smiled faintly. “Or maybe it’s just that I have grown accustomed to looking at you.”

  I grunted. Then chewed at a lip, considering. I glanced yet again at the doorway.

  Del smiled, seeing my indecision as well as the temptation. She lifted her pewter cup. “Go ask,” she suggested. “Go find him and ask. You don’t know. I do not suggest he is kin, but if you resemble this Skandic, this man might know something of the people you came from.”

  I tensed to rise, relaxed. “No. I don’t think so.”

  She regarded me over the cup. “You don’t know anything about your history,” she said quietly. “Sula’s dead. You may never have another chance. And he does look like you. As much as Alric looks like me.”

  Something pinched my belly. There was merit in what she proposed, but— “This is silly.”

  Del shrugged. “Better to ask than to wonder.”

  I chewed my lip again, undecided.

  “Go,” she said firmly. “I’ll wait here for our things.”

  “This is stupid,” I muttered, pushing back the stool. But I went out of Fouad’s cantina wondering if Del could be right.

  Wondering if, in my heart, I wanted her to be.

  Thirty-seven

  I paused outside the cantina, peering in either direction. The twisty street was crowded, keeping its own secrets. I hesitated, muttered an epithet, started to turn back. Then I saw the horseboys squatting against the building, waiting for the next customer.

  I pulled a copper out of my pouch. Four boys arrived instantly. “Big man,” I said. “A lot like me. He came out a moment ago.”