Why was Del so interested in him? Wasn’t I getting her to Julah? What made her think he might be able to tell her anything?
She’d sure latched onto him in a hurry. Like I wasn’t even there. And I hadn’t missed the glow in his blue eyes as he looked at her, or the hungry expression on his face. Del has that effect on men.
Still, there was little I could do about it. She was a free Northern woman, and I already had the idea Northern women enjoyed a whole different order of freedom than Southron ones. Which left Del in a dangerous position here, because any woman with the freedom to come and go as she chooses is believed by one and all to be readily available.
I cursed as I rode down the street, threading my way through people afoot. I couldn’t very well go back to the inn and tell the Northerner to get lost. After all, Del had a legitimate reason for talking to him. Two of them, as a matter of fact. Alric just might know something about her brother, although it was unlikely; he was also from her homeland. That could be enough of a link for her to forget all about me and take up with him. The curving sword he carried pretty well established him as a fighter. He might even be a sword-dancer.
In which case Del could unhire me and hire him instead.
By the time I found a local horse trader, I was angry and irritable and snappish. I sold the horses, pocketed the money, and went away without buying replacements after all. I could do it in the morning. So I went back to the inn to extricate Del from Alric’s big, Northern hands.
She wasn’t there. Our table was filled with four Southron men; Del wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Neither was Alric.
I got a sick feeling in the pit of my belly. Then I got angry.
I approached the girl who’d brought the aqivi to the table. “Where’d she go?”
The girl was dark-haired, dark-eyed and flirtatious. Another time I might have appreciated it; right now I had other concerns on my mind.
“What do you want her for?” She smiled winsomely. “You got me.”
“I don’t want you,” I told her rudely. “I’m looking for her.”
The girl lost her smile. She tossed her head, sending dark ringlets tumbling around abundant breasts. “Then I guess she doesn’t want you, because she left here with the Northerner. What do you want with a Northern girl anyway, beylo? You’re a Southroner.”
“Which direction did they go?”
She pouted, then jerked her head west. “That way. But I don’t think she’ll want you to find her. She looked real happy to go with him.”
I muttered sullen thanks, flipped her a copper piece from the pouch Sabo had given me, and left.
I made my way down the crowded street, stopping every so often to ask vendors if anyone had seen a tall Northern girl with a tall Northern man dressed Southron. All of them had. (Who could forget Del?) Of course they all claimed they weren’t certain it was her—until I jogged their memories with more of Sabo’s reward. At this rate it wouldn’t last long, but Rusali was little more than a sprawling rabbit warren; if I didn’t buy the information, I might spend weeks combing the alleys and dead ends and dwellings.
I got hungrier as I searched, which didn’t improve my temper at all. I was also tired, which wasn’t surprising. When I stopped to think about it, I realized I had been through the mill in the past two months, thanks to Del. Clawed by a sandtiger, engulfed by a simoom, ‘hosted’ by the Hanjii, left for dead in the Punja (and baked to a dry husk), taken prisoner by Hashi of Sasqaat. (And Elamain, of course). All in a day’s work, I might say, except the day was getting to be far too long and this worker was getting weary.
The shadows deepened as the sun went down, gilding the alleys and streets dark-umber and tawny-topaz. I walked more warily, anticipating almost anything. Rusali, like most desert cities, is a place of varied moods and inclinations, including desperate ones. I hated the thought of Del being in it unchaperoned.
Of course, with Alric, she wasn’t precisely unchaperoned. He looked capable of protecting her, but for all I knew, he was a slaver himself. And Del, dropping into his hands like ripe fruit, would be too tempting. Even now she might be bound, gagged, and imprisoned in some smelly room, awaiting transportation to a wealthy tanzeer.
Or (possibly worse to my mind at the moment), would the big Northerner keep her for himself?
My teeth ground at the thought. I could just see it: two blond heads; pale arms, pale legs; supple, sleek bodies tangled together in the slack-limbed embrace of satisfaction.
(I could see Del giving to him what she wouldn’t give to me, and all because he was Northern, not Southron, and therefore more entitled).
And I could see him laughing at Del’s stories of our travels, ridiculing the big, dumb Southroner who called himself the Sandtiger because he had no real name, being born and deserted all at once, and raised a slave instead of a man.
By the time the dinner-plate moon rose and most of the shop-keepers latched their doors and shutters, I was ready to kill anything that resembled Alric the Northerner.
Which is why I beheaded a yellow melon as it rolled from its pile in front of a vendor’s wagon.
I stood there feeling foolish and stupid and embarrassed as the sliced halves rolled neatly to the ground. Singlestroke dripped juice and pith.
Furtively, I glanced around. No one, thank valhail, had witnessed my foolishness. (Or else they weren’t mentioning it). The vendor wasn’t around, so I scooped up the cleanest half of the melon, wiped it off, and took it with me.
I was hungry, and it was delicious.
The thieves came out of the shadows like rats and surrounded me in the alley. Six of them, which meant they had to be very busy thieves because the cut for each of them would be correspondingly smaller. Instinctively, I sought the best footing in the sand-packed alley, braced myself, and waited.
They converged at once, not unexpectedly. I tossed the rind of my melon into one face, drew Singlestroke and spun around to attack the thieves at my back, who were expecting me to attack the thieves at my front; subsequently, they were somewhat surprised when I removed one head, sliced through the throat of a second man, lopped off the weaponed hand of a third—and swung around to defend myself against the first three.
The one with melon drippings in his face shouted something at the other two, ordering them to take me down; they were having nothing of it. Not now that the odds had rearranged themselves so suddenly.
The three sidled around me warily, armed with knives and Southron stickers, but they did not attack.
I waved my sword gently. Encouragingly. “Come on, men. Singlestroke is hungry.”
Three pairs of eyes looked at the sword. Saw how my hands were locked around the hilt. Saw the smile on my face.
They backed off. “Sword-dancer,” one of them muttered.
I smiled more widely. There are times the title comes in handy. In the South, a sword-dancer is considered the very highest level of expertise in the weapon-trade, be it common thievery, the life of a borjuni, or even a soldier. Sword-dancing is comprised of many different levels even within its own school, too numerous for me to detail. Suffice it to say that in the argot of the thieves, calling someone a sword-dancer meant, basically, he was off-limits. Untouchable.
Of course, there was another explanation. Thieves don’t generally like to attack sword-dancers for three basic reasons: first, sword-dancers either have lots of money or none at all; why risk your life when your prey may be more broke than you? Second, sword-dancers are weaponkin, relatively speaking, and you don’t attack your own kind.
Third (and most importantly,) sword-dancers are invariably much better at killing than common, ordinary thieves because that’s how we make our living.
I smiled. “Want to join me in a circle?”
They all turned me down (rather politely, I thought), explaining they had pressing business elsewhere. They excused themselves and disappeared into the darkness. I bid them good-night and turned to find the nearest corpse on which to clean Singlestroke�
��
—and discovered I had made a very costly mistake.
There were two corpses instead of three. The third man, missing his right hand, was still very much alive—in addition to being a bit perturbed because I had deprived him of a hand.
But it was the left hand that held the knife. As I swung around, he thrust himself against me and brought the knife down into my right shoulder, tearing through flesh and muscle until it caught on the leather harness and grated against bone.
He was too close for Singlestroke to prove effective. I grasped my own knife left-handed as I kneed him in the crotch. I sent swift thanks to Del for giving me the idea, then flipped the knife to my right hand and threw it, cursing the pain in my shoulder. Nonetheless, I was pleased to see the weapon fly home into his heart. He tumbled to the ground. This time he stayed there.
I staggered to the closest wall and leaned against it, cursing again as I tried to regain my shaken senses. Singlestroke lay in the alley where I’d dropped him, dulled by blood. It was no place to leave a good sword, but I was a trifle indisposed at the moment.
The ragged hole in my shoulder wasn’t a mortal wound, but it bled frightfully. Also, it hurt like hoolies. I wadded handfuls of my burnous into the wound, clamping my left hand against the fabric to stop the bleeding. When I could stand it, I retrieved knife and sword. Bending over nearly finished me, but I wobbled back onto my feet, steadied myself, then departed the alley as fast as I could. Thieves might respect a sword-dancer when he’s in good health, but stick a knife in him and he’s fair game for anyone.
I knew if I behaved in any way like I’d been seriously wounded, I’d be asking for trouble. So I let the arm hang naturally as I walked, although I could feel the blood running freely beneath my burnous. I had no choice. I had to go back to the inn to patch myself up before I continued the hunt for Del.
My black-eyed hussy was there, and those eyes opened wide as I walked into the place. (Well—staggered). I guess I wasn’t doing too well by then. She plopped me into the nearest chair, poured me a hefty portion of aqivi and guided it to my mouth. Without her help I’d have spilled it all over everything, because my right hand was useless and my left one was pretty shaky.
“I told you you’d do better with me than her,” she reproved.
“Maybe so.” The room was beginning to move in very odd patterns.
“Come with me to my room.” She hitched her right shoulder under my left arm and lifted.
I grinned at her woozily. “I don’t think you’ll get much out of me tonight, bascha.”
She smiled back saucily. “You don’t know that, beylo. Marika knows many things that will restore a man, even one who’s a little short on blood.” She grunted a little. “Come on, beylo. I’ll help.”
She did. She got me through the beaded doorway and into a tiny closet of a room, but it had a bed. (Naturally). Probably a busy one.
I sat down on the edge, stared at her through foggy eyes and tried to summon a properly imperative tone. “I’ll sleep here tonight. But in the morning I must be on my way to Julah, so don’t allow me to sleep late. The tanzeer expects me.”
Marika put her hands on her hips and laughed at me. “If that’s your way of warning me to keep my fingers out of your coin-pouch, save your breath. I’ll look after you and your money. I know enough not to mess with the Sandtiger.”
I peered at her blearily. “Do I know you?”
“I know you.” She grinned. “Everyone knows you, beylo. You and that sword, and the claws around your neck.” She bent down, displaying some of her charms, and ran a gentle hand across the right side of my face, caressing my scars. “And these,” she whispered. “Nobody else has these.”
I mumbled something and sort of faded back onto the bed. Aqivi on an empty belly has that effect. (Not to mention a knife wound accompanied by substantial blood loss.) If Marika expected the Sandtiger to perform with his legendary prowess, she was going to have to wait.
The last thing I recall is Marika removing my sandals, murmuring something about cleaning my wound, and examining my bent toe. Something else for the legend, I thought hazily, and fell asleep.
Seventeen
I woke up to find two pairs of eyes staring at me fixedly. Waiting. Both of them were very blue. But one pair belonged to Del.
I sat up sharply, uttered one pained exclamation, and fell back against the cushions.
Del’s hand felt my brow. “Stupid,” she remarked. “Don’t move around so much.”
I opened my eyes again when my head stopped reeling and the pain faded down into a manageable level of intensity. Del appeared to be perfectly safe and healthy, no different than she had been the day before. She still wore the apricot-colored burnous, which gilded the tan she’d acquired to a warm, tawny-gold. Pale hair was confined in a single thick braid, falling over one shoulder.
“How’d you find out?” I asked.
She was hunched forward on the stool, elbows on knees, chin in hands. “Alric brought me back here to wait for you. You never showed. We hung around a couple of days, and finally Marika told us where you were.”
I looked past Del to the big Northerner, who lounged against the wall like a huge, dangerous bear. “What did you do with her?”
The bear showed his teeth briefly. “I took her home, Southron. Isn’t that what you expect me to say?”
I tried to sit up, but Del’s hands pressed me back and I was too weak to protest. I called Alric a rather impolite name in Southron dialect; he answered with an equally offensive term in the same tongue, unaccented. Stalemated for the moment, we glared at one another.
Del sighed. “Stop it. This is neither the time nor the place.”
“What did he do to you?” I asked her, ignoring the darkening of the bear’s looming face.
“Nothing,” she declared, enunciating distinctly. “Do you think every man wants to get me in his bed?”
“Every man who’s not dead already—or gelded.”
Del laughed. “I suppose I should thank you for the compliment, backhanded or otherwise. But right now I’m more concerned about you.” She felt my brow again and critically examined my bandaged shoulder. “What happened?”
“I was looking for you.”
She let that sit a moment. “Ah,” she said at last. “I see. It’s my fault.”
I shrugged, then wished I hadn’t. “If you’d stayed where I’d left you, I wouldn’t be flat on my back with a knife wound in my shoulder.” I glared briefly at Alric. “You trusted him too easily, bascha. What if he had been a slaver?”
“Alric?” Del gaped. “He’s a Northerner!”
“Right,” I agreed, “and we both know someone’s looking for you. For that debt you owe.” I scowled at her. “You know as well as I do you thought that’s who Alric was when you first saw him. Well—he still might be.”
Del shook her head. “No. That was settled. There are rituals involved in the collection of a blood-debt. If Alric were an ishtoya hunting me, we’d have settled it in the circle.”
Alric said something to her in their twisty Northern tongue, which left me out and made me more sullen than ever. I’ve never much liked feeling weak and sick; my temper suffers for it. Of course, having Alric around didn’t help that much, either.
Alric said something to Del that brought her up short. She said something very briefly, very clipped, but filled with a myriad of tones: disbelief, astonishment, denial and something I couldn’t identify. Something like—discovery. And she looked at me sharply.
Alric repeated his sentence. Del shook her head. I opened my mouth to ask her what in hoolies they were wrangling about, but she clamped a hand over my mouth.
“You be quiet,” she ordered. “You’ve already lost enough blood … complaining won’t help any. So Alric and I are going to put a stop to it.”
“Put a stop to what?—complaining or bleeding?” I asked when she removed her hand.
“Probably both,” Alric remarked, and smiled conten
tedly.
“How?” I asked suspiciously.
His grin broadened. “With fire, of course. How else?”
“Wait a minute—”
“Be quiet,” Del said sternly. “He’s right. Marika bound up the wound but it’s still bleeding. We have to do something, so we’ll try Alric’s suggestion.”
“His suggestion, was it?” I shook my head. “Bascha, he’d sooner see me dead. Then he’d have you to himself.”
“He doesn’t want me!” Del glared. “He’s already got a wife and two little babies.”
“This is the South,” I reminded her. “Men are entitled to more than one wife.”
“Entitled?” she inquired distinctly. “Or is it they just take them?”
“Del—”
“He’s a Northerner,” she reminded me, somewhat unnecessarily. “He doesn’t believe in multiple wives.”
Alric grinned bearishly. “Del might persuade me to consider adopting the practice, though.”
I glared at him, which only served to amuse him further. He was big and strong and undeniably good-looking, as well as undoubtedly sure of himself.
I hate men like that.
“What are you going to do?” I demanded.
Alric gestured to a brazier on the floor. I saw a bone-hilted knife was in it already, blade heating. “That’s what we’re going to do.”
I chewed on the inside of my mouth. “There isn’t another way?”
“No.” Del said it so promptly I began to suspect she was looking forward to it.
“Where’s Marika?” I thought maybe the wine-girl would give me a little needed support.
“Marika is out plying her trade,” Del said briskly. “Her other trade—the one you interrupted by taking over her bed.”
“The knife is ready,” Alric announced, in a tone that sounded amazingly like undisguised glee.
I looked at Del. “You do it. I don’t trust him.”
“I’d planned to,” she agreed serenely. “Alric’s going to hold you down.”
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