Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 (23 page)

I glanced sidelong at Del. She offered nothing save silence again, but I felt the tension in her body. She wouldn't ask me to say yes, because it had to be my

choice. But clearly she wanted me to let Juba put in the runes.

What the hoolies... "Put them on."

Juba shrugged and nodded. "I must measure you," he said, "and also measure the

sword. But if you won't allow me to touch it--"

"I'll help," I told him. "Measure me first, then we'll get to the sword."

He worked quickly and competently, wrapping thong this way and that way around

me, then tying knots on it to mark his place. When he was done, all I saw was a

leather thong full of knots, but Juba knew the language.

Then he looked at the sword.

I slid it clear of Halvar's sheath, dropping the scabbard aside. Now the blade

was naked. It was black at the tip, a smudgy dull black extending three fingers

up the blade, as if it had been dipped. Runes caught light like water.

Juba sucked in a breath. Desire darkened his eyes. I saw his fingers twitch.

"Jivatma," I repeated. "Did you think the Sandtiger lies?"

I did it on purpose. Not to brag, although there's always a little of that; but

to make certain he understood who he was making the harness for. If a sword-dancer like the Sandtiger was pleased by Juba's work, it could improve his

reputation and increase business one hundredfold. If he didn't like the workmanship, Juba might be finished.

But I did it also because I knew there was a chance that Juba, left alone, might

yet touch the sword. Might try to pick it up. And I recalled much too well the

pain of Boreal before Del had told me her name.

"Measure it," I said. "If you need it moved, I'll do it."

Swiftly Juba drew out yet another leather thong and measured the sword, tying knots here and there. I moved it as instructed, holding the thong for him when

he needed to make contact. When he was done, he nodded. "It will fit. I promise.

It will be as you have said."

"And the runes," Del said intently.

Juba looked at her for the second time. This time he looked at her, and saw what

she was. Saw past the Northern beauty. Saw past the independence. Saw beyond the

cool demeanor to the woman who lived inside.

And looked away again, being a Southron fool. "How soon?" he asked.

I shrugged. "As soon as you can. I don't like carrying my sword by hand, and I

can't abide a belt or baldric."

No, of course not; no true sword-dancer carried his weapon in anything but harness-and-sheath. I wasn't about to change the custom and risk looking like a

fool.

Juba thought about it. He might ask for better payment if I wanted it so quickly; then again, my name ought to be enough. "Two days," he offered.

"Tomorrow evening," I said.

Juba considered it. "Not enough time," he explained. "There is much work for me,

with so many going to Iskandar. I would be honored to make by best harness and

sheath for the Sandtiger, but--"

"Tomorrow evening," I said. "What's this about Iskandar?"

He shrugged, already digging through piles of leather. "They say the jhihadi is

coming."

I grunted. "They say the same thing every ten years or so." I sheathed my sword

and picked it up. With Del on my heels, I went out the curtained doorway.

"You heard him," she said as soon as we were outside. "He mentioned Iskandar and

the jhihadi... are you going to pretend it's nonsense when a Southroner brings

it up."

"Iskandar is a ruin," I said yet again. "There's no reason for anyone to go there."

"Except maybe if the messiah is coming."

"All sorts of rumors get started, bascha. Are we supposed to believe them all?"

Del didn't answer, but her mouth was set firmly.

"And now," I began, "suppose you tell me what these runes are all about."

She shrugged. "Just runes. Decoration."

"I don't think so, bascha. I know you better than that. You were too precise, which makes me nervous. I want to know what kind of runes--what do they say?--and what they're supposed to do."

Del didn't offer an answer. We were just outside Juba's shop; I stopped dead, swung to face her, very nearly stepped on her toes. She looked into my face and

probably saw how serious I was; she took a step back and sighed.

"A warning," she told me. "Wards against tampering. Also your name, and who you

are... and your Northern rank."

"I'm a Southroner."

She took it in stride. "Southron rank, as well," she continued evenly.

"Seventh-level, as you have said; I have forgotten nothing."

"You forgot to ask me if I wanted such things on my scabbard."

Del was plainly troubled. "You yourself told me how dangerous a jivatma can be

in the wrong hands. You pointed out that even a Northerner, if he felt strongly

enough, might reject the teachings of Staal-Ysta to gain additional power."

"But what has that to do with my sword?"

"Protection," she said quietly. "If an unscrupulous sword-dancer wanted power for himself, he could not do better than to steal your jivatma."

"You mean--" I stopped. "Do you mean the runes are to protect me?"

"Yes."

"No one can even touch my sword without knowing his name, Del. Isn't that protection enough?"

She didn't avoid my gaze. "You drink," she said. "You have begun to drink already, and you will drink more before the night is through, to celebrate your

homecoming. I have seen you do it before." She shrugged. "A man who drinks often

does and says foolish things."

"And you think I might tell someone the name of this sword, thereby allowing him--or her--to touch it. To use it. Possibly even to requench it, if he or she

knew the proper way."

Del's eyes were bleak. "Chosa Dei is no longer a story," she said. "He is a truth, and others will come to know it. You yourself have said you don't know what the sword is capable of; would you have an enemy gain your sword and Chosa

Dei all at once? Do you know what that would mean?"

"It would free Chosa Dei," I said grimly.

"And more." Creases marred her brow. "A man wanting skill and strength could do

worse than to quench a blade in you."

I hadn't thought about it, to tell the truth. But now I did. I thought about it

hard, scowling down at the scabbarded jivatma.

Me, at risk. Me, a source of skill and strength. The kind of "honored enemy"

others might find attractive.

Hoolies, I was the Sandtiger... whatever anyone really thought of me no longer

mattered. I had a reputation for being very good--well, I am--and anyone who wanted to improve a blooding-blade might indeed seek me out.

"But by putting on these runes, aren't we telling everyone who might be interested that I'm a good target?"

Del shook his head. "They say your name and who you are, yes; they also serve as

wards. A man would be a fool to tamper with your sword."

I wasn't convinced.

Del tried again. "Chosa Dei will do everything he can to free himself. Anyone who tried to use this sword would be asking for death... or worse. Asking for possession."

"Like the loki. Isn't it?" I shook my head. "I thought we were free of that sort

of thing forever, since the Canteada entrapped them in the circle... and now there's this to face."

Del stroked a strand of fair hair behind her left ear. "It is well that only Northerners trained on Staal-Ysta understand the power of the jivatmas and how

they can be used... a Southroner has no knowledge of such things. It is therefore unlikely a Southroner will try to steal your sword."

True. It made me feel like a little better. "So--you think Northern runes will

warn away unscrupulous Northerners." I grinned. "I thought you once told me all

Northerners are honorable people."

Del didn't see the humor. "Ajani is Northern," she said.

"But he isn't a sword-dancer."

"Nor is he an honorable man." Del's tone was intensely bitter. "Do you think he

has become what he has become through ignorance and stupidity? Do you think he

has no way of learning things he considers important? And wouldn't you consider

the habits and training of a sword-dancer important, if you knew your life could

be threatened by such?"

"Del--"

"Do you think he would be so foolish as to ignore a story of how a named blade

is blooded? Or to ignore the chance to steal one from someone like the Sandtiger, who is a seventh-level sword-dancer in addition to a kaidin! Do you

think--"

"Del."

She shut her mouth.

"All right," I said soothingly, "all right; yes, I understand; no, I don't disagree. He's not stupid and he's not ignorant. All right? Can we go on now?"

I

plucked at heavy wool. "Can we go see someone about trading all this weight in

on dhoti and burnous?"

"You don't know him," she said steadfastly. "You don't know Ajani at all."

No, I didn't. And I couldn't. Until Delilah found him.

I sighed, closed a big hand on her shoulder, aimed her down the street. "Come on, bascha. Let's shed this wool. Then we can set about finding people who might

know where Ajani's been keeping himself."

"No more delays," she said. "No more delays."

It had taken six years. Del was, finally, at the end of her patience. And I couldn't really blame her.

"I promise," I told her. "We'll find him."

Del looked me in the face. Her eyes were something to behold. Bluest blue, and

beautiful, but also incredibly deadly.

And I recalled, looking at her, something Chosa Dei had said to her in the chamber. Something even Del had agreed with, speaking of herself; thinking of her oath.

Obsession is necessary. Obsession is required. Obsession is the master when compassion undermines.

Three

She sat herself down on my knee and traced out the scars on my cheek.

"Soooo,"

she purred, "you came."

I opened one eye. "Was I supposed to?"

"Oh, yes. Everyone said you would. And now you are here."

I opened the other eye. It didn't change the view: black-haired, brown-eyed woman, perching her rump on my thigh. Leaning up against me to show off abundant

charms, hardly hidden by loose, gauzy blouse.

"Kima," she told me, smiling. "And you are the Sandtiger."

I cleared my throat. "So I am." I shifted a little, trying to find a more comfortable position. Kima was no lightweight, and I was still a bit sore from

my travail in Chosa's mountain. "Who said I would come?"

Kima waved a hand. "Everyone," she said. "All the other girls and I had a wager

as to which of us would get you."

Cantina girls are notorious for wagering, and for vulgarity. But then, when you're a man in dire need of a woman after too long alone in the Punja, you don't really care. It used to be I'd just nod at whatever they said, not being

particularly interested in anything other than physical charms; now I frowned at

Kima.

"Why was I coming?"

"Because all the sword-dancers are." She snuggled up next to my chest, butting

the top of her head against my chin. "I know your kind, Sandtiger... the lure of

coin is powerful. It brings you all out of the desert."

Yes, well, occasionally. Actually, more than occasionally; it's sort of part of

our lifestyle. Hard to live without coin.

I reached past Kima, managed to snag my cup, carried it carefully to my mouth.

Downed three swallows, then lost the cup to Kima. "How much did you win because

you managed to 'get' me?"

Her giggle was low and throaty. "Haven't won yet. Have to take you to bed."

I sat--and Kima sat--in a corner of the cantina, snugged into a little alcove.

I've never been one for sitting plop out in the middle of the place, since it's

hard to keep an eye on everyone in the cantina. But give me a corner table, or

one pushed into an alcove, and I'm a happy man.

I was not unhappy now, although I've been happier. I couldn't help thinking of

Del, gone off to reserve a room at an inn up the street. What would she think of

Kima?

Kima traced scars again, sliding fingernails through my beard. The other hand slid lower, then lower still; I sat upright so suddenly I nearly dumped her on

the floor. "Sorry," I murmured as she spilled aqivi down her blouse.

She considered being affronted. Then took note of the fact the wet blouse displayed still more of half-hidden charms in a rather unique way. She leaned against me again. "First the son, and now the father. He might be younger, but

you're bigger."

I grunted inattentively, trying to reach around her so I could pour more aqivi

into the recovered cup. And then her words sank in. "What?"

She smiled, applied tongue tip to scars, pouted prettily as I pulled away.

"Your

son," Kima said. "He was here, too."

"I don't have a son."

Kima shrugged. "He said he was your son."

"I don't have a son." I tipped her off my knee. "Are you sure he said my name?"

She stood over me, hands on hips. Breasts strained against wet gauze. "Do you mean to take me to bed or not?"

Del's cool voice intruded. "Don't keep her waiting, Tiger. She might get out of

the mood." She paused. "Then again, probably not; do cantina girls have moods?"

Kima swung around and came face to face--well, no, not exactly face to face; Del

was a head taller--with the cold, hard truth: when Del is in the room, no other

female exists. It's height, coloring, sword. It's also grace and danger. Plus a

lot of their things.

Clearly, Kima knew it at once. She decided to fight her way, since she couldn't