Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 (46 page)

and stared in shock at Del.

Who was, as always, contained, not glorying in her win.

Relief was a tangible thing. "I don't want him," I said. "And don't tell him anything."

Abbu studied me. "Is this an old hatred?"

Now I could give him my full attention. "I said: it isn't anything."

He rubbed thoughtfully at the notch in the ruined arch of his nose. "We are not

friends," he said, "this Northerner and I. I know him; that is all."

It didn't really matter. Even if Abbu was lying and he and Ajani were friends,

advance warning would do very little. One way or another, Del and I would find

him.

I looked out at Del, who was tending to her sword. "What would you call a man,"

I began, "who raids the unguarded caravans of families, killing everyone he finds except those he can sell as slaves. Those who are only children, because

they offer less trouble. Those who are Northern children, because they fetch a

higher price on the slaveblock in the South."

Abbu looked also, and for a long time. Dark eyes were fathomless, masking what

he thought. When he did speak, his voice held no emotion. "What I would call him

doesn't matter; what matters is what I call her."

Something moved deep in my belly. "And what is that, Abbu?"

"Sword-dancer," he said huskily, then shouldered his way through the crowd.

I turned back, intending to go to Del; was stopped by a hand on my shoulder.

"Sandtiger!" the hand's owner cried. "I didn't know you had a son. Why didn't you tell me? And such a fine speaker, too--the boy was born to be a skjald."

Red hair, blue eyes, flowing mustaches. "Rhashad,"

I said blankly. Then, with exceptional clarity, "Where--is--he?"

He jerked a thumb. "Over in that cantina. He's right in the middle of a story about his father, the South's greatest sword-dancer... I didn't offer to argue,

since the boy's proud of you, but he might recall there is me, after all, and Abbu Bensir--"

I cut him off. "--and your mother, no doubt." I scowled briefly out at Del, who

was taking her own sweet time. "Over in that cantina, you say...? Well, I think

it's time I met this son." I sucked air. "Del!"

She heard me. Saw me. Made her way across the circle. Her face was a trifle flushed and pale hair was damp at the temples, but she appeared no worse for wear. "What is it?" she asked quietly, as if to reprove me for noise.

I had no time for it. "Come on. Rhashad says this fool who's been going around

telling everyone he's my son is over in that cantina." I waved a hand in the proper direction.

Del looked over at it. "Go ahead," she suggested. "I have to claim my winnings."

"Can't they wait?"

"Yours never do."

Rhashad beamed at Del. "Won the dance, did you? A delicate girl like you?"

Del, who is not precisely delicate, knew the manner for what it was. And since

she liked Rhashad--don't ask me why--she was less inclined to argue. "I won,"

she agreed. "Do you want to dance with me next?"

Blue eyes widened. "Against you? Never! I'd hate to crack those fragile bones."

Del showed him her teeth. "My bones are very hardy."

"Talk about your bones some other time," I suggested. "Are you coming with me?"

"No," Del said. "I told you that already. Go ahead; I'll catch up."

Rhashad made a grand gesture. "I'll show her the way."

Hoolies, it wasn't worth it. I went off to see my-son.

The cantina was small. It was, after all, culled from the rest of the ruined city, which meant it offered little in the way of amenities. There was a makeshift blanket roof, which gave its customers shade in which to drink, but that was about it.

I lingered in the doorway, looking for my son.

Dark-haired, blue-eyed, nineteen or twenty. Who couldn't ride very well, judging

by his mount. Who didn't carry a sword, having a tongue instead, and liking to

use it more than was good for him.

Not much to go on. But I thought it would do, under the circumstances.

There were men gathered in the cantina. No chairs, but hastily-cobbled stools and benches were scattered about the room. In the center, on a stool, sat a man

with his back to the door; never a good thing. But plainly he wasn't concerned

about who might come through. He had an audience.

The voice was young and accented. He obviously reveled in the attention his story gained; everyone was enthralled. "--and so I, too, found myself the destroyer of a great cat, just as my father was, the Sandtiger--you all know of

him--and so I marked my victory by taking the cat's claws and making myself this

necklace." A hand went to his neck, rattled something briefly. "It was, I thought, a most opportune and appropriate meeting between this great cat and the

Sandtiger's cub--such is in the blood--and when at last I meet my father I will

be most pleased to show him the claws and tell him what I've done. Surely he will be proud."

The listeners nodded as one: surely the Sandtiger would be.

Except I wasn't. Not proud. What I was, was--hoolies, I don't know what I was.

I

felt very odd.

"Of course," the boy added, "I kept my face pretty."

The men in the cantina laughed.

Is this my son? I wondered. Could I have sired this mouth?

I left the door and moved quietly into the room, saying nothing, pausing behind

the young man. There wasn't much to see: dark brown hair brushing his shoulders;

a vivid green-striped burnous; eloquent, graceful hands of a different color than mine. He was tanned, yes, but the sun marked him differently. Darker than a

Northerner. Lighter than a Southroner; lighter even than me. And there was the

foreign accent, coloring his Southron.

Why wait any longer?

I drew a steadying breath. "Where I come from," I said quietly, "a man doesn't

name a father unless he's certain of the truth."

He started to turn on his stool, swinging around easily. His face was young, open; a bit, as he'd said, on the pretty side. "Oh, but I am certain... I am the

Sandtiger's son--" Dark blue eyes abruptly widened in belated recognition.

"Oh?" I asked softly.

The young man rose in a single smooth movement. I didn't even see it coming.

"Do you know," the boy cried, "how long I've been waiting for this?"

I am big enough and strong enough to withstand most single punches, especially

when they come from a smaller, slighter man. But there was a stool behind me, and as the blow connected with my jaw I spread both feet for balance and promptly fell over the thing.

It wasn't a graceful fall. It was an embarrassing fall.

And Del was there to see it.

I sat up, dragged my sheathed, harnessed blade into a more comfortable position,

sat there swearing. Ignored the staring audience and looked around for the boy,

who'd headed for the doorway. He was gone, but she wasn't.

Del drifted into the cantina. Her arrival did have one advantage: now they gaped

at her instead of gaping at me.

"Fatherhood," she commented, "can be a painful thing."

I got up, untangling my legs from the stool and kicking the thing aside.

"That

lying Punja-mite isn't my son... what he is, is a charlatan!" I scowled at her.

"You saw who he was!"

"Yes," Del agreed.

"I'll kill him," I promised.

One of the men spoke up. "You'd kill your own son?"

I glared at him. "He isn't my own son. He isn't even Southron."

The man shrugged a little. "You don't look Southron, either." And then reconsidered it. "Maybe a half, or a quarter. But you're not a full Southroner.

There are other things in the stewpot."

For some reason, it offended me. Usually I don't much care what I look like, or

what people think of me. In my business it doesn't matter where I was born, or

to how many races. Just that I can dance. And win; I'm paid to win.

I glared. "At least I was raised here. The Punja is my home; that boy's from somewhere else. He's a lying, scheming foreigner, using my name to gain him one."

The Southroner shrugged. "No harm in that."

No harm. No harm. I'd give him "no harm."

"Tiger," Del said quietly. "Is it worth fighting over?"

No. Not here. And not him; who I wanted was Bellin the Cat.

"Panjandrum," I muttered disgustedly, and stalked out of the cantina.

Twelve

Del's tone was quiet. "Are you angry because he lied? Or because it isn't true?"

We sat in one of the broken rooms in one of the broken buildings doubling as a

cantina. Because there was no proper roof the full moon had free rein, painting

the room silver. Dripping candles and smoky lanterns added illumination.

There

were no proper tables, either, and nothing resembling chairs; merely bits and pieces of odds and ends appropriated for things on which to sit, or on which to

put the liquor. It was very much like the cantina in which I'd discovered Bellin.

Masquerading as my son.

I had known all along there was nothing to it. While it wasn't impossible I'd sired a son of his age, it was a bit unlikely. At least, unlikely that the boy

would know enough to tell everyone the Sandtiger had sired him. It seemed more

likely that if there was a sandtiger cub wandering about the South, he wouldn't

know who he was.

He wouldn't know who I was.

I sighed. "I don't know."

Del smiled a little. "It bothers you now, doesn't it? You had begun to think what it might be like to have a son... begun to think how you'd feel, seeing your own immortality; it's what a child is." She hunched a shoulder, looking at

liquor instead of at me. "I know what it was for me, seeing Kalle, but I knew I

had a daughter. For you, it was different."

Different. One might say so.

I sighed again, sipped slowly, let aqivi slide down my throat. The familiar fire

was muted; I was thinking of something else. "He shouldn't have done it, bascha.

That kind of lie is wrong. If he wants so badly to become a man of repute--a panjandrum--he might look for a better way than borrowing someone's name."

"Or someone's other than yours."

Dull anger stirred. "It took me too long to get it... I won't share it with anyone, certainly not with a liar."

"He must have had a reason."

"That foreign-born Punja-mite doesn't need a reason for anything, remember?"

I

said testily. "All he wants is fame. So he decided to borrow mine."

Del's tone was dry. "You have more than enough to share."

"That's not the point. The point is he's been riding around the South for hoolies knows how long telling hoolies knows how many people he's my son." I heard the passion in my voice and purposely damped it. "I just don't like it."

Del sipped her wine. "If you find him, you can tell him."

"I'll find him," I promised. "He can't hide from me."

Her mouth twitched slightly. "He seems to have done a good job of it for the last several weeks. I doubt you'll find him again unless he wants you to."

"I'll find him," I repeated.

A body arrived at our low "table."

"Well, Sandtiger," he said. "I hear you've been hired to dance the day after tomorrow."

I glanced up: Rhashad. "The word's gone around already?" Thinking Esnat hadn't

wasted much time bragging about his suit.

The red-haired Borderer grinned. "All over Iskandar. Doesn't take long when the

Sandtiger is involved." He sat down on the floor, not bothering with a

"stool,"

and leaned against the crumbling wall. A sun-spotted hand, waving, signaled for

more aqivi. "I plan to put money on it."

I shrugged. "Nothing to bet on, yet...I don't have an opponent."

Rhashad displayed big teeth in the shadow of ruddy mustaches. "Could even be me."

I didn't even blink. "Your mother wouldn't like it."

"Why not?"

"She wouldn't want you to lose."

"Hah!" Rhashad had played this game before. "I wouldn't be so certain of winning, Sandtiger... word is also making the rounds that you're not the dancer

you once were."

I drank sparingly. "Oh?"

Rhashad waited until the recently summoned aqivi jug arrived, then splashed a measure into a cup. "Oh, yes. It's quite well known. The Sandtiger, rumor says,

hasn't danced in months. He's lost his speed, his edge... lost a lot of his fire. Because of a wound, I hear... a cut not fully healed."

I smiled insincerely. "You've been talking to Abbu. Or listening to him; that's

worse."

Rhashad shrugged. "You know Abbu Bensir. Part of the reason he's who he is, is

because of the dance up here." The Borderer tapped his head. "You've never been

a victim; you don't know what it's like."

"Abbu says whatever he likes." I drank more aqivi. "You know rumor as well as I,

Rhashad. How many times have we heard how old and slow someone is--or how young

and undisciplined--and discovered how wrong we were?" I grinned, showing teeth

white as his own. "Sounds to me like someone--Abbu, maybe?--is trying to force

better odds."

The Borderer nodded. "Not a bad attempt, since you don't look as healthy as I've

seen you look." He grinned back pointedly. "And yes, I know rumor... like the ones about this Oracle fellow and the jhihadi."

I sighed. "What now?"

He shrugged. "Just that this Oracle fellow is supposed to show up here in the next couple of days. Tomorrow, maybe the next day. Maybe the day after that."

"They've been saying that for days."

"This time the rumors are a bit more specific." Rhashad sucked down aqivi. "I figure it doesn't matter. Except, of course, it'll have some effect on our coin-pouches."

"Why?" Del asked. "What has the Oracle--or the jhihadi--have to do with money?"