The Outworlder (8 page)

Then, on one of her longer rambles, she’d
discovered the apiary, with its dozens of beehives clustered on the
north end of the orchard. She had struck up a sort of friendship
with the wizened old beekeeper, and now he let her help him tend
the bees and harvest the honey. And there were the pastures,
rolling away to the east of the city, where the cows and sheep made
their homes.

Tonight, she had stopped by the fields on the
way to the tavern, where she’d arranged to meet Jared for a drink.
She leaned on the fence, watching the cows lumber slowly through
the fields, and a great longing for the majestic and free-spirited
horses of her own world rose in her heart.

“You have no horses,” she remarked to Jared
when she joined him. “Why is that?”

Jared gave her a blank stare. “Horses?”

Sahara set down her tankard and regarded him
in surprise. “You mean you’ve never seen a horse?”

“Nor heard the word,” he answered. “They’re a
part of your homeworld?”

Sahara sighed and twirled her mug on the
table. “They were, yes.”

“They don’t exist any longer?”

Sahara laughed scornfully. “Nothing good and
beautiful exists any longer on my homeworld.”

Jared looked at her swiftly. “Oh, yes?”

Sahara met his eyes, feeling a sudden sense
of caution. “Don’t you ever get bored?” she asked instead, hoping
to turn his mind to another subject. “I mean, is this it?”

“Is this what?”

“Is this all you do for fun?”

“It’s a bit sleepy,” Jared admitted, “but
yes, this is it.”

Sleepy didn’t even begin to describe the
place. The lighting was low and giant vats of ales slumbered in
dark casks along the western wall. Only twenty or so other people
were gathered in the long room, most of them young men with quiet
voices and fiercely intense faces. They clustered around tall
tables in knots of four and five, carrying on hushed
conversations.

Three young women lingered at the bar, which
was by far the most cheerful part of the place. Its towering
shelves of exotic liquors were lit by strangely incandescent stones
of red and blue and green, and it spanned almost the entire expanse
of the north wall.

Sahara sighed and glanced toward the corner
opposite their table, where two rough and burly men were engaged in
a somewhat serious dagger throwing game.

Sahara studied them, her interest piqued at
last. She recognized one of the men as Armon, the captain
responsible for training the men at the firing range.

He’s hardly better with a knife
, she
thought, watching him throw a dagger into a target. And when the
other man’s throw went even wider off the mark, she shook her head.
As the men laughed and money changed hands, she turned to
Jared.

“I could beat them.”

Jared surveyed them over his shoulder for a
moment. “You don’t even know how to play.”

“Yes, I do. I’ve been watching them. You get
three throws. And the one who comes closest to the center of the
target wins.”

“There’s betting involved, you
understand.”

“Sure.” She wiped her hands on her white
skirt and flexed her fingers. Then she grinned at him. “That’s what
makes it interesting.”

“Sahara…” Jared began, but she had already
slipped out of the booth. He called after her, “What are you going
to bet?”

She paused and turned back to him for a
moment. “I’ll bet a round of ale for the whole place that I can
win.”

“You don’t have any money!”

“No,” she said, flashing him another smile,
“but you do.”

She twirled around and started to make her
way through the tables, hearing Jared sigh and slide out of the
booth to follow her. She shrugged it off. Jared seemed to think she
needed almost constant supervision when she was around other
people. Sometimes things didn’t go well, she had to admit. But that
didn’t mean she couldn’t handle herself.

She reached the men and stood there for a
moment, waiting for them to notice her. When they ignored her, she
cleared her throat.

“I want in,” she said. “Let me play.”

The men turned to face her finally, and Armon
looked her up and down and guffawed. Out of the corner of her eye,
Sahara saw Jared settle himself at the table beside her.

“Look, girlie,” the other man said, “no
offense, but the ladies are at the bar. This is a man’s game. These
knives are sharp.” He drew a calloused thumb along the edge. “You
might cut your pretty fingers.”

Sahara planted her hands on her hips. “If
it’s a man’s game, then you have nothing to worry about, do you?”
she asked. “But if I win, then everybody wins. Jared there—” she
jerked her head in his direction—“will buy a round for the whole
tavern.”

“Not much incentive for us to beat you, then,
is there?” the man said, his eyes flickering at Jared.

“No, I guess not. Just the shame of losing at
daggers to a woman.” She shrugged. “So am I in or what?”

“What d’you think, Armon? Should we let her
play?”

Armon looked her up and down again, rubbing
the jagged scar on his jaw thoughtfully.

Sahara kicked off her thin black sandals, the
tiny amethyst anklet Jared had given her all those months ago
catching the uncertain light.

“If you’re done looking,” she said, “I might
be able to teach you something about hitting a target. And then you
can pass it on to your troops at the firing range.”

Armon’s eyes flickered up to rest on her own.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Didn’t Jared talk to you?” She glanced at
Jared, then back at Armon. “He was supposed to tell you. Your men
can’t hit a target to save their lives.”

“Stay out of my business, girlie,” Armon
warned. “Unless you’ve got something to back up those words, I’m
done talking. Where’s your weapon?”

Sahara heard Jared cough to cover a
chuckle.

“Right here,” she said, drawing her dagger
from the sheath at the small of her back. “Let’s go!”

The game was over quickly. Sahara’s first
throw was right on the mark, and in the six throws that followed,
neither of the men could dislodge her dagger.

Armon turned around, his last throw spent,
his jaw working in frustration. Sahara watched him from where she
sat perched on the edge of Jared’s table, swinging her legs.

“Do you yield?” she asked.

“No,” Armon snapped.

Sahara’s legs stopped swinging and a frown
gathered between her brows. “What do you mean,
no
? I won
fairly. It’s not my fault you can’t throw a dagger worth a
damn.”

“Watch your mouth,” Armon cautioned, his
voice a throaty growl. “No one talks to me that way.”

“Oh, and that’s supposed to scare me, I
suppose?” Sahara sneered, slipping off the table.

“It might if you knew what was good for
you.”

“Come on, Armon, let it be,” the other man
said. “It’s not worth it!”

“Stay out of this, Hrethel,” Armon
snapped.

“She’s just a girl! No one will ever believe
that she won anyway. For all people know, we just let her win.”

Sahara turned on Hrethel. “You did not just
let me win! I beat you with no handicap, and on my first throw
too!”

Jared moved to stand next to the bristling
Sahara. “Come on,” he said. “If these louts don’t want a drink,
then let’s go.”

“What business is this of yours, Jared?”
Armon said. “Is this your girl?”

“I’m nobody’s girl,” Sahara retorted.

“That explains a lot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”

Armon grinned at her suddenly, a wolfish
expression in his eyes. “You need a man who can handle those high
spirits of yours.”

Jared took a breath to speak, but Sahara
laughed in Armon’s face. “And I suppose you think that should be
you, right?” she asked. When he didn’t answer, she laughed even
harder. “You can’t even handle your dagger well enough to strike a
target at ten feet, even with three throws!”

Jared took Sahara by the arm. “Let’s go,” he
murmured in her ear. “Before—”

She yanked her arm out of his grasp. “You
know,” she continued, the heat rising in her voice, “you sit around
here in your lousy little bar and play your lousy little dagger
game and you dream you’re man enough to handle any woman who walks
through that door. Well, maybe you are man enough for women like
them!” She jabbed her finger at the three women at the bar, who
were now goggling at Sahara. “Well, I’ve got news for you. I’m not
like
them!”

“Let’s go!” Jared said, making another
attempt at her arm.

“No!” She jerked away from him again and gave
Armon a shove. As he reeled back a step or two, she got right in
his face. “What do you think now? You still want to take me
on?”

Armon turned to Hrethel with a short laugh.
“Is she for real?”

“Yes, she’s for real,” said Jared, his voice
resigned. “And I’d be careful, if I were you.”

“You want to know something else?” Sahara
climbed up on Jared’s chair and addressed everyone in the tavern.
“You’re all a bunch of cowards! Every one of you! You sit in this
hell-hole and drink, and you let your fear of a power you don’t
ever see drive your whole lives! Am I right? Am I? You think I
don’t know what’s going on here?”

“Sahara!” Jared hissed. “Get down and let’s
go!”

“Is she drunk?” Armon asked Jared, wonder in
his voice.

“No. I wish to God she were, but she’s
not.”

Sahara raised her voice. “You’re scared to
death of the Dragon-Lords, aren’t you?”

At the mention of that name, everyone in the
tavern began murmuring, looking at each other with uneasy eyes and
at her with something between awe and anger. Even Armon drew away
from her.

“Why are you afraid?” she asked. “You have a
chance to take back everything that was once yours! Why don’t you
use it?”

“What chance is that?” Hrethel called.

Sahara jumped down from the table and faced
the two men again. “This chance. Me. I can show you how to fight
them. And I can show you how to win.”

“You know,” Armon said slowly, rage rumbling
in his chest, “you really had me there for a minute. You and your
cute little self, all mad over losing a game.”

“I didn’t lose, you lying, cheating son of
a—”

“You better get something straight right now,
little woman,” Armon interrupted. “We live the best life we can
here. So why don’t you just go back to wherever the hell you’re
from and mind your own business?”

Sahara walked over to the target and pulled
out her dagger, slipping it back into its sheath. Then she stepped
so close to Armon that his breath ruffled her hair.

“And that’s why I won,” she told him quietly,
planting her finger in the middle of his brawny chest. “Because
you’re scared to lose.”

Armon shoved her so hard that she hurtled
backward into the table, breaking the chair on her way down.

“Who’s afraid of losing now?” Armon jeered as
she struggled to sit up.

Without warming, Jared laid him out flat on
his back with a stunning right hook.

“Only cowards hit women,” Jared said, tossing
a small wad of bills onto Armon’s chest. Then he turned, grabbed
Sahara’s sandals in one hand and pulled her to her feet with the
other.

“Come on,” he said roughly, propelling her
outside.

Once out in the open, Sahara breathed deeply,
coughing a little and holding her left side. “I think I bruised my
ribs.”

She grinned at him, but he seemed to be in no
mood to laugh with her.

“What the hell was that?” Jared turned on
her. “Do you want to get killed? Or thrown into prison? Or
what?”

“No.” She arched her back and rubbed her
side. “I just want to help you, Jared.”

“And you think getting in a bar fight with
some piece of dung like that is going to help me? Or anyone else,
for that matter?”

Sahara shook her head. “You’re all scared,
all of you. And you don’t have to be.”

“You’re talking about things that you know
nothing about.”

“Really? You might be surprised.”

Jared sighed. “Look,” he said. “I don’t know
how things worked on your own homeworld, but here women don’t act
like that. Women don’t play men’s games. And women certainly don’t
stand up on chairs and talk about rebelling against the
Dragon-Lords.”

“That’s too bad. Might make things more
interesting if they did.”

Jared dropped her sandals and caught her bare
arms in his hands. “Sahara, we’re different. Did it ever occur to
you that you might learn something from our women about how to deal
with men?”

“What could I possibly learn from that squad
of goggle-eyed dolls? Except that men here like women who are easy
to push around?” She tipped her chin up to meet his gaze. “Is that
what you want?”

“This isn’t about what I want. It’s about
people generally. There are effective ways of reaching people, and
then there are not so effective ways. That in there—” he pointed
back at the tavern—“was not so effective.”

Sahara dropped her eyes, feeling a sudden
rush of something like shame welling up inside her. “Well,
maybe….”

“You’re going to get a terrible reputation
like this,” he continued. “I don’t want you to be forever labeled
as an outworlder, an outsider…an outcast.” He turned away and
started walking again. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ve got something
you need to see.”

Sahara picked up her sandals and trailed
along after him, swinging her sandals by their straps. With each
step, the cool stones of the path seemed to draw the heat of her
passion out of her, like poison drawn from a wound. Gazing up into
the hazy sky, she was suddenly and absurdly homesick. With a heavy
sigh, she focused once more on the stones beneath her feet.

If only she would learn to control her
temper!

It was Jared’s voice. Sahara’s head snapped
up.