Jennifer Roberson - Sword Sworn

I glanced at Del, still smiling. "Keep saying that, bascha."

"You are."

"No," I said, "I’m not. And you know it as well as I do."

Her face went blank.

"Nice try," I told her, "but I read you too well, now."

Del look straight at me, shirking nothing. "And I, now, can read nothing at all of you."

There. It was said. Admitted aloud, one to the other.

"Still me," I said, "but different."

Del was never coquettish or coy. Nor was she now. She put her hand on my arm. "Then come below," she said simply, "and show me how different."

Ah, yes. That was still the same.

Grinning, I went.

When we finally disembarked in Haziz, I did not kiss the ground. That would have entailed my kneeling down in the midst of a typically busy day on the choked docks, risking being flattened by a dray-cart, wagon, or someone hauling bales and none too happy to find a large, kneeling man in his way, and coming into some’ what intimate contact with the liquid, lumpy, squishy, and aromatic effluvia of a complement of species and varieties of animals so vast I did not care to count.

Suffice it to say I was relieved to once more plant both sandaled feet upon the Southron ground, even though that ground felt more like ship than earth. The adjustment from flirtatious deck to solidity always took me a day or two.

Just as it would take me time to sort out the commingled aromas I found so disconcertingly evident after months away. Whew!

"They don’t need to challenge you," Del observed from beside me with delicate distaste. "They could just leave you here and let the stench kill you."

With haughty asperity, I said, "You are speaking about my homeland."

"And now that we are back here among people who would as soon kill you as give you greeting," she continued, "what is our next move?"

It was considerably warmer here than on Skandi, though it lacked the searing heat of high summer. I glanced briefly at the sun, sliding downward from its zenith. "The essentials," I replied. "A drink. Food. A place to stay the night. A horse for you." The stud would be off-loaded and taken to a livery I trusted, where he could get his earth-legs back. I’d paid well for the service, though the sailhand likely wouldn’t think it enough once the stud tried to kick his head off. Another reason to let the first temper tantrum involve someone other than me. "Swords —"

"Good," Del said firmly.

"And tomorrow we’ll head out for Julah."

"Julah? Why? That’s where Sabra nearly had the killing of us both." Unspoken was the knowledge that not far from Julah, at the palace inherited from her father, Sabra had forced me to declare myself an outcast from my trade. To reject the honor codes of an Alimat-trained seventh-level sword-dancer.

"Because," I explained. "I’d like to have a brief discussion with my old friend Fouad."

" ’Discussion,’ " she echoed, and I knew it was a question.

"With words, not blades."

"Fouad’s the one who betrayed you to Sabra and nearly got you killed."

"Which calls for at least a few friendly words, don’t you think?"

Del had attempted to fall in beside me as I wended my way through narrow, dust-floured streets clogged with vendors hawking cheap wares to new arrivals and washing hung out to dry from the upper storeys of close-built, mudbrick dwellings stacked one upon the other in slumping disarray, boasting sun-faded, once-brilliant awnings; but as she didn’t know Haziz at all, it was difficult for her to stay there when I followed a route unfamiliar to her. She settled for being one step behind my left shoulder, trying to anticipate my direction. "Words? That’s all?"

"It’s a starting point." I scooped up a melon from the top of a piled display. The melon-seller’s aggrieved shout followed us. I grinned, hearing familiar Southron oaths — from a mouth other than my own — for the first time in months.

Del picked her way over a prodigious pile of danjac manure, lightly seasoned with urine. "Are you going to pay for that?"

Around the first juicy, delicious mouthful I shaped, "Welcome-home present." And tried not to dribble down the front of my Skandic silks. Still noticeably crimson, unfortunately.

"And I’ve been thinking…"

Hoolies, I’d been dreaming.

And I regretted bringing it up.

"Yes?" she prompted.

"Maybe…"

"Yes?"

The words came into my mouth, surprising me as well as her. "Maybe we’ll go get my true sword."

"True sword?"

I twisted adroitly as a gang of shrieking children ran by, raising a dun-tinted wake of acrid dust. "You know. Out there. In the desert. Under a pile of rocks."

Del stopped dead. "That sword? You mean to go get that sword?"

I turned, paused, and gravely offered her the remains of the melon, creamy green in the dying sun. I could not think of a way to explain about the dream. "It seems — appropriate."

She was not interested in the melon. " ’Appropriate’?" Del shook her head. "Only you would want to go dig up a sword buried under tons of rock, when there are undoubtedly plenty of them here in this city. Un buried."

Again the answer was in my mouth. "But I didn’t make those swords."

Which conjured between us the memories of the North, and Staal-Ysta, and the dance that had nearly killed us. Not to mention a small matter of Del breaking, in my name, for my life, the sword that she had made while singing songs of vengeance. Boreal was dead, in the way of broken jivatmas and their ended songs. Samiel was not.

And something in me wanted him. Needed him.

Del said nothing. Nothing at all. But she didn’t have to. In her stunned silence was a multitude of words.

I tossed the melon toward a wall. It splatted, dappled outer skin breaking, then slid down to crown a malodorous trash heap tumbling halfway into the street. "We’ll stay the night, buy some serviceable swords and harness, then go to Julah, to Fouad’s." I said quietly. "A small matter of a debt between friends."

And the much larger matter of survival.

Del was a little leery about the two of us striding around Haziz, instantly recognizable to any sword-dancers who’d seen us before. I tried explaining that Haziz wasn’t all that popular with sword-dancers, who generally kept themselves to the interior, and that I didn’t precisely look the way I used to, thanks to my sojurn at Meteiera, but Del observed that even with short hair, earrings, the tracery of tattoos at my hairline, and no sandtiger necklet, I was still a good head taller than most Southron men, decidedly bigger and heavier, still had the clawmarks in my face — and who else traveled with a Northern sword-singer? A female Northern sword-singer?

Whereupon I pointed out we could split up while in Haziz.

Del, tying on her high-laced sandals as she perched on the edge of the bed — we’d spent the night in a somewhat squalid dockside inn, albeit in the largest room — lifted dubious brows. "And who then would protect you?"

"Protect me against what?"

"Sword-dancers."

"I already told you there’s not likely to be any here."

"We’re here."

"Well, yes, but —"

"And you already admitted you needed my protection."

I was astounded. "When was that?"

"On the island." Now she slipped on the other sandal. "Don’t you remember? You were talking about starting a new school at Alimat. I was talking about Abbu."

Come to think if it, I did vaguely recall some casual comment.

"Oh. That."

"Yes. That." She laced on the sandal, tied it off, stood.

"Well?"

"That was pillow talk, bascha."

"We didn’t have any pillows. We had sand."