Jennifer Roberson: Sword Born

So. Here we were on a ship bound for Skandi. Where maybe I was from. Or not.

"Scared?" Del asked, following my thoughts.

Yes. "No."

She smiled slightly. Still following. "You are."

"Scared of what, bascha? I’ve fought I don’t know how many men in the circle, killed a dozen or more fools outside of it; ridden to a standstill a stud-horse who kills other fools, fought off hounds of hoolies, an evil sorcerer who wanted to steal my body and my soul — or maybe just my body; we’ve argued enough about whether I have a soul — survived numerous deadly simooms bad enough to strip the flesh from my bones, withstood afreets and loki, sandtigers and cumfa, not to mention various tribes wanting to sacrifice me to some god or another; escaped murderous women and angry husbands… and I share your bed. Regularly." I paused. "What’s to be scared of, after all that?"

"Knowing," she said. "Or — not."

Oh. That.

She waited, wind stripping unbound hair from her flawless face. Such blue eyes, had Delilah.

I spread legs, bent knees, set my balance to ride the lalloping sway of the boat and crossed arms against my chest. Tightly. Somehow, this mattered. "I suppose you wouldn’t be. Scared. Of knowing. Or — not."

"I am scared of many things," she said simply, "and not the least of them is of losing you."

That shut me up in a hurry. After a moment I even managed to close my mouth.

Del, strangely satisfied, merely glanced sidelong at me, smiling, then looked across the bow again. "Ship," she said lightly.

So there was. With blue-painted sails. Behind us, above us, the crew of our own ship noticed the other also.

Well, it wasn’t land, but it was better than empty ocean. At least, until the crew swarmed like sandstingers over all the sails and ropes and timber. Next I knew, we were turning. Hard.

"Hey —" I grabbed the rail and latched on, not happy to hear it creak again ominously, but even less happy to feel the accompanying protests of the boards beneath my feet. Sandals slid, scraping on dampness and salt. The shift in wind filled my mouth with hair; I spat and stripped it out, then tucked it behind my ear, which did no good at all. Swearing inwardly, I resolved to have Del cut it as soon as possible. Or to hack it off myself.

Del also grabbed at the rail as we swung heavily through the choppy waves, grasping wood firmly. Even as she opened her mouth to make a comment or ask a question, a babble of shouting behind us pretty much answered it. I knew fear when I heard it. The whole crew suddenly stank of it.

"Trouble," I observed, wiping the slick of foamy spray off my face. Salt stung in my eyes.

The crewman nearest us looked away from the blue sails long enough to gesture urgently. "Below," he said. "Below. Below. "

"Trouble," Del agreed.

Of course, the last place I wanted to be was immured in a tiny cabin near the waterline as the ship wallowed and bucked. I hung onto the creaking rail, maintaining a now-precarious balance against the violent undulance, and scowled at the sailor.

"I’ll go," she said.

Startled, I stared at her. "Wouldn’t you rather stay on deck and see what we’re facing?"

"And I’d rather have swords to face it with, " she declared. "That’s where they are. Below."

Ah. So they were. "Bring mine, bascha."

"I had planned on it."

The sailor saw her go, looked relieved, then noticed I remained at the bow. His eyes bulged as the ship continued its wallowing, graceless turn. "Below!"

No, not below, thank you… but as we swung around, the blue-sailed ship fell out of line of sight from my spot at the bow. I let the sailor believe I was following his suggestion; instead I made my way aft, moving so as to keep my eye on the other ship even as I clutched the rail, cursing in disgust as I caught a toe against a coil of prickly rope and nearly fell. This thrice-cursed boat, in rough seas, was harder to ride than the stud when he pitched a fit.

Still, I considered it curious that our captain would turn around rather than sailing on, especially as we were two days away from the last island, which meant there was no safe harbor within reach; but we’d been heading into the wind, which slowed us down. Now we moved with it. The sails bellied, cracking against the sky as the crew worked rapidly. Wind shoved us along the way we had come, but more swiftly than before. The question now was whether the blue-sailed ship truly wanted us enough to chase us — and, if it did, was it faster?

Well, yes. The latter was obvious by the time Del came up beside me at the stern. She’d braided her hair back into a pale rope hanging down her spine. Naked now of everything save intent, her face and expression were clean and lethal as a new-honed blade. I took the hilt she offered, felt better for having a sword in my hand. "Our captain seems to place no faith in the fighting abilities of his crew."

"You’ve sailed with them for two weeks," she said, squinting against spray-laden wind. "Would you?"

They spent more time drinking, dicing, and swapping lies than anything else. Point taken. "Well, he might have faith in us." I paused. "You did tell him we hire out for this sort of thing, didn’t you?"

"He’s seen you smack your head or trip over ropes and nets about nine times a day, Tiger. Why should he have any faith in you?"

This sounded suspiciously as if our captain viewed me pretty much the way I viewed his crew. I was stung into a retort — especially as I had acquired any number of scrapes and bruises since coming aboard. "I’m taller than he is!"

"And clumsier, he seems to think. Although I don’t believe it." She patted my arm briefly, absently, as if comforting a child — which of course was exactly how she wanted me to feel. "It’s catching up."

She meant the pursuing ship. "I wasn’t made for water," I said aggrievedly, "or boats. Ships, " I amended, before she could correct me; the crew had been explicit. "I’m too big, or they’re too small —"

"The world," she said gently, "is too small for you."

That stopped me cold. I eyed her, examined her expression closely, tried to figure out what in hoolies she was talking about.

Del burst out laughing. "Don’t look so worried, Tiger! I only meant that you are large in all the ways so many men are small —"

"Thank you very much. Many men?"

"In all ways," she repeated, smiling peculiarly — and offering no answer. "Now, what were you saying?"

What was I saying — ? "Well, look, bascha… I only mean I need land, something solid, something that stays put when I plant my feet —"

"Like the stud?"

Who was below, and not privy to this conversation. "Now that you mention it, I’d like to see what our esteemed captain, who thinks I’m so clumsy, would do on the stud…"

"Poor odds. No odds."

I scratched briefly at the salt-rimed scars in my face, four long clawmarks that scored me from cheekbone to jaw beneath a week’s worth of stubble. "And anyway, the question now is not whether I’m clumsy on board a creaking hunk of flattened trees, but whether those fine folks would have come after us if we’d held our course —"

"The captain seems to think so."

"— or if we made ourselves look more attractive than we are because we turned tail and ran."

"The captain must have believed we had a chance at outrunning them."

"Or else he’s just running scared."

"As well he might," Del observed as the blue sails swelled against the horizon. "We’re losing the race."

I squinted across the narrowing gulf. "Maybe I should have a word with the captain about the benefits of standing your ground…"