Sword Singer-Sword Dancer 2 (6 page)

"But you are here, Southron."

He spat to the side. "I no longer ride with Ajani."

"No?" Pale brows rose. "Did it begin to pall at last, this wealth earned by stealing children?"

Nostrils flared. "And did I steal you?"

I thought she might kill him then. But her control was firmly in place. "You tried, Southron. But luck and the gods preserved me."

"Then why hound me now?" He spread bleeding hands. "You are free, bascha.

What

sense is there in this?"

"None at all," she said gently. "This is merely collection of a blood-debt I am

owed."

It was Del's fight, not mine. But I wished she would finish it.

"Blood-debt--"

"Ajani," she said, "and you go free."

Hope flared, was extinguished almost at once. I knew what he was thinking.

His

life was precious, but so was his pride, especially before friends; spared by a

woman, he kept the former and lost the latter. "I am a loyal man."

Del lifted an eloquent shoulder. "Loyal men die as easily as others." She gestured with a jerk of her head. "Step back into the circle. Pick up the sword.

I will give you that much; more than you and the others gave me."

Clearly, he wanted to refuse. But he was bound by his own pride and the silence

of the others; slowly, he stepped back into the circle and retrieved the sword

with bleeding hands. He turned to face the woman, clearly unafraid. If anything,

he was angry. Not that he would lose his life, but that a woman would be the instrument of it.

Del smiled. I saw her lips stretch thin, then part, and then the thread of a sound issued forth. Only a little song, but enough to enrage the man.

Enough. No excess. Just the Northern woman stepping to the flaccid curtain of steel, who parted it effortlessly to slide three feet of salmon-silver blade into sweaty, heaving flesh.

They deny it, each and every one of them, even as their blood flows from their

bodies to stain the Southron sand. Even when they cannot speak, they mouth the

words, denying her the victory as their bodies tell them differently.

Bloodied,

bitten lips, wet faces powdered with sand, widened eyes full of wonder, dismay,

despair.

And always the denial.

She turned away from the sprawled body and looked at me. The Northern sword, blood-painted, hung loosely in her hand. Alien blade, with equally alien runes,

dripped a string of wet rubies into umber sand, drop by drop by drop, until the

delicate, deadly necklet lost its shape and became nothing more than a puddle of

blood sucked quickly down into the dust.

Del hunched one shoulder almost imperceptibly--a comment; an answer to my unspoken question--and then she nodded, only once; an equally private exchange.

She turned back. Bent over the body. I saw a hand go to his throat, catch something, snap it free. And then carefully, thoroughly, with grave deliberation, she stepped outside the circle and cleaned her blade on his burnous.

She watched his companions as she did so, appraising the men who had so rudely

done the same to her. Assessing expressions and intentions. She was not a mind

reader but claimed an uncanny understanding of men. This understanding makes even me uncomfortable much of the time; I find myself carrying on conversations

within my skull, answering questions and suppositions to test their validity before I give Del the chance to bestow one of her stinging rebukes.

Del straightened. "Ajani," she said quietly, into the waiting silence, ostensibly to all, but paying subtle attention to the four men now bereft of a

fifth. "I want him. I will pay."

I looked at Del's face. She hoped someone would give her the information she wanted but didn't really expect it. Certainly not so openly, after what she had

done. If anyone really knew Ajani's whereabouts, he was likely to keep it quiet

until he could talk to Del in private. Away from the four Southerners who stared

at her so malignantly.

She had silenced them all with sword-dance and invitation. But the silence lasted briefly, so briefly; before long, men were talking among themselves and

trading their versions of the fight so recently witnessed. I'd seen it and heard

it countless times after dances I myself had been in. But this was Del. This was

a woman, a Northerner, who had so easily dispatched one of their own; who now strode calmly through the crowd into the cantina, to wait.

So much for our early start.

The crowd dispersed quickly enough. Most men went into the cantina to buy liquor, to discuss the sword-dance, to sneak glances at the Northern bascha.

All

of those men I did not detain, but as the dead man's companions bent to remove

the body, I stopped them.

"His coin is hers," I told them. "The custom of the circle: winner takes all."

It did not sit well with them. One of them--black-eyed, pock-marked, with gray-flecked dark hair--spat at my feet. The other three were pleased by it, though none of them said a word. They didn't need to; I could see it in their eyes.

When I did nothing, the pock-marked man called me an uncomplimentary name--something to do with having an unnatural affinity for male goats--while I

merely nodded affably and bent to cut the dead man's coin-pouch free with my knife. And then I straightened and invited each and every one of them into a circle.

A circle; four against one.

But they knew better. (It isn't simple arrogance; I am that good, because I was

taught by a master, and I have worked very hard at my profession for a very long

time.) They knew better, and went away as I waited for their answer.

I went in to look for Del and found her at a small table in a corner of the cantina. And not alone; it had taken less time than I had imagined to scare up

the information she wanted. Also from an unexpected province: Jemima's young man

of the evening before, with the stain of a newborn mustache upon his upper lip.

He wore a silken tunic, bright blue and sashed in jade-green, baggy jodhpurs of

brilliant crimson, tucked into high black boots, and a plain saffron burnous hanging loosely open. He came to the table, clearly waiting, and in his hands was a clay jug. As I arrived the boy smiled, turned to set the jug down with a

flourish, then swung back.

And I saw beneath the thin fabric of the burnous, tucked into the belt at the small of his back, the outline of bladed, hafted weapons I could not begin to name.

Worth watching, then, this boy.

"Aqivi," he said warmly, gesturing to the jug. "Much better than the house wine."

"Why?" Del asked flatly. "If you have information, don't waste my time with unnecessary courtesies."

It took him completely off-stride. No doubt he was accustomed to his pretty looks winning almost slavish attention from cantina girls and the like; Del's bluntness, so unexpected, was shocking. When coupled with her appearance, it is

enough to strip most men of all pride entirely, reducing them to awkward silence

or stammered apologies.

The boy did not stammer, nor did he apologize. He made a fluid gesture of aquiescence and sat down. On my stool. I loomed over him pointedly; finally he

glanced up at me, affecting surprised innocence. And stood up again.

He was altogether shorter and slighter than I am, and certainly considerably younger. Around Del's age, I thought, which put him at twenty or so. His face was at war with manhood, still showing the undefined blandness of youth while moving inexorably toward adulthood. He was quick, lithe, supple. Possibly a thief. Certainly an opportunist; he was complimenting Del on her sword skill.

She leaned forward, resting forearms on the table. She had not put on the burnous as yet and so the arms were bare. Against the pale-gold skin, sinews twisted. The minute tensing of defined muscles was obvious, to someone who knew

how to read her.

"I am a sword-dancer," she said coolly. "What I did to that man is part of my profession; I had better be good." Clearly, the raider's death had put her out

of temper. Generally she gives the boys a bit more rope before she snugs the noose taut.

Blue eyes flickered beneath black-lashed lids. The boy smiled, nodded, moistened

lips, wiped palms on scarlet jodhpurs. Then he hooked thumbs into his belt and

glanced at me. I had not yet seated myself. My bulk, so close, served to intimidate him a little. Not enough, however. I judged him one of those foolish

youths too full of life to be much intimidated by anything--or anyone--for very

long.

"I heard what you said outside," he told us, "about Ajani. I might be able to help."

"Might you?" Del's tone was icy. "Where is he?"

The boy unhooked his thumbs and spread nimble hands. "I am a stranger to this land and know little of place names. But I could take you there."

"Could you?" Del's question was rhetorical. "For a price, of course."

"You did offer one." I sat down and smiled blandly, helping myself to the aqivi

the boy had so thoughtfully provided.

"A small one," he answered. "I want only to accompany you on your travels."

I set the cup down, aqivi untasted. "She has a partner," I said distinctly.

"Both of you!" the boy amended hastily. "With the Sandtiger and his lady."

The Sandtiger and his lady. Sure enough, Del was scowling at him. But before she

could say anything, I motioned the boy to sit down on the sole remaining stool.

His awareness of my identity put me in a magnanimous frame of mind; as soon as I

could get the wine-girl to deliver a third cup, I intended the boy to share some

of the aqivi.

"You'll take us to Ajani so long as we allow you to ride with us?" I nodded thoughtfully. "Since the only way you can lead us anywhere is to ride with us,

it seems a simple bargain."

He settled the saffron burnous as he pulled up the stool. "I mean after," he said.

"Why?" Del asked.

He shrugged, showed us both a crooked, innocent grin. "I'm a stranger here in the South... to the North, too, if we go there. If I'm to gain any fame at all,

I need to know my way around. Riding with you two--"

"Fame?" I undercut his glib explanation. "You want to be a panjandrum?"

That earned me blank stares from both of them.

"Panjandrum," I repeated. "A man of repute."

The boy thought it over. A slow smile spread. "Panjandrum," he echoed. "I like

it." He nodded, trying it on for size. "A man of repute."

"That's the polite definition." I scratched the scars on my cheek. "I won't bother to give you the others since you're so taken with the word."

"Panjandrum," he murmured thoughtfully.

I sighed and sucked aqivi. Del scowled.

"Yes," he said. "Bellin the Cat, a panjandrum."

"Bellin the Cat?" I was startled, wondering if his foolish quest for glory and

fame had led him to adopt a name similar to my own. Or, more precisely, to my animal namesake.

"Bellin." He smiled and waved a hand vaguely in a southerly direction. "I've been at sea for most of my life, sailing here and there. I thought it was time I

discovered what it meant to be a landlubber."

"And you picked the South?" I could think of more hospitable places.

He shrugged. "Seemed likely enough."

Which meant he'd had little choice in the matter. I nodded and drank more aqivi.

"Bellin the Cat," Del said quietly. "Why do you wish to become a--" she paused,

fitting the strange Southron word to her Northern tongue "--panjandrum?"

"Always have." His grin and good spirits were infectious. "A man should make his

mark some way... insure his place among other men--and women." He shrugged again, rippling saffron silk. "I figure if I'm going to be here anyway, I may as

well do what I can to make sure I'm a somebody."

Her tone was infinitely bland. "A humble man might prefer differently."

"A humble man would," Bellin agreed equably. "But no one of my acquaintance would ever lumber me with that description."

At least he was an honest blowhard. "Then why not go out and earn your fame?"

I

asked. "Why attach yourselves to us?"

He spread supple hands. "What's the sense in struggling and scraping and suffering if there's no need for it? Riding with the Sandtiger and his lady, I'm

almost guaranteed to become a panjandrum long before I would otherwise." His smile was disarming. "Can you blame me for trying to take advantage of an opportunity?"

"I am not the Sandtiger's lady" Del said crossly. "My name is Del. I have business with Ajani. Do you know where he is?"

Bellin chose the diplomatic answer. "It should not be difficult to find him."

"Oh?" Pale brows rose. "Then I suggest you do so. Now." She flicked fingers in

eloquent dismissal.

"But--"

"Better go." I raised my cup in tribute. "Thanks for the aqivi."

With grave dignity the boy rose, shook out the folds of his burnous, took himself elsewhere. Again I saw the line of oddly-shaped weapons tucked into his

belt.

Del contemplated me across the table. Her expression was pensive as she slowly

poured herself a cup of aqivi.

"Think he knows?" I asked.

"No."

"Think we'll see him again?"

Her eyes were limpid. "If he lacks the information I want, we'd better not."

She

drank, made a moue of distaste. "I have no patience for fools or would-be panjandrums."

I laughed and poured my cup full again of the would-be panjandrum's aqivi.

Five

Without consulting me (of course), Del changed her mind. We would not leave Harquhal, she told me, until the next morning; she wanted to wait a night to see

if anyone came forward with genuine information about Ajani.