Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (4 page)

Del shot me a look over his bent head. "Since you're the jhihadi," she said pointedly, "why don't you

start changing the Southron male's perception of Southron women as inferior beings?" I grinned. "I

suspect some things are impossible even for the jhihadi."

"Changing sand to grass is very dramatic," Del observed, "especially for a desert climate, but

changing women to humans in Southron eyes—
male
Southron eyes—would be far more proof of this

jhihadi's omnipotence."

This jhihadi knew better than to travel that road. He smiled blandly and did not reply.

"Coward," she muttered.

Finished with his assessment, the swordsmith dropped Del's hands with alacrity and turned away

from her. With skilled economy he selected a sword, rose with it, then gazed upon it with obvious regret.

His beautiful handiwork, intended for a man, would belong to a worthless woman merely playing at

men's games.

We needed the sword. Carefully avoiding Del's eyes, I told the swordsmith, in his dialect, "When

she's done playing with it in a week or so, I'll sell it back to you. At a reduced price, of course, because

of its taint."

That seemed satisfactory. He placed the sword in Del's hands, then moved back to the farthest

corner of the room, pressing himself into it. Knowing what she would do to test the weight, balance,

response, I moved only so far as I had to. The swordsmith stared at me out of astonished eyes.

I grinned. "Indulge me."

Del danced. It was a brief but beautiful ritual, the dance against an invisible opponent, intended only

to allow one to establish a rapport with one's weapon, to let the hands come to an understanding of the

fit of the hilt, how the pommel affected balance, how the blade cut the air. It lasted moments only, but

enough time for him to realize what he was witnessing.

Impossibility.

Del stopped moving. Flipped the braid behind her shoulder. Nodded.

The swordsmith drew in a rasping breath. He named a price.

Knowing there was no room for bargaining under the circumstances, I accepted. Paid. Saw him to

the door.

Del's voice rose behind us. In clear Southron, albeit not his dialect, she said, "I will not dishonor your

art."

His eyes flickered. Then his face closed up. With his back to us both, he said fiercely, "Tell no one

that sword is mine."

I shut the door behind him, then turned to look at Del. She had sheathed the sword and buckled on

the harness, testing the fit. It would require adjustment, but wasn't bad. "Happy now?"

She smiled languorously. "With a sword in my hand again, I can indulge even pigs like him."

"Then indulge
me,
won't you? Let's visit the stud together." I grabbed up my own new harness, slid

the sword home. "I may need you to pick up the pieces."

The stud was, predictably, full of piss and vinegar. I sighed as the horse-boy led him out of the livery,

recognizing the look in the one rolling eye I could see. The pinning of ears, the hard swish of tail, a

peculiar stiff readiness in body indicated the stud had an opinion and was prepared to express it.

I didn't really blame him. He'd been cooped up on a ship, nearly drowned in a shipwreck, deserted

on an island, refound, then stuck aboard a ship again. Someone had to pay.

I sighed. "Not here in the street," I told the boy. "Someplace where no innocent bystanders might be

injured."

He bobbed his black-haired head and led the way through a narrow alley between the livery and

another building to a modest stableyard. The earth had been beaten into a fine dust, and the muckers had

already shoveled and swept the yard. At least when I came off, I wouldn't land in manure.

Del, following, raised her voice over the thunking of the stud's hooves. "Shall I send boys out to

invite wagering?"

The tone was innocent. The intent was not. Del and I had indeed managed to make some money

here and there with wagers on who would win the battle—but that was when the stud was well ridden,

and I was more likely to stick. Del knew as well as I that this battle would be worse than usual.

"The only wager here is how soon I come off," I said glumly as the boy slipped the reins over the

stud's dark-brown neck. Ordinarily his mane was clipped close to his neck, but time on the island had

allowed it to grow out. Now it stood straight up in a black hedge the length of my palm. I ran a hand

through my own hedge. "I have a sneaking suspicion this is going to be painful."

In deference to the Southron sun if not Southron proprieties, Del had donned a striped gauze

burnous before exiting the inn. Now she arranged herself against a whitewashed adobe wall, arms

crossed, one leg crooked up so the toe of the sandal was hooked into a rough spot. The thin,

hand-smeared slick coating was crumbling away to display the rough, hand-formed block of

grass-and-mud brick beneath.

She smiled sunnily. "It won't be painful if you stay on."

Despite my desire to discuss things with the stud in private, an audience was already beginning to

straggle in. Horse-boys, muckers, even a couple of bowlegged, whip-thin men I suspected were

horse-breakers. All watched with rapt attention, murmuring to one another in anticipation. It felt rather

like a sword-dance, except no circle was in sight. Merely an open-air square, surrounded on three sides

by stable blocks and on the fourth by the solid wall of an adjoining building. With a horse as my

opponent.

"Don't embarrass me," Del said. "I still need to buy myself a mount, remember?"

"I'll sell you this one cheap."

Her smile was mild. "You're burning daylight, Tiger."

Muttering curses, I stripped out of harness and sword, left them sitting on a bench near Del, and

strode across to the stud.

Groundwork was called for, a chance to settle him to some degree before I even mounted by circling

him around me at the end of a long rein, by handling head and mouth, by singing his praises in a soothing

tone of voice. Actually, it's the tone of voice that counts; I often called him every vulgar name I could

think of, but he was never offended because I did it sweetly.

However, I'd had the stud long enough to know groundwork was ineffective. It never seemed to

change his mind when he was in the mood for dramatics. Certainly not on the island, when I'd mounted

him after months away.
That
had been a battle.

And now another loomed.

There isn't much to a Southron saddle to begin with, and this one was borrowed from the livery since

all of my tack had been lost when the ship sank under me on the way to Skandi. Supremely simple, it

was merely an abbreviated platform of leather with the swelling humps of pommel and cantle front and

back atop a couple of blankets, a cinch around the horse's barrel to hold the saddle on, stirrup leathers

no wider than a man's belt, and roundish stirrups carved out of wood.

Almost simultaneously I took the woven cotton reins from the boy, grabbed handfuls of overgrown

mane, and swung up into the saddle with a burst of nervous agility that put me right where I needed to

be, even without benefit of stirrups. I'd done that purposely. It was a shortcut into the saddle and gave

me an extra instant to set myself before the stud realized I'd beaten him to the punch.

I wore soft Skandic boots instead of sandals, the latter not being particularly helpful atop a

recalcitrant horse, and the crimson silks bestowed weeks before on the island. Waiting back at the room

was more appropriate Southron garb, but I'd opted to try the stud in clothing I could afford to have

ruined. In the whitewashed stable yard, beneath the Southron sun, I must have glowed like a

blood-slicked lantern as I eased boots into the stirrups.

Then the stud blew up, and I didn't have time for imagery.

Unless he falls over backward—on purpose or not—riding a rearing horse is not particularly difficult.

It's a matter of reflexes and balance. Which is not to say a rearing horse can't do damage even if you

survive the dramatics; if you're caught unaware, there is the very real possibility that the horse's head or

neck will collide with your face. Trust me, the nose and teeth lose when this happens. And I'm not talking

about the horse's.

A bucking horse is tougher to ride, because unless the horse gets into a predictable rhythm, which

then becomes a matter of timing to ride out, a jolting, jouncing, twisting and repetitive rear elevation can

not only hurl you over the horse's head and eventually into the ground, but can also shorten your spine by

a good three inches. And turn your neck into a noodle.

Then, of course, there are the horses that can contort themselves into a posture known as "breaking

in two," where they suddenly become hinged in the middle of their spines, drop head and butt so that the

body forms an inverted V, and proceed to levitate across the ground in abrupt, stiff-legged, impressively

vertical bounds.

Naturally,
my
horse was supremely talented. He could rear, buck, and break in two practically

simultaneously.

The stud is not a particularly tall horse. Southron mounts aren't, for the most part. But he was all

tight-knit, compact, rock-hard muscle, which is usually tougher to ride than a big, rawboned animal, and,

being a stallion, he packed on extra heft. He was broad in the butt, round in the barrel, wide in the chest,

and had the typically heavy stallion neck, crest, and jaw. It made it much more difficult for me to get any

leverage with his mouth and head.

Which he delighted in demonstrating.

After I dragged myself out of the dirt for the fourth time, I noted a subtle change in the stud's posture.

The tail no longer swished hard enough to lash eyeballs out of a skull. Ears no longer pinned back

swiveled freely in all directions. He swung his head to peer at me quizzically through dangling forelock,

examined me (maybe looking for blood?), then shook very hard from head to toe as if to say he was

done with his morning warmup, and nosed again at the dirt in idle unconcern.

I slapped dust out of silks. Pulled the tunic into such order as was possible when seams are torn.

Made certain the drawstring of my baggy Skandic trousers was still knotted. Managed to stand up

straight and stride across to the stud. He stood quietly enough. I mounted, settled myself in the saddle,

walked him out enough to know he was done with the battle.

Applause, whistles, and cheering rang out. Coin changed hands as wagers were paid off. But I knew

better than to count it a victory, no matter what the crowd believed. The stud had merely gotten bored.

I dismounted and walked back over to Del with said stud in tow, supressing a limp. Her expression

was sublimely noncom-mital.

In a pinched voice, I said, "Remember how just the other day I said I felt younger?"

Del raised brows.

"Add about two hundred years to the total."

One of the horse-boys came up, offering to strip down the stud and walk him. It was a warm day

and all the excitement and exertion had resulted in sweat and lather. He needed cooling. I needed

cooling. I wanted water, ale, and a bath. In that particular order.

Oh, and a new spine.

But of course under the eyes of the audience, many of whom had wandered in from the street when

they heard the commotion, I stood straight and tall, saluted them, and strolled casually toward the

alleyway leading to the street, pausing only to ask Del if she were coming, since she showed no signs of

it.

"And stop laughing," I admonished.

"I'm not laughing. I'm smiling."

"You're laughing
inside."

"My insides are mine," she observed, "to do with as I please."

"Are you coming?"

"I'll stay here and buy a horse, I think. And tack for both mounts. I'll meet you back at the inn."

I opened my mouth to oppose Del's foray into shopping without my presence, then thought better of

it. She was a woman, and it was the South, but Del had proved many times over that only the rare man

got the better of her.

That rare man being me, of course.

I gathered up harness and sword and took myself off to the inn. And ale. And a hot bath.

THREE

FLESH has turned to leather beneath the merciless sun. Eye sockets are scoured clean. Teeth

shine in an ivory rictus. Wind, sand, and time have stripped away the clothing. She wears bone,

now, little more, scrubbed to match the Punja's crystalline pallor. Modesty lies in rills of sand

blown in drifts across her torso
—

I woke up with a start as Del came into the room, creaking the door. Completely disoriented from

the dream fragment, I stared at her blankly, slowly piecing back awareness, the recognition that I was

still in the half-cask I'd ordered brought up and filled with hot water. That the water had cooled. That

there was a real possibility I might never move again.

Del's expression was quizzical as she shut the door. Her arms were full of bundles. "I can think of

more comfortable places to sleep—and positions to sleep in."

With care I pulled myself upright, spine scraping against rough wood. In an hour or so I might

manage to stand. Scowling, asked if she'd spent every last coin we claimed.

Del was piling bundles on the bed. "Supplies," she replied crisply. "I assume we're leaving tomorrow,