Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (7 page)

perverted by magic, full of a sorcerer wanting very badly to get out. Which he had managed.

Unfortunately, the vessel he chose for freedom—Sabra—was far too weak to contain him. But I

suppose "folly" fairly well summed it up.

"And just when was good old Abbu here last?" I asked idly.

Fouad had stopped trembling. Color returned to his face. We had always been friends, and I

supposed he was recalling that. But wariness remained. And guilt. "Weeks ago," he said. "He's north of

here now, I hear."

Well. At least I wouldn't have to grapple with Abbu Bensir immediately. "Aqivi?"

"Water for me," Del said.

It gave him something to do. Rather than calling Silk over, Fouad sprang up.

"This time," I said quietly, "leave out the drug."

His face spasmed. "I will drink first of each, if you like."

I was prepared to wave it away, knowing my point was made, but Del was less forgiving. "Do so,"

she said, in a tone that lowered the temperature of the room markedly. "And you will remain at this table.

Let it be brought."

After a moment, Fouad bowed to her with one hand pressed over his heart and quietly bade Silk,

lingering nearby and trying to catch my attention now that she
had
recognized me—Silk had always been

one of my favorites and, she said, I one of hers—to bring water, aqivi, bread and cheese. Then he sank

down on the stool. He looked older than he had when we first entered the cantina.

I waited.

He drew in a deep, sharp breath, then let it out in a rush of helpless sound. "She would have killed

me had I not done her bidding."

"Of course she would have," I agreed.

"I begged her not to make me do it."

"Of course you did."

"I
prayed—"

"Enough," Del snapped. She glanced at me. "Do you intend to kill him, or shall I?"

Bloodthirsty Northern bascha. I smiled, and let Fouad start sweating again. When the water and

aqivi arrived—and Silk was shooed away—he poured cups of each and tasted both. Del rather

pointedly turned her cup so her mouth would not touch the rim where his had touched. Me, I just picked

up the aqivi and knocked back a slug.

Long practice kept me from choking. Long abstinence—from aqivi, anyway—burned a line of fire

from throat, through gullet, into belly. But being the infamous Sandtiger, I did not indicate this. I merely

took another big slug.

Del's brows pulled together briefly, but she blanked her face almost at once.

"So." I grinned companionably at Fouad. "At Sabra's behest, in fear for your life, you drugged our

wine. I, innocent as a woolly little lamb, wandered off looking for someone and walked into a trap you

helped set. Del, meanwhile—
also
drugged—was handed over to Umir the Ruthless to become a part of

his collection." Umir the Ruthless had tastes that did not incline to women but to unusual objects. He was

ruthless not because he was particularly murderous personally, but because he'd do anything to get what

he wanted. Even if he hired others to murder for him. "Del apparently feels what you did is worthy of

execution. But I'm a more generous soul. What do you suggest I do about this?"

Fouad's tone was a carefully weighed mixture of resignation, suggestion, and hope. "Forget it?"

I nearly choked on a mouthful of aqivi. Far less amused, Del stared him down.

Fouad, suddenly smaller on his stool, sighed deeply. "No, I suppose not."

"We could have been killed," Del said.

"No!" Fouad exclaimed. "Assurances were made . . ." As if realizing how ludicrously lame that

sounded, he trailed off into silence. "Well," he said finally, "they were. I'm only a lowly cantina keeper,

not a sword-dancer to parse between what is threat and what is honesty."

"You've parsed enough in the past," I reminded him. Fouad had always been an excellent source of

information and interpretation.

He debated whether to acknowledge flattery or avoid it altogether. He shrank further inside his

yellow robe.

"So," I said, "you really didn't think they'd kill us—"

"And they didn't!" Fouad, having discovered a salient point, sat upright on the stool again. "Are you

not here? Are you not sitting before me, eating my bread and cheese, drinking my liquor?"

"Water," Del clarified, displaying her cup. "But yes, I will give you all of that: we are indeed alive and

sitting before you. Eating and drinking. Whether you intended it or no."

"I didn't want you dead! Either of you!" He looked from Del to me, and back again. "Why would I?

I have nothing to gain from your deaths. I wanted merely to prevent mine."

"What did she pay you?" I asked.

"Nothing!"

Del was clearly skeptical. "Nothing?"

"She permitted me to keep my life," Fouad explained. "I am somewhat attached to my life and

considered it payment enough, under the circumstances. Though undoubtedly others might not agree."

He eyed me, clearly expecting a reaction. Then a frown pinched his brows together. "You look—

different."

"A full life will do that to you," I replied gravely. "Especially if you're sold off to a murderous female

tanzeer intent on punishing you for killing her father, despite the fact that said father deserved to be

slowly roasted to death over a nice bed of coals." As Aladar had been the one to throw me into his

mines and nearly cost me my sanity, I felt justified in my stance.

Color deepened in Fouad's face. He stared hard at the surface of the table. "I am not proud of it."

"Oh, that does change matters," Del said with delicate irony.

"You would do the same!" he cried; and then abruptly recalled to whom he spoke. Two

sword-dancers, who defended the lives of others—and their own—without recourse to such cowardly

acts as drugging customers' wine. His breath came fast. "What do you want, then? To kill me?" He

paused. "Really?"

I smiled sweetly. "Two-thirds of this place."

Del cut me a sharp glance, not being privy to my plan. Fouad missed it, being entirely taken up with

the magnitude of my revenge.

I lifted a forefinger before he could sputter out a protest. "You might have told Sabra no."

"She'd have had me killed!"

"So could we," I reminded him. "Though at least we'd do you the courtesy of killing you ourselves,

instead of hiring a total stranger to do the job." My gesture encompassed the cantina. "Two-thirds,

Fouad. One-third for you, one-third for me, one-third for Del."

Del concentrated on drinking more water so as not to give away her bemusement. Such are the

dynamics of negotiation. Even if you aren't truly negotiating but merely informing.

Fouad did not believe. His tone was incredulous. "You want to be a cantina keeper? Here? But—

but you're a sword-dancer!"

"I'd have been a dead man, had Sabra succeeded," I said bluntly. "But I am very much alive, and

prepared to leave
you
that way . . . should we reach an equitable agreement." I cut him off before he

could speak again. "And no, I am not proposing that I play host, or tell you what kind of curtains to put

in your windows, or that Del be a wine-girl." I could imagine what she'd say to that image later. "I was

thinking we'd be silent partners."

"I do all the work, you take two-thirds of the profits," Fouad said glumly.

"I'm glad you grasp the pertinent details."

"For how long?" he asked.

"How long?"

"For how long do I have to put up with you?"

"What, are you already planning to hire Abbu or some such soul to knock me off?"

Fouad was stunned. "I would
never
do such a thing!" Whereupon he recalled that while he hadn't

done precisely that, he had indeed contributed to the trap that could very well have have ended in my

death.

"Two-thirds," Del said crisply. "Payable four times a year."

I nodded with grave dignity. Fouad screwed up his face.

"And I may just have an idea for those curtains," she added.

I suspect a knife in the gut might have proven less painful to him. But he eventually agreed, with much

moroseness of expression.

"Good," I said. "As for how long, it's a lifetime arrangement. If I die, Del gets my one-third. If she

dies, I get her one-third."

I'd given Fouad an opening. "And if you both die? You are sword-dancers, after all. Sword-dancers

die."

I drank down the rest of my aqivi, then scratched idly at the claw marks in my face. "I plan to live

forever."

Fouad looked. He saw. His lips parted. "Your finger," he said hoarsely.

I displayed both hands. "Fingers," I enunciated. "As I said, I've lived a full life."

He was stunned. "Sabra did that?"

"This? No." I didn't elaborate, which left him nonplussed.

"But—can you dance?"

I felt Del's look, but I did not return it. "Try me."

Fouad was perversely fascinated by the missing fingers. I saw him turn it over in his head, applying

his knowledge of my past, my reputation, to the present sitting before him and all the implications. He

more closely noted the shorn hair, doubled earrings— and whatever else you might see if you looked

upon me now.

"I heard—" He paused and cleared his throat. "I heard a rumor that you'd survived Sabra. That

you'd declared . . ."

"Elaii-ali-ma,"
I supplied, when he faltered. "You've been selling drink and women to

sword-dancers for years. You know very well what
elaii-ali-ma
means."

He did. "Forsworn."

"And subject to any punishment a sword-dancer—one who's still true to his oaths, mind you—cares

to give me." I shrugged. "So you might get to keep my one-third of the profits, if it comes to that. One of

these days."

"They'll kill you, Tiger."

"Maybe," I agreed. "Maybe not."

His gaze was on my mutilated hands, which I did not trouble to hide. "This is worse," Fouad said

hollowly. "Worse than anything Sabra might have done."

"Possibly. But that does not absolve you of your responsibility." He had the grace to wince. "She

intended me to die, Fouad. This way, fingers or no fingers, I have some say in the matter."

Fouad was not convinced. "They'll kill you."

I gave him my friendliest grin. "Or die trying."

"Why?" Del demanded later in the inn's tiny room high under the eaves. An equally tiny window—a

lopsided square chopped into thick mudbrick—tinted the room a sallow sepia as the sun went down,

glinting off the brass buckles of our belongings.

I knew better than to ask to what she referred. "Financial security." I stripped out of my burnous.

Stretched out on the rope-and-wood bed atop its thin pallet and even thinner blanket, she watched

as I, dhoti-clad, began to methodically undertake the forms I found beneficial to my strength, flexibility,

and endurance. For most of my life I'd de-pended on a natural wellspring of sheer physical strength,

power, and speed, with no need to work at keeping any of them. They simply
were.
Now I needed

more.

"You just didn't want to kill him."

She sounded so disgusted a brief gust of laughter was expelled as I bent from one side to the other.

"Fouad's a friend."

"A friend who betrayed you."

"At Sabra's insistence." I felt the joints of my spine stretch and pop. "She was a little hard to turn

down when she got a bug up her butt. Hoolies, even I was going to do what she wanted." Die in the

circle, facing Abbu Bensir.

"But you had a choice."

I clasped hands behind my head and pushed it forward against resistance. "Sure I did. I forswore all

my oaths as a seventh-level sword-dancer. I don't think cantina keepers have any oaths. Though I

suppose there could be some secret society dedicated to all the arcane secrets of selling liquor and hiring

wine-girls."

Del had been leaning on one elbow. Now she shoved herself upright. "Speaking of wine-girls, you

made reference to me—"

I cut her off before we could take that route. "Certainly not."

"Certainly, yes," she said dryly. "You also mentioned something about Fouad selling wine-girls to

sword-dancers."

"Well, I suppose 'rented' would be a more accurate term."

"And I assume you 'rented' your share?"

"Nah," I replied off-handedly. "None of them ever charged
me."

After a moment of stunned silence, Del said something highly explicit in uplander.

I changed the subject hastily. "Do you really want to kill Fouad?"

"No. But I
do
want to know why you've encumbered us with a two-thirds ownership of a cantina."

She paused, considering. "Unless you figure it entitles you to free aqivi."

"Well, it does. Might save me a little money." I shrugged prodigiously, repeatedly, loosening the

muscles running from neck to shoulders. "It's not an encumbrance, bascha. All we have to do is drop in

four times a year and pick up our share of the profits."

Fortunately Fouad had been prevailed upon to give us an advance, since, having arranged for horse

boarding, human lodging, and some food, we now needed money to pay for it all.

"But why, Tiger? You've never indicated any interest in owning property before. A cantina?"

"I like cantinas."

"Well, yes; you spend enough time in them . . . but why
own
one?"

"I told you. Financial security." I stopped loosening up and faced her. "I doubt I'll be taking on any

jobs as a sword-dancer any time soon. I'm kind of proscribed from that."