Sword-Sworn Read online

  “Find me,” she says.

  Could the bones belong to Del? Could she be dead?

  I awoke with a start. “Auuggh,” I croaked. “Stop with the dreams, already!”

  Sweat drenched me. It stank of sandtiger venom. I rolled to my right side, started to use my elbow, thought better of it as the wounds in my back protested. After a moment I made the attempt to sit upright without the assistance of arms. Aching abdominal muscles warned me it wasn’t such a good idea, but I managed to stay there. Eventually the world settled back into place.

  The dream faded. Reality was bad enough.

  I turned my head and spat, disliking the aftertaste of fever and poison. Dry-mouthed, nothing was expelled. I found the bota, rinsed my mouth, tried again. Much better. Then I drank sparingly, recalling the boy’s warning regarding how much water was left.

  I looked across at the blanketed form. Del did not appear to have roused. I set down the bota, took a deep breath, and made my body move.

  Well, such as it could. In the end I flopped down on my belly, head near Del’s pallet, and hitched myself up on a forearm.

  “Bascha?” I peeled back the blanket with my free hand. Del’s face remained slightly blotched, a network of red overlaying extreme pallor. Her swollen lips had cracked and bled. I rested a hand on her abdomen, waited in frozen silence, then felt the slight rising and falling. She breathed.

  With effort, I pulled myself upright. Found her bota, shook it, heard the diminished sloshing. I had no idea when Nayyib had been here, when he’d left, or when he might return. For all I knew it was a week after he’d gone. I thought it more likely a matter of hours, though possibly it was the next day.

  I hooked my left hand under Del’s head and lifted it, placing the bota at her lips. I squeezed and dribbled water into her mouth. This time she swallowed without choking. I settled her head once more again the bedding.

  The cloth across her forehead was dry. I wet it yet again, replaced it, cleared away the trickles that threatened her eyes and ears. “I’m here,” I told her. “A little the worse for wear, but still here, bascha.”

  I did not know when Nayyib had changed her bandages. A torn burnous sat in a pile on her bedding, but I didn’t recognize it. The boy’s, apparently; and the fabric matched that now wrapping Del’s forearm, so he had done that much. I peeled back the cloth to bare the bite wound. I bent, sniffed; did not yet smell infection or putrefaction.

  So far.

  I searched for and found the bota of Vashni liquor. Once again I poured it into the wound.

  And for the first time in—hoolies, I didn’t know how many days it was since the attack!—Del opened her eyes. They were hazy and unfocused.

  “Bascha?”

  But almost immediately they closed again.

  “Del?”

  Her lips moved, but no sound issued from her mouth. Instead of water, this time I dribbled liquor into her mouth.

  Below the edge of the cloth, the faintest of frowns twitched her brows. Her left hand stirred, rose. Fingers touched her mouth. Then the hand flopped down to her neck.

  I’d forgotten about the cracked lips when I’d given her the liquor.

  I swore, stole the damp cloth from her forehead, and pressed it against her mouth. “Sorry, bascha. I didn’t think.”

  I didn’t think a lot.

  She did not stir again. I took up Nayyib’s burnous, made more bandages, wrapped her forearm again. Vashni liquor, I decided, ought to burn the poison out of anything.

  I felt then at my own stripes on the back of my shoulder, cutting across the scapula. It was a bad angle, and even twisting my head until my neck complained did not bring the claw wounds into sight, but fingers told the story. The twin stripes were crusted, no longer bleeding. Leaving them alone was the best medicine.

  Weariness intruded, as did dizziness. But there was the horse to tend. I drank a little of the liquor, breathed fire for a moment, then stoppered the bota and put it aside. I crawled to the opening of the lean-to, peered blearily out at the world, and wanted very badly to turn around and collapse into sleep—or unconsciousness—once more.

  A few paces away, tied to a scrubby tree, Del’s horse stood with a black-smeared face. With the detached, exquisite clarity of fading fever, I wondered briefly what Nayyib had thought upon first sighting the paint and fringe.

  The gelding saw me and nickered, ears flicked forward.

  “Fine,” I muttered, “I’m coming. It might take me a day, but I’ll get there.”

  Nayyib had left a water bota and grain pouch by the lean-to. I grabbed both, gathered my legs under me, pressed both arms against the ground, and pushed.

  In grabbing the shelter roof to steady myself, I nearly brought it down. I let go, took a step away, and almost fell flat on my face. I saved myself from doing so only because most of me would have landed in the fire ring, and that was not a particularly favored destination.

  The gelding nickered again.

  Sun stabbed into my eyes. A lurking headache flared into existence. Everything, from bones and muscle to skin, ached unremittingly. I drew in a breath, set my teeth, and began the horrendously lengthy and perilous journey to the gelding, all of five paces away.

  Upon reaching him I grabbed a hunk of mane to hold myself upright. “Hello,” I said sociably, hoping he wouldn’t move. “Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

  He blinked a white-lashed blue eye and nosed at the bota.

  “Coming,” I muttered, working at the stopper. Once free, I upended the waterskin and drained the contents into the canvas bucket. The gelding dipped his head and began to drink. I hung onto the curve of his withers, wondering if I could make it back to the lean-to. Possibly the gelding would have company tonight, right where he was.

  Except Del was there. I’d make it back.

  Done drinking, the gelding lifted his head. Clinging to him one-handed, I took the opportunity to relieve myself. The sharp tang of venom expelled with urine made the gelding shift uneasily.

  “Not now,” I suggested fervently, readjusting my dhoti. The gelding obliged. I thanked him with a pat, then opened the grain pouch and poured a handful into the empty water bucket. He needed good grazing, but there wasn’t any. For now, this had to do.

  I did not look forward to the journey back to the shelter. “One step an hour ought to get me there,” I told the horse.

  But he was no longer paying me any mind. He’d drawn himself up, head lifted, and pealed out a whinny of welcome. Steadying myself against his neck, I turned, expecting to see Nayyib. Relieved that I’d see Nayyib. He was bringing the healer.

  And indeed, I saw Nayyib. Along with three other men on horseback. Nothing about them resembled healers. In fact, everything about them resembled sword-dancers.

  Especially since I knew one of them.

  He was highly amused. “Sandtiger.” All his handsome white teeth were on display. “You look terrible.”

  I glared. It was all I could manage. “What do you want, Rafiq?”

  “You.”

  Figured. I sighed, squinted at him, hung onto the gelding. “How about we skip the sword-fight and name you the winner,” I suggested. “Right about now, as you can see, I’m not really up to a match. There’d be no challenge in it. As I recall, you like to tease an opponent for an hour or two before defeating him. Hoolies, I’d go down in the blink of an eye. No fun for you.”

  Rafiq was still grinning atop his palomino horse. “He said you were sick. Sandtiger, was it?” He laughed. “Appropriate.”

  I shot a glance at Nayyib. He sat his mount stiffly, not even looking at me. I wondered if they’d paid him to lead them back here. Or promised him a dance in a circle. Or lessons in being a sword-dancer.

  “Sick,” I agreed. “Probably even dying, and therefore not worth killing. So why don’t you just ride on out of here and let me die in peace?”

  Rafiq jumped off his horse, pulling something from the saddle. “Because,” he said, approach
ing, “we have every intention of not letting you die. At least, not like this. If you’re up and moving now, the poison’s mostly out of your system.”

  “What’s the plan?” I asked.

  Rafiq had a loop of thin braided leather in his hands. “You’re coming with us.”

  He intended to tie my hands. I debated avoiding it, even tensed to do so.

  Rafiq saw it and laughed. “I can tie you standing here before me with some measure of dignity, or I can tie you with your rump planted in the dirt. Which do you prefer?”

  I said nothing. He slipped the loop over my wrists and snugged it tight, preparing to knot it.

  Then I moved.

  TEN

  WHEN I came to, my rump was not planted in the dirt. All of me was. Rafiq had one knee on my chest and was scowling into my face. I expected him to apply inventive curses to my aborted attempt to escape, but instead he asked, “What happened to your fingers?”

  I scowled back. “I got hungry.”

  Rafiq claimed a good share of Borderer blood and thus was larger than most men in the South. It wasn’t an impossibility for him to jerk me to my feet, especially with me wobbly from venom residue and being knocked out. Especially with his two friends on either side of me, waiting to help. He lifted his knee, they grabbed my arms, and he yanked me up by dint of tied wrists. Which hurt. Which he knew.

  His expression was odd. “What happened to your fingers?”

  I blinked away dizziness, aware of how tightly the others gripped my arms. Surely they didn’t believe I could offer much of a fight, after that brief travesty of a protest. “I was kidnapped by bald, blue-headed priest-mages, and they cut them off.”

  Rafiq accepted the truth no easier than falsehood. He studied my stumps with every evidence of fascination. “This isn’t new.”

  Well, it wasn’t that old, either, but I didn’t say anything.

  He thought about it. “At least I know you didn’t lose them in the last couple of days.”

  I glared at him. “What does it matter?”

  He looked at my face, searching for something. “You killed Khashi four days ago.”

  Actually, I’d lost count. Apparently I’d missed the night before and much of another day. Being poisoned will do that to you. “If you say so.”

  “You killed Khashi with two missing fingers.”

  “And easily,” Nayyib put in.

  Moral support. How nice.

  Rafiq’s eyes flickered. He looked again at the stumps, thoughts hidden. Then his face cleared. “Well, we’ll let Umir decide. It’s his business if he wants damaged goods.”

  “Umir?” I blurted. “Umir the Ruthless? What in hoolies does he want?”

  “You.”

  “Me? Umir? What for? He never wanted me before.” It was Del he’d wanted, and gotten, even if only briefly.

  “He does now.” Rafiq smiled. “You’ve apparently become a collector’s item. A seventh-level sword-dancer who’s declared elaii-ali-ma. It’s never happened before. That makes you unique. And you know how Umir is about things—and people—he considers unique.”

  I shook my head, slow to grasp the essentials. They were simply too preposterous. “What does he want, to put me on display?”

  Rafiq’s brows arched. His hair was darker than mine, but not quite black. “You haven’t heard about his contest?”

  “Umir’s holding a contest?”

  The Borderer, who knew very well how fast news traveled among the sword-dancer grapevine, stared at me. “Where in hoolies have you been?”

  Blandly I replied, “Trying to convince bald, blue-headed priest-mages I didn’t want to join them.”

  “Ah. The same ones who cut off your fingers?”

  “The very same.”

  Rafiq snickered, shaking his head. “You always did have a vivid imagination.”

  I gifted him with a level stare. “So did Khashi. He believed he could defeat me.”

  That banished the humor. Rafiq nodded at his friends. I realized abruptly that while I’d been briefly unconscious they had slipped leather nooses over my head, now circling my neck. I was cross-tied like a recalcitrant horse, one man on either side of me holding a long leather leash. And currently tightening it just to demonstrate how well the system worked.

  When, having made their point, they loosened the nooses, I asked, “Leashing me like a dog these days, Rafiq?”

  “A cat,” he answered easily. “A big, dangerous cat. Umir gets what he pays for. Fingers or no fingers, I’m not underestimating you.”

  “Khashi did,” Nayyib said.

  Very helpful, he was. And it served to bring the image back, and the knowledge, that a man lacking two fingers might still kill an Alimat-trained fifth-level sword-dancer.

  Maybe even Rafiq.

  Rafiq looked at me again. Assessed me. “Then Khashi was a fool. You may have broken all your oaths, but that doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten how to kill a man. You always were good at that, Tiger.”

  I suppose it could be taken as a compliment. But my mind was on other things. “I’m not going anywhere without Del.” The Borderer was blank a moment. “Del?—oh, you mean the Northern bascha I’ve heard so much about?” Rather abruptly, tension seeped into his body. He glanced around sharply. A subtle signal had his two sword-dancer friends tightening the nooses again. “Where is she?”

  Ordinarily this would be the signal for Del to sing out, offering to show them where she was, to describe what she would do to them, and how she would do it. Ordinarily it would be amusing to witness Rafiq’s anxiety.

  But this time it wasn’t, because she wouldn’t be doing any of it, and now was no time for prevarication. “In the shelter,” I told him. “I’m not leaving without her.”

  Nayyib, still mounted, flicked a glance at me, then away. “I wanted the healer for her,” he told Rafiq, “not for him.”

  Rafiq looked at me. Then he told his sandtiger-tamers to keep an eye on their charge and strode over to the lean-to.

  If going with them got Del to help, it was worth as many leashes as they wished to put on me. It wasn’t the best of situations, but some improvement in this one was worth a great deal if it helped Del.

  I watched Rafiq duck down inside the shelter. In a moment he came back and glanced at his men. “Put him on his horse. We’re leaving.”

  They shut hands on my arms again, started to turn me. “Wait,” I said sharply. “We’ve got to make arrangements for Del. A litter—”

  “We’re leaving her.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “I can.” He nodded at his men. “Do it.”

  The gelding had been saddled. They shoved me toward him. I planted my feet, not that it did me much good. My feet weren’t cooperating, and neither were Rafiq’s friends. Rafiq himself turned away to his own mount, gathering reins.

  “Wait,” I said again. “If you want me to come peaceably—”

  Rafiq cut me off. “I don’t care if you come peaceably or not. The woman’s too much trouble. She’ll be dead by tomorrow.” He swung up onto his palomino. “Get on your horse, Tiger. If you don’t, you can walk all the way to Umir’s place at whatever pace our horses set. Of course if you fall, we’ll simply drag you.”

  Rafiq and I had never been friends. But cordial rivals, yes, in the brotherhood of the trade. Now, clearly, cordiality was banished, and rivalry had been transmuted to something far more deadly.

  The two men made it clear I could mount Del’s gelding under my own power, or they’d choke me out and sling me over the saddle. There was no way I could win this battle. It was foolish even to try. But this was Del we were discussing.

  I was running out of options. Beyond Rafiq, Nayyib sat his horse wearing a curiously blank expression. I shot him a hard stare but couldn’t catch his eye. Then I turned, grabbed white mane and stuck a foot in the stirrup, pulled myself up. Kicking the gelding into unexpected motion in a bid to escape would not succeed; Rafiq’s leather leashes would jerk me out
of the saddle and likely strangle me before I landed.

  But leaving Del behind… that I couldn’t do. I’d made a promise. If I tempted death, so be it. I wouldn’t leave her alone if it cost me my life.

  Without a word Nayyib abruptly turned his horse toward the shelter and rode away from us. He dismounted, looped his rein loosely around one of the roof branches, glanced back at me over a shoulder. No longer did he avoid my gaze, but seemed to be courting it. His jaw was set like stone.

  Rafiq glanced back. “Aren’t you coming? I thought you wanted to see some real sword-dances.”

  Nayyib lifted that stubborn jaw. He continued to stare at me. “I’m staying with the woman.”

  I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Maybe he hadn’t betrayed us. Or maybe he’d had a change of heart. I wanted no part of leaving, but at least Del would have someone with her.

  The two men were mounted, one on each side of the gelding. I felt the pressure of the slip-knots on either side of my neck. A change in pace by any of our mounts, be it a side-step, a spook, a stumble, and I’d be in a world of hurt. The reins were mine to hold, but they did me no good.

  Rafiq laughed, calling to Nayyib. “Well, you can catch up to us tomorrow—after you bury her.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said lightly. “In fact, I’m pretty damn certain of it. It’ll be you who gets buried, and if I don’t do it, she will.”

  Rafiq looked at me. He was neither laughing nor smiling now. “You have no idea what you’re going to face. You broke every oath we hold sacred, Tiger. What Alimat was founded on. What do you expect? We were all children there, who were taught to become men. There is a cost for such betrayal, and now you will pay it.”

  “In blood, I suppose.”

  His eyes were cold as ice. “One of us will have the honor of cutting you into small pieces. I would like it, Tiger—I would like it very much—if that honor were mine.”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but Rafiq’s friends suggested I not respond by employing the simple expedient of tightening their leashes. I subsided.