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Chapter 15

  A LONG DAY’S RIDE TO ISTAMIR. The further north we went, the more plentiful the trees, occasionally huddling together in thickets. Groundcover, often abloom, was abundant with vegetation, shrubbery, vines twisting around tree trunks. The grass slowly turned from pale green prairie growth to a lush, deep, vivid green, short enough that the wagons moved through it smoothly. Good grazing; I well understood why Neesha’s stepfather had built his horse farm in such surroundings.

  At one point, as we ate our midday meal in the saddle, Neesha mentioned that if we turned due west, a half day’s ride would deliver us to the farm. Later, I rode up from the back of the last wagon to join him and asked if he’d rather break off from us now and go ahead to the farm while Del and I escorted the caravan into Istamir.

  A faint frown puckered his brows. “My job is to ride all the way into Istamir.”

  “I’m sure Del and I can handle things.”

  “I did kill one of those borjuni, you know.”

  It wasn’t a brag. What it was, I didn’t quite understand for a moment, and then I grasped it. It was a subtle defensiveness, an attempt to remind me he had proved his worth as an outrider, as someone who could contribute. Hastily, honestly, I said, “No, no, I only meant it would be less time for you to ride over there from here. That’s all.”

  His brow smoothed as he smiled. “There are women in Istamir.”

  Oh. That. I grinned at him. “Say no more.”

  He rode the roan mare, his bay gelding tied to the back of the last wagon. When not watching for raiders, he spent time assessing nearly every step she took, how her ears twitched, how she registered the world, and how often; was she a smooth goer, or so intent on proving herself—rather like Neesha, come to think of it—that she could not relax. All the minutiae that goes into finding out if a horse will work for a rider it doesn’t know, and how. Was it war? Was it docility? Was it something in between? The stud was never docile, but not always at war. He could walk out in a long, smooth, ground-eating stride. He just didn’t do it often enough.

  I shook off stirrups and stretched my legs, popping knees. Then, twisting in the saddle from side to side, I loosened my spine. I hadn’t ridden such distance on a daily basis for two years, and my body, on horseback for days at a time, was still deciding if it wanted to remember how all the parts fit together.

  And then, for some incomprehensible reason, I looked at my hands. At the stumps of missing fingers.

  Is that what it would take to fell the Sandtiger? To recognize and comprehend what it meant for a sword-dancer to have one less finger per hand to help steady his sword and then dance accordingly? I had spent almost every day of my life exercising since I lost those fingers atop the stone spire, among the madmen of ioSkandi. I worked my hands, strengthening fingers and the sides of my palms, training the stumps to close down onto the leather grip with as much pressure as they could. Several men had learned that I remained dangerous despite lacking those fingers. But for all my strength and will and training, I was at a disadvantage if the right man came along.

  Or maybe it was more accurate to say, if the wrong man came along.

  “Riders!” Del called.

  I stopped looking at my hands and concentrated on what lay ahead. “Drop back,” I told Neesha, and he did so.

  Four riders. I unsheathed my sword, knowing that Del and Neesha did the same. I fell in beside Mahmood on the lead wagon, with Del immediately across from me on the other side. “We’re close to Istamir, right?” I asked.

  Mahmood nodded. “Not far to go.”

  “Might these be borjuni?” If so, it was unusual; borjuni did not usually raid so close to a city.

  “I wouldn’t think so,” the merchant said consideringly. “But who knows what may have happened here? I’ve been trading in the South. It’s been months since I came here.”

  The riders came closer. There were no blades flashing in the sun, no ululations, no abrupt change of pace from lope to gallop. Of course all of that could change within a matter of moments. But I saw no tension in the horses, as if set to run.

  “We’ll halt,” Mahmood said. He tipped his head to the sky and let loose with a bellow in Desert even as he began to slow his team, directing the others to stop as well.

  I remained next to Mahmood on his high wagon seat, as did Del on the other side. I could not see Neesha, but knew he would let us know if anyone attempted to loop around to the last wagon. So far the four riders showed no signs of doing that.

  They came on, then slowed to a trot as they rode close in. Four men, their coloring in hair and skin a mix from Southron dark to Northern light. They ranged in age, I judged, from late twenties to forties. Clothing was simple, unadorned burnouses—though they’d call them “robes”—bound with wide, plain leather belts.

  “What have you?” asked the blond man I took to be a Northerner, gesturing to the lead wagon. I decided this was not a raiding party; borjuni never asked what you had, they just stole it.

  “Silks and spices,” Mahmood answered.

  “Ah!” said the blond, “You will be most welcome. We mean no rudeness, but we will escort you into Istamir. We have been beset by borjuni this past month, so now we ride out to help protect the caravans. So many have been lost while approaching town.” He looked at Del, then at me. There was no questioning look in his eyes as he saw Del; but then, Northerners were accustomed to independent women. “I see you are well-served already.”

  “Yes,” Mahmood said, “but we would be grateful if you accompanied us as well.”

  Very diplomatic of him. One man rode to the last wagon, two fell in one on each side, near Del and me, and the fourth took up the point. It was a relaxed ride into Istamir. Few raiding parties, if any, would attack a caravan with seven outriders, three of whom were obviously sword-dancers. Mahmood, atop his wagon seat, looked more relaxed than I had seen him at any point on our journey.

  My companion, the youngest of them, Southron-dark, was very diffident. “May I ask a question?”

  “You may.”

  “Are you the Sandtiger?”

  I very nearly smiled. Even so far north, the reputation preceded me. “I am.”

  “Are you aware there’s a bounty on your head?”

  Oh, hoolies. There went contentment. I gritted teeth. “Yes.”

  “I only warn you,” the young man said on a rush. “There are sword-dancers in town. And there is talk of the bounty.”

  Inwardly, I swore. “How many?”

  “At least six, that I’ve seen.”

  More swearing inside my head. “And they all of them know about the bounty?”

  “Oh, yes. Tavern talk. They may form a cadre to look for you down south.”

  Tavern talk. More often exaggeration or outright lies than not, but in this case, as sometimes happens, the truth.

  I had two options. I could go looking for the sword-dancers from tavern to tavern, taking the offensive, or hope no one realized I was in Istamir before Del and I took a room at an inn. After all, if I kept a low profile trouble might well be averted. No one would expect me to be in the North.

  At Umir’s private contest, I had taken on, one by one, more than six sword-dancers, and come out on top. But I’d just as soon not be required to do it again. I was neither foolish nor complacent. The latter had gotten Abbu Bensir seriously injured when I’d danced with him in Alimat, a seventeen-year-old boy with next to no skills. Abbu assumed I would offer no proper challenge. He let his guard down, and because I was big and fast—and lucky—he nearly died of a crushed throat from the strike of a wooden sparring sword.

  I would not be like Abbu Bensir. I couldn’t afford to. Not when the swords were steel rather than wood.

  I knew very well that, when next in a tavern, my newfound friend would be quick to spread the word I was in Istamir. There was always wagering when sword-dancers met; he would want to be the one to dole out the juicy news.

  I looked at him, shrugged a little, and said with exquisi
te mildness that I was not a seeker of fame or wealth but would of course be prepared to entertain any or all of the six. We would not stay long, however, because of business elsewhere.

  If all went well, we could shake him off before seeking an inn—preferably a place where we were strangers to the landlord. Sword-dancers knew me and I knew them. We were aware of nearly everyone who danced. Those who made their livings in more docile, domesticated pursuits rarely knew me. But with talk of Umir’s bounty, it wasn’t surprising some word had leaked out, and that word was always coupled with mention of my recognizable facial scars. It was difficult to miss them, just as it was difficult to miss the absent fingers. But that news, I thought, would not have spread so far. I had disappeared upon my return from Skandi. Eventually other sword-dancers would learn of it, but not yet.

  Or so I hoped.

  Istamir was rich in quarried stone. Unlike Julah with its mudbrick buildings huddling against the earth, this place was made of chiseled stone. It was gray on green earth, or deep brown where the soil was beaten by feet, hooves, and wagons, but featured also pale golden stone and white chunks veined with what appeared to be silver.

  These were not the Northern longhouses of Staal-Ysta, Del’s home, floating on a lake in the midst of towering mountains. These were stone squares featuring walled privacy courtyards, with flowering tree limbs drooping over the walls to encroach on the roadways.

  Everywhere green, in rolling hills and meadows, freckled by flowers of red and white and yellow. Del and I had ridden to Staal-Ysta in winter. But this was summer, and Istamir was glorious with it.

  The young man riding with me wished me a pleasant goodbye, said his duty was done, and rode away. The other three departed as well. Mahmood’s four wagons once again had only three outriders.

  “What now?” I asked the merchant. Our job required us to escort him to wherever his destination, but no further.

  “To the end of this street, then right. Not far.” He looked at me sharply. “You will be paid the other portion. On my honor.”

  I stared at him a moment. “Why would I think you wouldn’t pay us?”

  Mahmood shifted and glanced away from me, clearly uncomfortable. “Merchants are sometimes accused of dishonesty.”

  “Well, that may be, but I never thought it of you.”

  He was a proud man. “Thank you.” Then he gestured, indicating the street ahead of us. “See the cantina sign? The red one with yellow paint? We turn there. Marketfield is behind it, though at some distance beyond.”

  Still in formation, we traversed the center of the road. Dirt was soon replaced with hewn stone laid down atop the churned up surface, fitted together into a wide paved street. Shod hooves clopped on stone.

  Clearly it was considered perfectly normal for caravans to travel down the middle of the main street. Passersby glanced at the wagons but paid little attention, busy about their own business. “Not much interested, are they?” I observed.

  “Oh, they don’t bother until marketday,” Mahmood explained. “Then everyone comes to see and to buy or trade. Marketfair opens tomorrow; I was late getting started on the journey. My men and I will begin setting up tonight, finish tomorrow at dawn, and people will begin coming shortly afterward. Some will buy, some will look, as always. But I expect to sell out of all goods by the end of tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.” He looked up at me. “You will of course return the merchandise carried in your pouches.”

  I affected dismay. “And now sword-dancers, like merchants, are considered dishonest?”

  Mahmood opened his mouth to answer, thought about it, and offered a small smile. “Never.”

  I directed his attention forward with the jutting of my chin. “Red sign with yellow paint.” In fact, it was a red background and painted upon it was a howling wolf.

  “Yes,” Mahmood said and worked the reins to begin the turn.

  It neared dusk. I was ready for dinner. And some spirits. And a bed with Del in it. And as I smiled to myself, content with my plans, I heard the shout: “That’s Kirit’s roan mare!”

  It was a very loud shout. Everyone in the street stopped talking at once and looked at the man who shouted.

  Ah, hoolies.

  I twisted in the saddle to look, sighing in resignation. As might be expected, he was a sword-dancer. Dinner, drink, bed, and Del would all have to wait.

  Chapter 16

  ILOOKED AT MAHMOOD. “I think you’d best move on. It seems we have business, and you’re close to this Marketfield anyway. I’ll find you later for our payment and Neesha’s horse.”

  The merchant nodded vigorously and called out orders to his drivers. Del and I let the caravan roll on; Neesha held his place upon the roan mare; and once the caravan passed, the three of us gathered together in the midst of the paved street. There was no mistaking what we were, anymore than we could mistake the other sword-dancer for what he was.

  He was blond, hair to his shoulders, tall, broad-shouldered. His burnous was a faded green. As expected, the grip and hilts of a sword jutted up from behind his back.

  “Northerner,” Del observed. “But young. Nineteen?”

  Quietly I told Neesha, “A choice. Give over the mare or fight him for her.” I paused. “Oh, wait—there’s another possibility: Offer to buy her, even though he doesn’t own her. We’ve got the coin.”

  Neesha looked at me. I discovered he was smiling. Not a mouth-stretching, happy smile, but a smaller, subtler one. I had the feeling he wasn’t giving up the mare. Or buying her.

  Del, to my right, quietly backed her horse a few steps, rode behind me and fell in on Neesha’s left side. It was a silent solidarity and very clear to anyone looking on. Including the Northern-born sword-dancer.

  Heedless of the opposition we offered, he strode swiftly across the street and grabbed the roan mare’s near rein. He stared up at Neesha, plainly angry. “This is Kirit’s horse. What are you doing with her?”

  Well, there were several possible answers. Kirit sold her to Neesha, lost her in a wager, or was killed. By me. I wondered which Neesha would offer.

  Mounted, my son looked down at the man. His tone was delicately shaded with something akin to sympathy, which I found curious. “Was he your friend?”

  That was not what I expected. Apparently neither had the Northerner.

  “Is,” he corrected. “Kirit is my friend. Unless you say otherwise.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Neesha said quietly. “Your friend met with an accident.”

  Hmm. Was Neesha going to lie his way out of a confrontation?

  “An accident,” the young man echoed. “What kind of accident would result in the loss of his mare?” He flicked a glance at the sword rising above Neesha’s shoulder, then met the rich, honey-brown eyes of my son. “Did you kill him?”

  Silence. Well, there was no help for it. “No,” I said. “I killed him.” I glanced sidelong at Neesha, who looked disappointed. “Well, I can’t help it. He asked.”

  Naturally the young man’s attention shifted to me. He released the mare’s bridle, took a step toward the stud. The stud didn’t like it. He snaked out his head and snapped at the sword-dancer, who leaped back with alacrity, swearing.

  “Sorry,” I said lightly. “My horse is picky about who his friends are.”

  The Northerner attempted to recover his composure by yanking his burnous into order. His eyes, a grayish blue, now were empty of fear. Now were full of anger. “Was it a challenge?” he asked curtly. “Or murder?”

  It truly caught me by surprise. “Murder? Why in the name of the gods would I wish to murder him?”

  The reply didn’t amuse him. “Then I challenge you.”

  He didn’t know who I was; he didn’t say anything about it, didn’t look or act like he knew. I was, obviously, just a stranger, a sword-dancer like any other. It was rather refreshing. “Well,” I said, “I don’t think you want to do this. Really. You shouldn’t. It would not be a good thing.”

  “My name is Darr
ion,” he said. “I challenge you.”

  I winced. “You might want to think again.”

  “I challenge you.”

  “Who was the better of you?” I asked. “You? Or Kirit?”

  He lifted his chin. “I.”

  I sighed. “Darrion, please reconsider. Kirit and I engaged in a death-dance, as might be obvious. It was fair. He lost. There was no trickery, no murder, no anger in me. It was a sword-dance.”

  “A death-dance.”

  “Well, yes. Kirit made the challenge, and that’s what he insisted on.” I shrugged. “I did give him the option to ride away.”

  “He would never do such a thing!”

  I nodded. “And so he is dead.”

  Darrion flicked a hard glance at Del. This time he registered what she was. He saw her. “Northerner.”

  “Yes,” she replied. Then added, “Trained on Staal-Ysta.”

  In its way, the statement was a brag. Not everyone was admitted to the island.

  “Sword-singer,” Darrion said.

  Del smiled as the white gelding stomped stone. “I am.”

  Cheerfully, I added, “I, on the other hand, was trained at Alimat.”

  Neesha was not to be left behind. “And I at Beit al’Shahar. By the Sandtiger.”

  I very nearly laughed. More luster for the legend. I managed to repress a grin.

  Darrion now looked at each of us more carefully. He appeared to reconsider his position. But he had challenged me. Twice and emphatically. Certainly he could unchallenge me. But very few sword-dancers did so. There was this problem called pride. And other sword-dancers were in Istamir, apparently. If word was passed that Darrion refused to dance, shame would attach to his name. His reputation, whatever it was, whatever he hoped it might become, would be sullied. To live, he’d be reduced to working for no-name tanzeers in insignificant domains.

  Decision made, Darrion lifted his chin. “Do you accept the challenge?”

  Oh, hoolies.

  Very quietly, out of the side of his mouth, Neesha said, “Tell him who you are.”