Sword-Singer Page 17

  The stud’s latest victim was getting up from the ground. Blood flowed from a split lip and broken nose. He wobbled a little when he walked.

  Can’t say as I was displeased.

  I threaded my way through the gathered men until I stood on the edges of the circle, not so far from the stud. His ears were pinned back in warning and he promised violence with back hooves. His handler, I saw, stood close enough to his head to keep him contained, but far enough to avoid a slashing foreleg.

  Del slipped in next to me. “Well,” she said dryly. “I see he’s up to his old tricks.”

  I elbowed her in warning, then bent my head casually as she glared. Softly, I suggested, “Let’s be quiet a moment, shall we?”

  “Tiger—”

  I laughed as if she had said something funny, then added quietly, “Let’s just see how far this goes…and how much money is wagered.”

  Del shut her eyes. “I should have known.”

  I bent a little closer to her ear, watching those around us to make certain no one could hear. “He’s not hurt. And he’s winning…there’s nothing wrong with a little educated entertainment.”

  Del smiled sweetly, muttering sardonically through clenched teeth as she looked at me in feigned amusement. “Besides, it’s not like we haven’t done similar things before. Is it?”

  A shout went up. Another mark had fallen for the bait. Big, tall, blond man, looking much like all the others. He stepped forward, grinned and made comments to his noisy friends, swaggered into the circle, and said something about being willing to tame the horse.

  Tame the horse. Fat chance.

  The stud’s handler rattled off a few things in Northern, which prompted me to ask Del for a translation.

  “He says the rider has to put up a share toward the purse. If he rides the stud, he gets it all. If not, he forfeits the entry fee.”

  “Seems simple enough…unless you know the stud.”

  Del slanted me a glance. “If anyone here tumbles to the knowledge that you know this horse so well, I can’t answer for the reaction. And I can’t promise you’ll survive the drubbing.”

  I shrugged, grinning. “That’s the risk in any scam, bascha. And besides, we’ve faced it before.”

  “That was in the South.”

  “Oh, I see. In the North you want them to win.”

  “Let’s just say I don’t want to see you get your gehetties ripped off by an angry Northerner.”

  “Not a chance, bascha.”

  Del grunted. I watched the Northerner attempt to mount the stud.

  He was, of course, doing it all wrong. Having witnessed the other disasters, he was taking his time. He grasped the reins in one hand. Put foot in stirrup, then rose. Hung there a long moment with all his substantial weight slung on one side, waiting for the stud to explode; when he didn’t, the Northerner swung his right leg over the saddle and plopped himself down on top of the stud. He was big and ungainly, and supremely blind to the intelligence of the animal he bestrode.

  Not to mention the determination.

  “Maybe three hops,” Del predicted.

  “Not even two, bascha.”

  It took all of half a hop.

  The stud is not a particularly large horse. Neither is he a particularly attractive horse, being a typical desert mount: medium-sized, medium-boned, heavy of head and deep of chest. His eyes are spaced too wide for good looks, but it’s because there’s a brain in there. He’s compact, not leggy or long-bodied; he wasn’t born to race. He’s not muscle-bound, but what’s there is tightly coiled, explosive in strength and style. He’s plain old medium brown with smudgy dark points on all four legs and a straggly black tail. His mane I always clipped; now it stood straight up in spikes as high as the span of a man’s hand. And his coat, ordinarily smooth and sleek, was putting on length and volume.

  I frowned. “He’s all fuzzy.”

  Del nodded. “He’s growing winter hair.”

  “He never did before.”

  “Down South, who needs to? But he’s North, now, Tiger. You wear wool and leather, he’ll grow hair.”

  Yet another reason, I thought glumly, to go home as soon as we could.

  The handler was shouting again. I asked for another translation.

  “He says the horse is getting tired.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s hardly even winded.”

  Del sighed. “Do you want me to translate, or not?”

  I bit back a retort. “Go on.”

  “He says that because the horse is getting tired, he’ll only accept one more rider. But that if he wins, he wins it all—he’ll also win the stud.”

  “What?”

  “The stud is part of the winnings.”

  Suddenly I became less interested in seeing some stupid lug of a Northerner get dumped on his head than in claiming my horse. “Put some money on me, Del. Let’s clean everybody’s pockets.”

  “Tiger—”

  But it was too late. I stripped off my harness, handed it to Del, went to stand in the center of the circle while announcing I wanted to ride.

  The stud rolled a dark eye in my direction. Stared at me a long moment, during which he flicked black-tipped ears up and down. Then he pinned them again. Bared large, yellowed teeth. Cocked a powerful hind leg and begged me to come close enough.

  I just smiled.

  The handler was a middle-aged blond man who showed years of experience with horses in old bite scars on bare forearms. His legs were bowed—one was decidedly crooked—and he wasn’t much intimidated by the stud’s bad manners. He just stood there and held the headstall, absently avoiding a nip, and asked if I was sure I wanted to risk my Southron neck.

  I told him yes, in Northern, then asked him why he was willing to put up the horse as a prize in addition to the purse, of which he would get a cut.

  He jabbed the stud’s reaching lip with a practiced finger. “Too much trouble,” he said in accented Borderer speech, mixing Northern and Southron easily. “I’m horse-master, not beast-master—I want to sell clean, unbitten horseflesh. This one has tried to mount every mare in my string, broke the left leg of my best horseboy, nearly crippled the stud I do like.” He grinned, assessing me to see if he thought I could ride the stud. “I want to be rid of this one, but only at a profit.”

  “Why did you buy him, then?”

  “Didn’t. This one came down out of the hills and right into my camp. Looking for mares, I’d bet. Doesn’t seem to mind a bit and bridle, but won’t let anyone on his back for more than a jump or two.”

  I nodded, showing the stud false respect for the Northerner’s benefit. “How long does a man have to stay on in order to win?”

  The horse-master jabbed a thumb toward a boy standing nearby. “See the sandglass in his hands? When you mount, he’ll turn it upside down. Ride till the sand’s run out, and the horse—and the purse—is yours.” His tone belied a decided lack of confidence in my abilities.

  “And if I come off before the sand’s run out?” With the stud, it was always possible; I am not a fool to swear I can win every time.

  The Northerner shrugged. “This one’s no good to me the way he is, and no one will buy a horse that can’t be ridden. He’s too small for Northern tastes, so no one’d want to use him for stud.” He shrugged again. “Doesn’t leave much, so I’ll give him to the landlopers.”

  I frowned. “But you just said no one wants him.”

  The horse-master grinned. “In the South, you eat goat and sheep and dog. Here, landlopers like the taste of horseflesh. I’d hate to see this one butchered, but if he can’t fill my purse at least he’ll fill a few bellies.”

  It took all I had not to plant a fist in his face where he stood. “I’ll win,” I said flatly. “If I don’t, you can butcher me.”

  The Northerner told me the price of the ride, took it as I handed it over, gave me the reins. “I like my meat rare. Your hide’s too charred for me.”

  I heard him calling out the stakes as I t
urned my attention to the stud. The bay horse was staring back at me in plain, pointed challenge. He had just spent part of the day dumping men off his back, and that the next one was me appeared to make no difference to him. He knew what was expected of him and intended to deliver.

  Del’s warning rang true in my ears. If all the bettors did tumble to the truth about my relationship with the stud, they’d be in their rights to beat the hoolies out of me. So it was important that I not treat the stud any differently, or try to suborn him into complaisance.

  Therefore, all I had to do was make him do his best to throw me, then manage to stay on.

  “Hoolies,” I muttered, “I wish this were a sword-dance.” The stud flickered an ear.

  I sucked in a deep breath, caught a handful of reins and mane, swung myself aboard without benefit of the stirrup. It placed me square in the saddle before the stud could blink, feet hooked into stirrups. I took as deep a seat as I could.

  Now, it was possible he might decide his fighting days were over, at least for the moment. It was possible he might recall precisely who I was and surprise me by accepting me easily. In which case the game was decidedly up and they’d probably butcher me in addition to the stud.

  So I planted booted heels deep into his flanks and dug in for all I was worth.

  The stud blew up like a deadly simoom, all hooves and teeth and noise.

  Well, the first part of my plan was working. Now all I had to do was stay aboard while the sand ran out of the glass.

  I was dimly aware of shouting and laughing. Dimly aware of staring eyes and open mouths. Even more dimly aware of the human circle falling back, back, away…giving the stud room to work. But I was quite aware of the immediacy of the threat; the stud was doing his best to unhorse me as violently as possible.

  “—stupid son of a Salset goat—”

  —hop—hop—leap—

  “—do you want to be butchered—?”

  —plunge—buck—twist—

  “—do you want to remove any chance I might ever sire a child—?”

  —lunge—buck—stomp—

  “—ought to make you a gelding—”

  spin—spin—twist—

  “—you arrogant son of a—”

  —BUCK—

  I was, of course, tossed forward. Collided with his head. Got smashed back into the saddle, where I was whipped from side to side. All I wanted was to get off—

  So the stud helped me out.

  When you’re thrown from the back of a horse, sometimes you don’t know which end is up. All you know is somehow you have become separated from your mount, through misfortune or violence, and are now hanging, however briefly, somewhere in the air. Right side up, upside down—you never really know.

  That is, until you land.

  I landed.

  Thinking, —stupid son of a Salset goat, now they’re going to eat you—

  And then I stopped thinking entirely, because the stud was standing by my head nosing my blood-smeared face.

  Hoolies, all it would take is one stomp of an iron-shod hoof, and my dancing days were done.

  Any days were done.

  Nostrils bloomed large in my face. Hot horse breath crusted the film of blood by my nose. He sucked air, then snorted noisily, spraying dampness all over my face.

  I sat upright, cursing, trying to wipe blood and mucus from my face. In the end someone handed me a damp rag, which helped. The horse-master caught the stud and led him over to me as I climbed all the way up to my feet.

  I looked at the innocent dark eyes and the quivering of whiskers. “Let me buy him from you,” I said. “He may have won the battle, but I’d hate to see him butchered.”

  The Northerner grinned as I mopped my face. “Now, if I was a dishonest man, I’d agree and take your money. But I’m not.” He handed over the reins. “He may have tossed you off, but he did it after the sand ran out.” I stood there with the reins in right hand as the horse-master plopped a leather pouch into the left. “I’ve taken my share out,” he said. “The rest of it is yours.” He eyed the stud askance. “He’ll kill you before winter’s done.”

  “Or we’ll kill each other.” I turned, made my way through the crowd of onlookers, now clamoring for wagers won or lost, took the stud to Del.

  She stood cradling harness and sword. Nodded a little. Took the rag from my hand and reached up to wipe away blood. “Not too bad,” she said, “but you cut it a little close. One hop earlier and you’d have lost him and the purse.”

  “Earlier, later…didn’t matter, bascha. He wasn’t paying attention to anything I said or did.”

  Del patted the stud’s big jaw. “Not a bad day’s work. You won a purse and won a horse…now we only need to buy a mount for me.”

  And a belligerent voice asked, “What about for me?”

  Del swung around. “Massou,” she said, surprised. Then, with infinite gentleness, “Massou, you’ll go on with Cipriana and your mother.”

  His face was defiant. “I want to go with you.”

  “You can’t,” she told him. “Tiger and I must go on into the uplands, far beyond Reiver’s Pass. You’ll go on to Kisiri with your mother and sister.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Massou—”

  “I don’t want to.”

  The stud reached out and bit him.

  Eighteen

  It wasn’t really bad. Not much more than a nip. The stud simply reached out, caught the top of Massou’s right shoulder and bit.

  Del shouted. I swore. Massou screamed. And then punched the stud as hard as he could smack on the end of his nose.

  This reaction, of course, didn’t particularly please the stud, who—understandably startled—shied back violently and snapped reins taut; this reaction subsequently snapped my arm taut. (Hoolies, the impact nearly dislocated my elbow.) I stumbled back as the stud retreated, caught my balance with awkward effort, hung on to the reins and cursed him all the while.

  The Northern horse-master, passing by, thought it was very funny.

  Del, meanwhile, was trying to examine Massou’s shoulder, but Massou wasn’t having any of it. He cried, but silently, and the tears were from anger, not from pain or fright. His face was blotchy red. Blue eyes blazed with rage. Both hands were clenched in fists as he pulled away from Del, advancing on the stud.

  Who, of course, retreated. Since he was attached to me by virtue of the reins (and I had no intention of letting go), I also retreated. It didn’t much please me to be caught in the middle of an argument between an animal who outweighed me considerably and a boy who barely came up to my waist. It was, I felt, lacking in dignity.

  “Enough,” I said testily. “I know he bit you, Massou, and I’m sorry, but if you try to punch him again you might get hurt worse.”

  Massou spat out something angrily in indecipherable Northern, then turned on his heel and ran. Which left me facing Del.

  Warily, I waited.

  “I suppose it is too much,” she began very quietly, “to expect the horse to have manners better than the man’s.”

  Hoolies. She was blaming me. “Oh, Del—come on…how was I to know he’d take such a disliking to the boy? He never warns me about these things. He just does them.”

  Because she was so calm, the anger was emphasized. “Perhaps we might have been better off if you had lost the contest.”

  “Oh, no,” I answered instantly. “If I’d lost, the stud would be someone’s dinner.”

  Arched brows and pursed mouth told me that was precisely what she’d meant.

  I scowled back as the stud pushed muzzle against spine. “Come on, Del—”

  She cut me off easily. “I’m going to go see how Massou is. I don’t think the bite was bad, but still—”

  I waved a hand. “I know,” I said, “I know. No need to say it, bascha.”

  “Somebody has to.” She dumped harness and sheathed sword into my arms and slanted a black look at the stud. “Just keep an eye on your hor
se.”

  I sighed deeply as I watched her walk away, pushing the stud’s nibbling lips away from a harness strap. “Now you’ve gone and done it.”

  The stud chose not to answer.

  Someone stopped beside me. “I’d rather keep an eye on her.”

  It took me a moment to realize he was responding to Del’s parting comment. Which meant he’d overheard. But since we hadn’t been speaking loudly, it meant he’d done more than merely overhear. It meant he’d been listening.

  I looked. He was young, male, arrogant, sure of his strength and appeal. The kind of man I hate for a variety of reasons.

  He cast me a slanting sideways glance out of pale blue eyes, waiting for my response. Instead, I stared him down.

  It amused him. He smiled. The smile was for himself, but directed squarely at me. “Ah,” he said with irony, “the Southroner doesn’t speak Northern.”

  He used Borderer speech, not the pure upland dialect, which meant he intended me to understand him. Which meant he was looking for trouble.

  Inwardly I sighed (I wasn’t really in the mood), then mimicked his own smile pleasantly, complete with curled lip. “Only when I choose to…or when the company’s worth it.”

  The Northerner’s smile froze, flickered, then stretched wide, as pale eyes narrowed appraisingly. I’ve seen the look before; he wanted to judge my worth before initiating hostilities. “Southron—”

  “Save it,” I said briefly. “If you want to fight, we’ll fight, but we’ll do it in a circle instead of here with words. Insults waste my time, and you’re too young to be any good.”

  He stared back in shock. He was fairer even than Del, which made his hair almost white, and his eyes were the palest, iciest blue I had ever seen, fringed with equally frosty lashes. On one hand, it was incongruous; it gave him the look of youth as yet untested, when obviously he had been. On the other hand, it lent him a transparency that was almost other-worldly.