Sword-Singer Page 5

  Del hunched one shoulder almost imperceptibly—a comment; an answer to my unspoken question—and then she nodded, only once; an equally private exchange.

  She turned back. Bent over the body. I saw a hand go to his throat, catch something, snap it free. And then carefully, thoroughly, with grave deliberation, she stepped outside the circle and cleaned her blade on his burnous.

  She watched his companions as she did so, appraising the men who had so rudely done the same to her. Assessing expressions and intentions. She was not a mind reader but claimed an uncanny understanding of men. This understanding makes even me uncomfortable much of the time; I find myself carrying on conversations within my skull, answering questions and suppositions to test their validity before I give Del the chance to bestow one of her stinging rebukes.

  Del straightened. “Ajani,” she said quietly, into the waiting silence, ostensibly to all, but paying subtle attention to the four men now bereft of a fifth. “I want him. I will pay.”

  I looked at Del’s face. She hoped someone would give her the information she wanted but didn’t really expect it. Certainly not so openly, after what she had done. If anyone really knew Ajani’s whereabouts, he was likely to keep it quiet until he could talk to Del in private. Away from the four Southroners who stared at her so malignantly.

  She had silenced them all with sword-dance and invitation. But the silence lasted briefly, so briefly; before long, men were talking among themselves and trading their versions of the fight so recently witnessed. I’d seen it and heard it countless times after dances I myself had been in. But this was Del. This was a woman, a Northerner, who had so easily dispatched one of their own; who now strode calmly through the crowd into the cantina, to wait.

  So much for our early start.

  The crowd dispersed quickly enough. Most men went into the cantina to buy liquor, to discuss the sword-dance, to sneak glances at the Northern bascha. All of those men I did not detain, but as the dead man’s companions bent to remove the body, I stopped them.

  “His coin is hers,” I told them. “The custom of the circle: winner takes all.”

  It did not sit well with them. One of them—black-eyed, pock-marked, with gray-flecked dark hair—spat at my feet. The other three were pleased by it, though none of them said a word. They didn’t need to; I could see it in their eyes.

  When I did nothing, the pock-marked man called me an uncomplimentary name—something to do with having an unnatural affinity for male goats—while I merely nodded affably and bent to cut the dead man’s coin-pouch free with my knife. And then I straightened and invited each and every one of them into a circle.

  A circle; four against one.

  But they knew better. (It isn’t simple arrogance; I am that good, because I was taught by a master, and I have worked very hard at my profession for a very long time.) They knew better, and went away as I waited for their answer.

  I went in to look for Del and found her at a small table in a corner of the cantina. And not alone; it had takes less time than I had imagined to scare up the information she wanted. Also from an unexpected province: Jemina’s young man of the evening before, with the stain of a newborn mustache upon his upper lip.

  He wore a silken tunic, bright blue and sashed in jade-green, baggy jodhpurs of brilliant crimson, tucked into high black boots, and a plain saffron burnous hanging loosely open. He came to the table, clearly waiting, and in his hands was a clay jug. As I arrived the boy smiled, turned to set the jug down with a flourish, then swung back.

  And I saw beneath the thin fabric of the burnous, tucked into the belt at the small of his back, the outline of bladed, hafted weapons I could not begin to name.

  Worth watching, then, this boy.

  “Aqivi,” he said warmly, gesturing to the jug. “Much better than the house wine.”

  “Why?” Del asked flatly. “If you have information, don’t waste my time with unnecessary courtesies.”

  It took him completely off-stride. No doubt he was accustomed to his pretty looks winning almost slavish attention from cantina girls and the like; Del’s bluntness, so unexpected, was shocking. When coupled with her appearance, it is enough to strip most men of all pride entirely, reducing them to awkward silence or stammered apologies.

  The boy did not stammer, nor did he apologize. He made a fluid gesture of acquiescence and sat down. On my stool. I loomed over him pointedly; finally he glanced up at me, affecting surprised innocence. And stood up again.

  He was altogether shorter and slighter than I am, and certainly considerably younger. Around Del’s age, I thought, which put him at twenty or so. His face was at war with manhood, still showing the undefined blandness of youth while moving inexorably toward adulthood. He was quick, lithe, supple. Possibly a thief. Certainly an opportunist; he was complimenting Del on her sword skill.

  She leaned forward, resting forearms on the table. She had not put on the burnous as yet and so the arms were bare. Against the pale-gold skin, sinews twisted. The minute tensing of defined muscles was obvious, to someone who knew how to read her.

  “I am a sword-dancer,” she said coolly. “What I did to that man is part of my profession; I had better be good.” Clearly, the raider’s death had put her out of temper. Generally she gives the boys a bit more rope before she snugs the noose taut.

  Blue eyes flickered beneath black-lashed lids. The boy smiled, nodded, moistened lips, wiped palms on scarlet jodhpurs. Then he hooked thumbs into his belt and glanced at me. I had not yet seated myself. My bulk, so close, served to intimidate him a little. Not enough, however. I judged him one of those foolish youths too full of life to be much intimidated by anything—or anyone—for very long.

  “I heard what you said outside,” he told us, “about Ajani. I might be able to help.”

  “Might you?” Del’s tone was icy. “Where is he?”

  The boy unhooked his thumbs and spread nimble hands. “I am a stranger to this land and know little of place names. But I could take you there.”

  “Could you?” Del’s question was rhetorical. “For a price, of course.”

  “You did offer one.” I sat down and smiled blandly, helping myself to the aqivi the boy had so thoughtfully provided.

  “A small one,” he answered. “I want only to accompany you on your travels.”

  I set the cup down, aqivi untasted. “She has a partner,” I said distinctly.

  “Both of you!” the boy amended hastily. “With the Sandtiger and his lady.”

  The Sandtiger and his lady. Sure enough, Del was scowling at him. But before she could say anything, I motioned the boy to sit down on the sole remaining stool. His awareness of my identity put me in a magnanimous frame of mind; as soon as I could get the wine-girl to deliver a third cup, I intended the boy to share some of the aqivi.

  “You’ll take us to Ajani so long as we allow you to ride with us?” I nodded thoughtfully. “Since the only way you can lead us anywhere is to ride with us, it seem a simple bargain.”

  He settled the saffron burnous as he pulled up the stool. “I mean after,” he said.

  “Why?” Del asked.

  He shrugged, showed us both a crooked, innocent grin. “I’m a stranger here in the South…to the North, too, if we go there. If I’m to gain any fame at all, I need to know my way around. Riding with you two—”

  “Fame?” I undercut his glib explanation. “You want to be a panjandrum?”

  That earned me blank stares from both of them.

  “Panjandrum,” I repeated. “A man of repute.”

  The boy thought it over. A slow smile spread. “Panjandrum,” he echoed. “I like it.” He nodded, trying it on for size. “A man of repute.”

  “That’s the polite definition.” I scratched the scars on my cheek. “I won’t bother to give you the others since you’re so taken with the word.”

  “Panjandrum,” he murmured thoughtfully.

  I sighed and sucked aqivi. Del scowled.

  “Yes,”
he said. “Bellin the Cat, a panjandrum.”

  “Bellin the Cat?” I was startled, wondering if his foolish quest for glory and fame had led him to adopt a name similar to my own. Or, more precisely, to my animal namesake.

  “Bellin.” He smiled and waved a hand vaguely in a southerly direction. “I’ve been at sea for most of my life, sailing here and there. I thought it was time I discovered what it meant to be a landlubber.”

  “And you picked the South?” I could think of more hospitable places.

  He shrugged. “Seemed likely enough.”

  Which meant he’d had little choice in the matter. I nodded and drank more aqivi.

  “Bellin the Cat,” Del said quietly. “Why do you wish to become a—” she paused, fitting the strange Southron word to her Northern tongue “—panjandrum?”

  “Always have.” His grin and good spirits were infectious. “A man should make his mark some way…insure his place among other men—and women.” He shrugged again, rippling saffron silk. “I figure if I’m going to be here anyway, I may as well do what I can to make sure I’m a somebody.”

  Her tone was infinitely bland. “A humble man might prefer differently.”

  “A humble man would,” Bellin agreed equably. “But no one of my acquaintance would ever lumber me with that description.”

  At least he was an honest blowhard. “Then why not go out and earn your fame?” I asked. “Why attach yourselves to us?”

  He spread supple hands. “What’s the sense in struggling and scraping and suffering if there’s no need for it? Riding with the Sandtiger and his lady, I’m almost guaranteed to become a panjandrum long before I would otherwise.” His smile was disarming. “Can you blame me for trying to take advantage of an opportunity?”

  “I am not the Sandtiger’s lady,” Del said crossly. “My name is Del. I have business with Ajani. Do you know where he is?”

  Bellin chose the diplomatic answer. “It should not be difficult to find him.”

  “Oh?” Pale brows rose. “Then I suggest you do so. Now.” She flicked fingers in eloquent dismissal.

  “But—”

  “Better go.” I raised my cup in tribute. “Thanks for the aqivi.”

  With grave dignity the boy rose, shook out the folds of his burnous, took himself elsewhere. Again I saw the line of oddly-shaped weapons tucked into his belt.

  Del contemplated me across the table. Her expression was pensive as she slowly poured herself a cup of aqivi.

  “Think he knows?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Think we’ll see him again?”

  Her eyes were limpid. “If he lacks the information I want, we’d better not.” She drank, made a moue of distaste. “I have no patience for fools or would-be panjandrums.”

  I laughed and poured my cup full again of the would-be panjandrum’s aqivi.

  Five

  Without consulting me (of course), Del changed her mind. We would not leave Harquhal, she told me, until the next morning; she wanted to wait a night to see if anyone came forward with genuine information about Ajani.

  I agreed readily enough. Del had made up her mind, and I didn’t much feel like arguing it with her. For one, it was nice to sleep in a real bed again, and to drink among men in a Southron cantina, knowing with the dawn I would leave such comforts behind. For another, it wasn’t difficult to look at things from Del’s point of view. A band of Southron raiders had overrun her family’s caravan along the border, brutally killing everyone save Del and her youngest brother. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what the raiders had done to Del or Jamail before she had escaped; in her place, I’d be as dedicated to revenge. She wanted Ajani, the leader, and I wasn’t about to try to dissuade her.

  The day was not as tedious as it might have been; Del was quiet enough, lost in private thoughts, but now that our names were known—thanks to Del’s identification of me and a gregarious Bellin the Cat—men came around to ask me about my exploits. Del they pretty much ignored, being indisposed to give a woman credit for killing one of their own in a circle—which has been, heretofore, a strictly male province—but they were chatty enough with me. Before long I was the center of attention, swilling free aqivi and explaining how it was I’d come to be the best sword-dancer in the South.

  (Other Southron sword-dancers might argue the fact, but I wasn’t about to so long as these generous individuals felt like buying me drinks. Besides, it probably is true, Del’s skill notwithstanding; and anyway, she’s a Northerner.)

  Come nighttime, nothing much changed, although aqivi and wine flowed more heavily, and the stories got more convoluted even as I told them. And I was aware, very aware, of Bellin’s smiling face at the edges of the crowd. He watched me, he watched the others, clearly enjoying vicariously what he wanted to badly to experience himself: fame.

  I could have told him fame was not the name of the game. Survival is. I never knew who I might meet in the circle or when, and I certainly never knew what the outcome might be. I am good, very good, but I am also a realist. Any man can be defeated, depending on myriad circumstances.

  Talk eventually turned to Del, in a sideways sort of way. No one wanted to say much about her, although the undertones were quite distinct. They all wanted to know how the Sandtiger had come to be riding with a Northern bascha who called herself a sword-dancer, even though such a thing was tantamount to blasphemy.

  I did not tell them everything. I told them enough. Enough to pique their interest and cause them to wonder if indeed the Northern bascha was as good as she appeared. I felt it was self-evident, but no man changes his attitude overnight. Not even me. And the gods knew I had reason enough to know better, with Del sharing both bed and profession, not to mention lifestyle.

  And so I gave them a little to chew on, knowing full well they would dream of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman when they crawled into bed that night. Thinking of that very thing, I wondered if perhaps it wasn’t time I did a little crawling into bed myself.

  With Del, of course, which was a whole lot better than being permitted only to dream about her.

  Except that it appeared I might be limited to that after all; Del had disappeared. Somewhere between the first jug of aqivi and the last, my Northern bascha had vanished.

  I went outside the cantina into the night. Torchlight cast eerie shadows along the wall and made black pockets out of corners, turnings, alleyways. It was not incredibly late. Passersby were frequent. In the distance I heard the watch calling out the time; the ninth hour after midday. And then I heard the step behind me.

  “A full life, Sandtiger.” Bellin moved to stand at my left. “Maybe someday…”

  “Maybe someday you’ll be an old man, and die in bed.” I didn’t smile at him, because the topic wasn’t particularly amusing. “A man tells stories to please his audience, and embellishes them as he goes.”

  “Then none of them are true?”

  “True enough.” I barely glanced at him. “I don’t lie, Bellin. Lies cause trouble.”

  Somewhat ruefully, he scratched at the smudge of mustache. “I know about that well enough.” He grinned. “More aqivi?”

  “No more room.” I set my right shoulder against the vertical support post nearest me and leaned, squinting at him. “What do you want, Bellin the Cat?”

  “I told you. To travel with you.”

  “Del and I ride alone.”

  “I wouldn’t be in the way.”

  I grunted. “What we do isn’t for fun or fame, boy. It’s our profession.”

  “I know that. I am not without some intelligence.” His smile took the delicate rebuke out of his words. “You could give me a chance just to see.”

  I sighed. “You’re not from around these parts. Do you even know what a sword-dancer is?”

  Bellin’s white teeth flashed. “That all depends,” he said lightly. “Some of them, maybe most of them, are honorable folk who take pride in their work. But others, I think, are no better than, say�
�” His smile broadened, hooked down wryly at one end “—a pirate.”

  I frowned. “What’s a pirate?”

  He blinked. Considered the best answer a moment. Then nodded slightly, lifting one shoulder in an eloquent shrug. “A man who sails the oceans and—” he paused, “—salvages what others neglect to adequately protect.”

  “Ah.” I nodded. “A borjuni, we’d say, in the Punja, depending on the ferocity employed. Up here, so close to the border, the best word might be thief.”

  Bellin laughed. “Might be,” he conceded, not in the least nonplussed by my frankness.

  “Sword-dancing is a bit different,” I pointed out. “We’re not exactly out to steal an opponent’s wealth.”

  “No. Just his life.” Bellin sighed and gazed upward at the moon, a blade-sharp crescent setting the walls aglow. “I’m not a pirate anymore.”

  “But still a thief.”

  He blinked at me, all innocence. “I’d rather be a panjandrum.”

  I couldn’t help myself; I laughed. Bellin the Cat was about the most engaging and unaffected individual I’d ever met, especially considering what he chased invited affectation. I looked at him sidelong. Young, ages younger than myself, but then I felt downright elderly at times, with Del around.

  And that reminded me: she wasn’t.

  Bellin saw my frowning search of the immediate area. “She said she’d be back soon.”

  That snapped my head around. “What?”

  Obligingly, he repeated the statement.

  I scowled. “She told you that?”

  He scratched his chin. “You weren’t listening.”

  “That’s a load of—” But I broke it off, because basically it was true.

  “She said she’d go back to the inn, stable the horses, then come after you.”

  Come after me. Come after me, like a mother sending her tardy child home.

  Balefully, I scowled at him. A very cool young man, was Bellin, so blithe with his information. “Do you know anything about Ajani?”