Sword-Maker(108)

I wanted to touch her, but couldn’t. It would only make things worse.

“For someone else, you won’t be.” I turned and went out of the house.





Four




Sarad the swordsmith was one-eyed. The blind eye was puckered closed behind a shrunken lid. The good eye was black. Matching hair was twisted into a single braid and bound in dyed orange leather at the back of his neck. He wore an ocher-colored burnous and a leather belt plated with enameled copper disks. The colors were bright and varied.

Sarad showed me his smile. He sat cross-legged on a blanket with swords set out before him. Steel glowed sullenly in the dying light of the day. “These are my best,” he said. “I can make better, of course … but that would take time. Have you the time to spare?”

Well, yes and no. I could spare the time for him to make a blade to order, but only if I was willing to use my jivatma in the meantime.

Squatting across from Sarad, I thought about Kem, the swordsmith on Staal-Ysta. It had taken days to fashion Samiel, and with my help. But mostly because of rituals; Kem rushed nothing. And while Sarad probably wouldn’t hurry either—not if he wanted to forge a good sword—he had no elaborate rituals to eat away extra hours.

The swords all looked fine. They felt fine, too; I’d already handled six, trying them out on simple and intricate patterns. Two had a balance I found to my liking, but they were only halfway measures. I’d spent more than half of my life using a sword made specifically for me. I didn’t like the idea of dancing with a readymade blade created for anyone with the coin to buy it.

But I liked even less the idea of dancing with Chosa Dei lying in wait in my steel.

Sarad gestured, indicating a sword. “I would be pleased to offer the Sandtiger my best at a very good price.”

I shook my head. “Your best isn’t here. Your best is still in your hands.”

Something glittered in his eye. “Of course. A sword-dancer such as yourself appreciates true skill and creativity; I can make you a perfect sword. All I require is time.”

I picked up one of the two swords I thought would do. The steel was clean and smooth, with keen, bright edges. It had the proper weight, the proper flex, the proper grip, the proper promise.

“This one,” I said finally.

Sarad named his price.

I shook my head. “Too much.”

“It comes with a scabbard—see? And I am a master, Sandtiger—”

“But this isn’t the best you can do. Do you expect me to pay full price?”

He thought it over. Considered what it might do for business if the Sandtiger carried his sword. Named a lower price.

I counted out the coin.

Sarad pocketed it. “Have you a tanzeer yet?”

“Not yet. Why?”

The swordsmith gestured casually. “I have heard tanzeers are looking for sword-dancers.”

“I heard that, too.” I frowned a little. “Do you know why the tanzeers are hiring so many all at once?”

Sarad shrugged. “I hear things … things about the tribes, and the jhihadi.” He glanced around, then looked back at me. “I think the tanzeers are afraid. So they unite in the face of a powerful enemy and hire men to fight.”

I looked at Sarad gravely. “If this rumor is true, it would indicate the tanzeers believe this jhihadi exists —or will exist. And I’ve never known tanzeers to believe in much of anything except their own greed.”

Sarad shrugged. “It’s what I have heard.” He eyed me thoughtfully. “I thought surely a man such as the Sandtiger would be sought by many, and hired immediately.”

I sheathed the new-bought sword and thought about how best to attach it to my harness, specifically made for another sword. “I only got here at midday.”

“Then you are slow.” Sarad smiled. “Your son arrived a week ago.”

I stiffened. “Where is this person?”

He shrugged. “I’ve seen him here and there. He visits the circles, lingers, then goes to the cantinas.”

“Which ones?”

A flick of his hand. “That one. And that one. And the other one street over. There are many cantinas here. Sword-dancers like to drink.”

I rose. “I think it’s about time I paid ‘my son’ a visit.”

“He will like that,” Sarad said. “He’s very proud of you.”

I grunted and walked away.

He had, I’d been told, an old gray mare with a white splash on her face and three white legs. He was dark-haired and blue-eyed. Young; maybe eighteen or nineteen. No sword. A necklet of claws at his throat. And a tongue busy with my name. All of which meant it shouldn’t be hard to find him.