Sword-Maker(115)

“Chosa Dei imprisoned him.”

“And he imprisoned Chosa. But Chosa’s out now—sort of—and maybe Shaka is, too. He could be the jhihadi. He could be the man the Oracle’s spouting about.”

Del considered it. “If he is—”

“—then he owes me.”

She raised a skeptical brow. “And you think he’d be so grateful he’d do you a special favor.”

“Chosa Dei was on the verge of destroying the wards. He had who knows how many jivatmas he was collecting magic from, as well as a few other tricks. Given a bit more time—or your sword—he’d have broken through. I may have sucked him into my sword, but at least he’s not roaming free. If I were Shaka Obre, I’d be grateful to me.”

Del sighed wearily. “It makes as much sense as anything else.”

“And if this jhihadi isn’t Shaka Obre, what does it matter? He might still have the ability to discharge my jivatma.”

She glanced at the tightly rolled bundle. The sword was completely hidden. “It deserves to die,” she said flatly.

“I sort of thought you’d agree … once you saw my point.” I resettled the harness and turned toward the door. “Do you have plans for today?”

“Seeking out word of Ajani.”

Something pinched my belly. “But not the man himself.”

Del shook her head. “I need to learn about him. I need to learn who he is; what makes him think. It’s been six years, and I never really knew him. Just what he’d done.” She shrugged. “I need to see him without him seeing me. Then I will talk to my sword.”

“You don’t mean—ask for your focus again? Now?”

Del smiled. “You had last night, didn’t you?”

“We had last night. And I’d like for it to continue.”

The smile went away. She was calm, controlled, committed. “It will … if I win.”

I left the stud behind because trying to pick my way on horseback through the increasing throngs of people would try my patience, and might even result in a fight if the stud decided to protest. And besides, you can overhear gossip better if you’re on foot with everyone else; if I wanted to learn the latest about the Oracle or the jhihadi, I’d do better to mix with the others.

By the time I’d fought my way through the alleys, streets and bazaar, I knew a little more. The Oracle, it was said, was busily foretelling the jhihadi’s arrival soon. Of course, soon is relative; by oracular reckoning, it still might take a year. And I sincerely doubted anyone would wait that long.

But the Oracle was also foretelling a few other things. He was mentioning specifics, things about the messiah. Things like power: a power newly gained. A revelation of identity: a man of many parts. And an unwavering commitment to make the South what it was.

No wonder the tanzeers were worried.

I approached the tribe side of the city with a twinge of foreboding. Generally an individual tribe, on its own, can be dealt with one way or another, through trades, gifts, agreements. Some tribes, like the Hanjii and the Vashni, tend to be a bit more hostile, and are generally avoided. Except when you’re riding through the Punja—where the tribes, being nomads, go wherever they feel—sometimes it’s hard to avoid them. But it was very unusual to have so many different tribes all clustered together. It changed the rules of the game.

I wasn’t certain my visit would do any good. For one thing, the Salset might not be present. For another—even if they were—they might simply ignore me. The adults all knew very well what I’d been. And none of them let me forget it.

Certainly not the shukar, who had his reasons for hating me. But maybe he was dead. If the old man was dead, I might have an easier time.

But the old man wasn’t dead.

I found the Salset mostly by accident. After picking my way through goats, sheep, danjacs, children, dogs, and chickens, winding through the clusters of hyorts and wagons, I came to the end of the hyort settlement beside the city. I wavered uncertainly a moment, thinking about approaching another tribe, then swung around to go back. And saw a familiar red hyort staked out beside a wagon.

The Salset had settled behind a cluster of blue-green Tularain hyorts. Since there were more of the Tularain, it wasn’t surprising the Salset were hard to see. So I wound my way through the Tularain cluster, then stopped at the shukar’s hyort.

He was sitting on a blanket in front of his open doorflap. His white hair was thinning; his teeth were mostly gone; his eyes were filmed and blind. Not much life left in the old man. But he knew me anyway, the moment I said a word.

“We gave you horses,” he snapped. “We tended your ailing woman. We gave you food and water. You have no more claim on us.”