Sword-Maker(119)

“My own sword broke. This was loaned to me.”

“A Vashni never loans his sword.”

“He does if he’s dead,” I snapped. “Call it a permanent loan.”

Clearly the warrior had not expected such a response. Vashni are accustomed to cowing frightened people into instant acquiescence, and I wasn’t cooperating. He glared at me through the rain, then glanced past me to the others. One hand was near his knife; was the insult enough to repay? Or would he have to work harder?

Deep inside, anger rose. Instinctively I called to memory my recollection of our immediate surroundings and situation: tribal hyorts clustered but a pace or two away—rain-slick ground—poor footing—no sword—four Vashni—no support—the city entrance ten paces away—chickens and dogs and goats—

And then something occurred to me. It made me forget about fighting. “What part of the South are you from?”

The arched nose rose. “Vashni are from everywhere. The South is ours to hold.”

“So the Oracle says.” I smiled insincerely. “But it isn’t yours quite yet, so why don’t you answer my question?”

He contemplated my attitude. “Answer mine,” he countered. “Why does it matter to you?”

“Because the mountain Vashni down near Julah have been ‘hosting’ someone I know. I just wondered if you knew him.”

He spat into the mud. “I know no foreigners.”

I continued anyway. “He’s a Northerner—blond, blue-eyed, fair … he’s also castrate and mute, thanks to Julah’s former tanzeer.” I shrugged offhandedly so my real concern wouldn’t show, which might give them a weapon. “His Northern name was Jamail. He’s sixteen now.”

He assessed me. Black eyes didn’t blink. “Is this boy kin to you?”

I could have said no, and been truthful. But lying has its uses; in this case, I’d get my answer. “I’m blood-bonded to his sister.”

Kinship. Such a simple, obvious key to unlock Vashni secrets. To force the warrior’s hand.

He looked past me again to the others. But I knew he’d have to tell me what he knew, no matter how he felt. They are a fierce, ferocious tribe, but the Vashni have their weaknesses just like anyone else. In this case, it was kinship. They won’t tolerate bastards or half-bloods, but full-birth kinship or blood-bond takes precedence over pride.

His eyes were not kind. “There was such a boy.”

“A Northern boy—sixteen?”

“He was as you describe.”

I kept my voice even. “You said ‘was’?”

The Vashni didn’t play diplomat to try to soften the blow. “The Northern boy is dead. This is a holy war, Southron—we must purge our people of impurities to prepare for the jhihadi.”

I tried not to think of Jamail—or Del—as my own contempt flowered. “Is that what the Oracle said?”

I expected offense to be taken. I expected to have to fight. But the Vashni warrior smiled.

It was open, unaffected, and utterly genuine. Then he turned and went into the rain.

How do I tell Del? How in hoolies do I tell her? Sula’s gone, chula. Salvation no longer exists.

How am I to tell her she’s the only one left of her blood?

How do you thank Sula for all that she was and did?

I can’t just walk into our borrowed bedroom and say: “Your brother’s dead, bascha.”

You can’t go to the gods of valhail and ask to have Sula back.

It would kill her. Or get her killed; she’d immediately go after Ajani.

How do you tell a childless woman that she still gave birth to a son?

She’s only just now coming to realize there’s more to life than revenge.

How do you tell a dead woman she’s the one who gave you life?

Is her freedom worth the price?

Is my freedom worth the price?

∗ ∗ ∗

Something was wrong. I knew it immediately as I got closer to the house Del and I shared with Alric and his brood. There is a feeling, a sound … when a crowd gathers to witness death, everybody knows.

Too much dying, I thought. First Sula, then Jamail—who was dying now?

The death-watch was on. It took all I had to break through, trying to reach the house. And then all I had to stop.

Oh, gods—oh—hoolies—

All the hairs stood up on my body. My belly began to churn. The street stank of magic.

Oh, hoolies—no—

Someone had my jivatma.

No—my jivatma had him.

But I put it away. I wrapped it up, set it aside, put it away—

And someone had stolen it.

Now it was stealing him.

He dug in mud with his feet. Sprawled on his back, he dug. Because the blade had gone in at his belly and threaded its way through his ribs to peek out at the top of a shoulder.