Sword-Maker(131)

But I was already gone.

He was big. He was blond. I’d never seen him before.

Oh, hoolies, bascha … you said you wouldn’t … not with him—he wasn’t worth a circle … you said he wasn’t worth it … you said you wouldn’t do it—

Maybe it isn’t Ajani.

Don’t let this be Ajani.

As always, she’d drawn a crowd. Most were sword-dancers, which was to be expected; many were tanzeers; the rest were simply people. Southroners mostly, with a Northerner here and there.

Don’t tease him, bascha … just get it over with.

My belly knotted up. My hands itched for a sword. My eyes wanted to shut; I wouldn’t let them do it. I made myself watch.

He was not particularly good, but neither was he bad. His patterns were open and loose, lacking proper focus, but he was big enough to do damage if he ever got a stroke through. I doubted that would happen; Del’s defense is too good.

Hurry up, bascha.

I wet dry lips. Bit into a cheek. Felt the tickle of new sweat under arms and dribbling down temples.

Oh, bascha, please.

I thought again of Staal-Ysta. Of the circle. Of the dance we’d had to dance, before the watching voca. Before the eyes of her daughter. No one was there for me. No one thought of me.

Except for the woman I faced.

Then, I hadn’t felt helpless. Used, yes; tricked, certainly. But not helpless. I knew Del would never go for the kill, any more than I would. And we hadn’t; not really. That had taken the sword. A thirsty, nameless jivatma demanding to be blooded.

Now, I felt helpless. I stood on the rim of the crowd watching Del dance and was conscious only of fear. Not of her skill, not of her grace, not of her flawless patterns. Only of my fear.

Would it always be like this?

Someone moved next to me. “I taught the bascha well.”

I didn’t look. I didn’t have to. I knew the broken voice; the familiar arrogance. “She taught herself, Abbu. With help from Staal-Ysta.”

“And some from you, I think.” Abbu Bensir smiled as I chanced a quick glance at him. “I won’t deny your skill, or sully my own in the doing. We learned from the same shodo.”

I watched Del again. She had recovered quickness, timing, finesse. Her strokes were firm and sure, her patterns artlessly smooth. But she wasn’t trying to kill him.

I frowned. “Then this can’t be Ajani.”

Abbu, startled, looked at the man in the circle. “Ajani? No, that’s not. I don’t know who that is.”

I turned sharply. “You know him?”

“Ajani? Yes. He rides both sides of the border.” He shrugged. “A man of many parts.”

The phrase stopped me a moment. “A man of many parts.” I knew I’d heard it before. It had to do with the jhihadi; something the Oracle had said—

No time for that now. “Is he here? Ajani?”

Abbu shrugged. “Possibly.”

The sound of the forgotten sword-dance faded. “Abbu—is he here in Iskandar?”

Abbu Bensir looked straight at me. Saw how intent I was. “Possibly,” he repeated. “I haven’t seen him yet, but that doesn’t mean he’s not here. No more than it means he is.”

“But you’d know him if you saw him.”

Abbu frowned. “Yes. I told you; I know the man.”

“What does he look like?”

“He’s a Northerner. Blond, blue-eyed, fair … taller even than you and heavier in bone. A little older, I think. And a little younger than me.” Abbu grinned. “Do you want to ask him to dance? He’s not a sword-dancer.”

“I know what he is,” I retorted, staring grimly out at Del.

Abbu looked also. “If I see him, I’ll tell him you want him … ah—there, she’s won. And no disgrace in the doing.”

Blades clashed a final time. The Northerner, patterns destroyed, reeled out of the circle, which meant the dance was forfeit. He stood on the ruined perimeter and stared in shock at Del.

Who was, as always, contained, not glorying in her win.

Relief was a tangible thing. “I don’t want him,” I said. “And don’t tell him anything.”

Abbu studied me. “Is this an old hatred?”

Now I could give him my full attention. “I said: it isn’t anything.”

He rubbed thoughtfully at the notch in the ruined arch of his nose. “We are not friends,” he said, “this Northerner and I. I know him; that is all.”

It didn’t really matter. Even if Abbu was lying and he and Ajani were friends, advance warning would do very little. One way or another, Del and I would find him.

I looked out at Del, who was tending to her sword. “What would you call a man,” I began, “who raids the unguarded caravans of families, killing everyone he finds except those he can sell as slaves. Those who are only children, because they offer less trouble. Those who are Northern children, because they fetch a higher price on the slaveblock in the South.”