Sword-Maker(132)

Abbu looked also, and for a long time. Dark eyes were fathomless, masking what he thought. When he did speak, his voice held no emotion. “What I would call him doesn’t matter; what matters is what I call her.”

Something moved deep in my belly. “And what is that, Abbu?”

“Sword-dancer,” he said huskily, then shouldered his way through the crowd.

I turned back, intending to go to Del; was stopped by a hand on my shoulder. “Sandtiger!” the hand’s owner cried. “I didn’t know you had a son. Why didn’t you tell me? And such a fine speaker, too—the boy was born to be a skjald.”

Red hair, blue eyes, flowing mustaches. “Rhashad,” I said blankly. Then, with exceptional clarity, “Where—is—he?”

He jerked a thumb. “Over in that cantina. He’s right in the middle of a story about his father, the South’s greatest sword-dancer … I didn’t offer to argue, since the boy’s proud of you, but he might recall there is me, after all, and Abbu Bensir—”

I cut him off. “—and your mother, no doubt.” I scowled briefly out at Del, who was taking her own sweet time. “Over in that cantina, you say … ? Well, I think it’s time I met this son.” I sucked air. “Del!”

She heard me. Saw me. Made her way across the circle. Her face was a trifle flushed and pale hair was damp at the temples, but she appeared no worse for wear. “What is it?” she asked quietly, as if to reprove me for noise.

I had no time for it. “Come on. Rhashad says this fool who’s been going around telling everyone he’s my son is over in that cantina.” I waved a hand in the proper direction.

Del looked over at it. “Go ahead,” she suggested. “I have to claim my winnings.”

“Can’t they wait?”

“Yours never do.”

Rhashad beamed at Del. “Won the dance, did you? A delicate girl like you?”

Del, who is not precisely delicate, knew the manner for what it was. And since she liked Rhashad—don’t ask me why—she was less inclined to argue. “I won,” she agreed. “Do you want to dance with me next?”

Blue eyes widened. “Against you? Never! I’d hate to crack those fragile bones.”

Del showed him her teeth. “My bones are very hardy.”

“Talk about your bones some other time,” I suggested. “Are you coming with me?”

“No,” Del said. “I told you that already. Go ahead; I’ll catch up.”

Rhashad made a grand gesture. “I’ll show her the way.”

Hoolies, it wasn’t worth it. I went off to see my son.

The cantina was small. It was, after all, culled from the rest of the ruined city, which meant it offered little in the way of amenities. There was a makeshift blanket roof, which gave its customers shade in which to drink, but that was about it.

I lingered in the doorway, looking for my son.

Dark-haired, blue-eyed, nineteen or twenty. Who couldn’t ride very well, judging by his mount. Who didn’t carry a sword, having a tongue instead, and liking to use it more than was good for him.

Not much to go on. But I thought it would do, under the circumstances.

There were men gathered in the cantina. No chairs, but hastily-cobbled stools and benches were scattered about the room. In the center, on a stool, sat a man with his back to the door; never a good thing. But plainly he wasn’t concerned about who might come through. He had an audience.

The voice was young and accented. He obviously reveled in the attention his story gained; everyone was enthralled. “—and so I, too, found myself the destroyer of a great cat, just as my father was, the Sandtiger—you all know of him—and so I marked my victory by taking the cat’s claws and making myself this necklace.” A hand went to his neck, rattled something briefly. “It was, I thought, a most opportune and appropriate meeting between this great cat and the Sandtiger’s cub—such is in the blood—and when at last I meet my father I will be most pleased to show him the claws and tell him what I’ve done. Surely he will be proud.”

The listeners nodded as one: surely the Sandtiger would be.

Except I wasn’t. Not proud. What I was, was—hoolies, I don’t know what I was. I felt very odd.

“Of course,” the boy added, “I kept my face pretty.”

The men in the cantina laughed.

Is this my son? I wondered. Could I have sired this mouth?

I left the door and moved quietly into the room, saying nothing, pausing behind the young man. There wasn’t much to see: dark brown hair brushing his shoulders; a vivid green-striped burnous; eloquent, graceful hands of a different color than mine. He was tanned, yes, but the sun marked him differently. Darker than a Northerner. Lighter than a Southroner; lighter even than me. And there was the foreign accent, coloring his Southron.