Sword-Maker(135)
I rubbed at gritty eyes. “I thought it might come to that. They can’t afford to let him live … especially if he’s rousing the warriors like this. They’ll try to kill him before he does any more harm.”
Del shook her head. “That will cause a war.”
Rhashad pursed his lips. “A small one, yes … but without the Oracle to rouse them, the tribes will never remain united. They’ll end up fighting themselves.”
“And the tanzeers will win.” I nodded. “‘So, they’re hiring sword-dancers to fill out their guard, planning to send them against the tribes.”
“Seems likely.” Rhashad drank. “I’m not an assassin. I told the tanzeer’s man I’d hire on to dance, but not to murder a holy prophet. He wasn’t interested in that, so I still don’t have a job.”
Del looked at me. “You have a job.”
“I hired on to dance,” I emphasized. “Believe me, bascha, the last thing I’d do is get myself tangled up in a holy war, or an assassination. I don’t mind risking myself in a circle—since it really isn’t a risk—” that for Rhashad’s benefit, “—but I won’t hire on to assassinate anyone. Let alone this Oracle.”
Rhashad’s blue eyes glinted. “‘A man of many parts.’”
Del frowned. “What?”
“Oh, that’s one of the things they’re saying about the jhihadi. That, and his special ‘power.’ Since nobody knows who—or what—he is, they’re making up anything.”
I looked at Del. “That’s how Abbu described Ajani.”
“Abbu described him …” Del let it go, interpreting other things. “So, Abbu knows Ajani. And does he ride with him, too? Both sides of the border?”
“I don’t think so, bascha.”
“How do you know? I danced with him; I have learned a little about him. Abbu could be—”
“—many things, but he’s not a borjuni. He’s not a murderer, or a man who sells children.” I kept my tone even. “He said he knew Ajani. He also said they were not friends. Do you claim everyone you meet as a friend? Or are they all enemies?”
Rhashad, not much of a diplomat, didn’t sense the danger. “I’m not an enemy, bascha … I’d much rather be a friend.”
Del’s tone cut through his laughter. “Do you know Ajani?”
Rhashad stared at her. Amusement died away. “I don’t know him. I know of him. What’s he to you?”
Del was very succinct. “A man I plan to kill.”
Ruddy brows arched up. “Oh, now, bascha—”
“Don’t,” I said clearly.
He is slow, but he gets there. “Oh,” he said at last. And then went off in another direction. “You danced with Abbu Bensir?”
“Sparred,” she answered briefly.
I grinned. “That’s what she calls it. Ask Abbu about it: he’ll tell you he was teaching her.”
“Abbu wouldn’t teach a woman.” Rhashad eyed her thoughtfully. “I would, though. Do you still need a shodo?”
Del’s tone was cold. “What I need is Ajani.”
I set down the jug of aqivi. “What I think you need—”
But I didn’t finish it. Something intruded.
It was, at first, unidentifiable. It was noise, nothing more; an odd, alien noise. I thought immediately of hounds, then dismissed it impatiently. It didn’t sound like that; besides, there were no hounds any more.
Rhashad stirred uneasily, leaning forward from the wall to alter posture and balance. He did it without thinking; ingrained habits die hard. “What the hoolies is that?”
I shook my head. Del didn’t move.
The noise renewed itself in the silence of the cantina. No one spoke. No one moved. All anyone did was listen.
It was a high-pitched, keening wail. It echoed in the foothills, then crept onto the plateau and into the city itself.
“Tribes,” I said intently, as the noise abruptly changed.
The keening wail altered pitch. Hundreds of voices joined in exultant ululation.
Rhashad’s eyes were fixed. “Hoolies,” he breathed in awe.
Del looked at me. “You know the tribes.”
It was an invitation to explain. But there was little I could say. “If I had to guess,” I murmured finally, “I’d say it’s the Oracle. They’re paying tribute to him … or else preparing for an attack.”
“Foolhardy,” Rhashad muttered. “They’d have to come up the rim trail. The plateau is too easy to defend.”
I flicked a glance at him. “Who’s camped at the head of that trail?”