Sword-Maker(153)

“Thank you,” Ajani said. “You made it easy for me.”

I sucked in a breath, trying to hold off disorientation. “You don’t know what you have. You don’t know what that sword is.”

Ajani’s voice was smooth. Incongruously soft. “Oh, I think I do. People are talking about it … even my own men, who saw what you did with it and remembered what the boy said.” The smile was brief, but warm. “I know what a jivatma is. I knew what to do with the name. It will be very useful for a man just named jhihadi.”

I kept my tone steady. “If your men were there, you know. You know what else it can do. What it can do to you.”

All around us the people fled.

Ajani lifted the sword. I thought about what it would be like for Chosa Dei to have me at last. And what it would be like when he—in my skin—tore Ajani to pieces.

It might be interesting. But I’d rather just be me.

Beyond me, Alric shouted. Said something about men: borjuni.

I looked only at Ajani, who held my jivatma.

And then heard Delilah’s song, cutting through the circle.

Oh, bascha, bascha. Here is your chance at last.

The song rose in pitch. The circle was filled with Northern light so bright even Ajani squinted.

I pointed a courteous finger toward the woman who approached. Politely, I told Ajani, “Someone wants to see you.”

By the time he turned, she was on him.





Seventeen




I knew she should be tired, after dancing with Abbu. But this was Ajani at last; I knew it didn’t matter. Del could be on her deathbed and Ajani would get her off it.

So she could put him on his.

She drove him back, back, into the crowd; the crowd scrambled away. And then surged close again, surrounding Alric and me, murmuring about the jhihadi and the woman who tried to kill him.

Hoolies, they believed it! They thought he was the jhihadi!

Which meant if Del killed him, the crowd would tear her apart.

“Don’t kill him,” I said. “Oh, bascha, be careful—think about what you’re doing.”

I didn’t expect an answer. Del didn’t give me one.

They’d kill her. They’d shred her to little pieces.

Bascha, don’t kill him.

Unless I could get to Jamail. But I knew better than to try. I could barely stand, jostled this way and that. And even if I could, the Vashni would kill me outright for daring to approach their Oracle, no matter what the reason. Already things had gone wrong; the Oracle had spoken, and a woman was trying to thwart him.

The Oracle’s own sister.

Jamail, remember me?

No. He’d only seen me once.

Jamail, remember your sister?

But between Jamail and his sister were hundreds of Southerners: tanzeers, sword-dancers, tribesmen. Even the Oracle might have trouble getting through the crowd, now the jhihadi was named.

Jamail no longer mattered. His part in the game was done.

The crowd closed up tight. Hoolies, Del, where are you?

The crowd abruptly parted.

“Tiger—down—”

Alric’s hand on my harness jerked me to the ground. Then his sword was out and slicing through someone’s guts.

What?

What?

Ajani’s fellow borjuni. Now become holy bodyguards warding the jhihadi.

Oh, hoolies—not now. My head hurts too much and my eyes won’t focus.

I rolled through screening legs, scrabbling away, cursing as fingers got stepped on. Wished I had a sword.

Above me, battle commenced. Alric was all alone.

Hoolies, where’s Del?

And then I saw the light. Heard the whistle of the storm. Felt the sting of flying dust. With the power of jivatmas, they built a private circle. They created a fence of magic made of light and heat and cold.

“I need a sword,” I muttered, staggering to my feet.

In the circle, the wind howled. Ajani had my sword.

“Tiger! Tiger—here!”

I turned; caught the weapon. An old, well-known blade. I stared in muddled surprise.

Through the brief gap, Abbu Bensir grinned. “You’re mine,” he called, “not theirs.” And was swallowed by the crowd.

More of the new jhihadi’s borjuni friends arrived with weapons drawn. Alric and I didn’t count them; we knew they outnumbered us. But we also knew how to dance. All they knew was how to kill.

Time. Too much, and the tribes would reach the circle Del shared with Ajani. They couldn’t break through until the dance was done and the magic muted, but in the end they’d reach her. In the end they’d kill her.

If she was still alive.

Too much time, and Ajani’s borjuni bodyguards would wear down Alric and me. Too little, however, and we might be able to get away, if we had a bit of luck.

Luck decided to call.

“Duck,” a voice suggested. I didn’t wait; I ducked. The thrown ax divided a head.