Sword-Maker(156)

“Sorry, Esnat,” I mumbled. “I think Hadjib will get his war.”

Samiel, I knew, was the answer … before they got to Del.

Bellin got there first. “Don’t touch it!” I shouted.

He dove, thrust out with his axes, scooped up the blade. As I took an unsteady stride—Del and I were a pair—the sword came flying to me. I plucked it out of the air.

Southroners stirred, shouted. They saw the headless jhihadi; the woman with the sword; the Sandtiger with another. And a foreign boy with axes.

Bellin grinned at me. “Do something,” he called. “You’re supposed to be good with that thing.”

Do something?

Fine.

How about a song?

The crowd surged forward en masse. But I cut the air with a reblackened sword and the crowd lurched back again. Across from me stood Alric, teasing the air with his swordtip. Promising violence.

Alric. Bellin. Me. And Del, but she was down. For now we had stopped the crowd, but that wouldn’t last long. We needed more help.

Samiel might give it. All I had to do was sing.

Sing. I hate singing. But how else do you call the magic?

Bellin juggled axes. It was an impressive feat; also a useful one. They’d all seen how he used them. Everyone hung back as Bellin moved easily around Del and me, building a fence of flying axes.

“Just curious,” he mentioned, “but why are you singing now? Especially when you do it so badly?”

I just kept on singing. Or whatever you want to call it.

“Jivatma,” Alric said briefly, as if it answered the question. For some, it might; for Bellin, it answered nothing.

“Get Del,” I said, and went right back to my song. Samiel seemed to like it.

Behind us, far behind us, the ululation increased. The tribes were coming in.

We edged toward the city. Hoolies, if they got through they’d cut us down in a minute. Samiel would take a few, but eventually we’d lose just because of sheer numbers.

Bellin, being helpful, started to sing along. He had a better voice, but he didn’t know my song.

Samiel didn’t seem to mind.

“Alric—have you got Del?”

“I’ve got her, Tiger … come on, we’ve got to go.”

“Tiger?” It was Del. “Tiger—that was Jamail.”

The keening wail increased. Moving this slowly wouldn’t gain us any time. We needed something special.

All right, I said to my sword, let’s see what you can do.

I thrust it into the air over my head, balanced flat across both palms, as I’d seen Del do. And I sang my heart out—loudly, and very badly—until the firestorm came.

It licked out from the blade, flowed down my body, spilled across the ground. I sent it in all directions, teasing at feet and robes. It drove everyone back: tanzeers, tribesmen, borjuni.

Magic, I thought, can be useful.

I called up a blast of wind, a hot, dry wind born of the Punja itself. It tasted at sand and sucked it up, then spat it at the people.

The tribes, if no one else, would know what it was. Would call it samiel, and give way to its strength. You can’t fight the desert when it rises up to rebel.

“Go home!” I shouted. “He was a false jhihadi! He was a Northerner—is that what you want?”

In the sandblast, they staggered back. Tribesmen, borjuni, tanzeers; the samiel knows no rank.

“Go home!” I shouted. “It’s not the proper time!”

The wail of the storm increased.

“Now,” I said to the others, as the crowd, shouting, scattered.

I peeled the storm apart, forming a narrow channel. With alacrity, we departed.

Garrod met us with horses: the stud, and Del’s blue roan, “Go,” he said succinctly. “They’re watered and provisioned; don’t waste any time.”

The thought of riding just now did not appeal to me. My head was not very happy. “He’ll dump me, or kick me again.”

“No, I’ve spoken to him. He understands the need.”

It was, I thought in passing, a supremely ridiculous statement. He was horse, not human.

Ah, hoolies, who cares? If Garrod said he would … I pushed away a damp muzzle come questing for reassurance.

Del sheathed her sword. “Jamail,” was all she said.

That decided me. “Don’t be sandsick,” I snapped. “Jamail’s the Oracle; do you think anyone will hurt him?”

“I thought he was dead, and he’s not.”

“So be happy about it. Let’s go.”

Garrod handed her reins. “Waste no time,” he repeated. “I can hold the other horses, but not for very long. There are far too many of them … the sandstorm will only delay them, not stop them—once they’ve recovered their courage they’ll come after you again. If you want a head start, go.”