Sword-Maker(53)

“You’ll get your amnit. You’ll even get your bed. As to the warmth of it, that will depend on how many women you put in it.”

I grunted. I was so full of bruises, bites, scrapes, scratches and claw scores I doubted I could provide much pleasure for a bedpartner. Especially since what I most wanted to do was sleep.

“The meal first,” Del reminded, as my eyes drooped closed. “It’s a celebration.”

“Can’t they celebrate without me?”

“No. Then they would have no one for whom to sing their song of salvation and gratitude.”

I grunted again. “There’s you.”

“But I didn’t kill Chosa Dei.”

“You killed half the hounds.”

“Who once were villagers.” Del’s tone was serious. “I think we need not tell that part of the story. Let them think the hounds simply killed their kinfolk, instead of being remade into beasts who killed more people, including kin and friends.” She stroked hair from her eyes. “It would be a kindness.”

It would also be a lie, but one I understood. “Give me the tunics, then, so we can go get some food. My belly’s screaming at me.”

Del handed me first the undertunic of soft-combed undyed wool; then, as I dragged it on, she presented the green overtunic. It rattled with intricate beadwork: bronze, copper, and amber.

“This is too much,” I muttered. “He’s giving away his best.”

“A measure of his respect and gratitude.” Del’s tone, as it can be, was bland.

Frustrated, I glared at her. “I would have come anyway. It had nothing to do with Ysaa-den or their troubles; it had to do with the hounds. If they’d gone somewhere else, I’d have gone somewhere else.”

“But they didn’t, and neither did you.” Del got up slowly, suppressing a wince of discomfort. She wore her sword as usual, hanging in harness across her back. “They’re waiting for us, Tiger. We’re the guests of honor.”

I frowned, rising carefully. Little by little I was losing my links with the South. First Singlestroke, broken fighting Theron. Then my Southron silks and gauzes, traded for Northern leather and fur. And lastly my harness, discarded in Chosa Dei’s mountain. Bit by bit by bit, scattered along the way.

I gathered up my jivatma, lacking sheath as well as harness, and followed Del out of the lodge. There was nothing, nothing about her even remotely Southron. Northern bascha to the bone, no matter where she was. I was being altered, while Del remained the same.

Time to go home, I said.

But I said it to myself.

Hot food, fiery amnit, and warm wishes all conspired to make it extremely difficult for me to stay awake during the celebratory meal. The evening air was growing chilly, but in addition to new wool clothing I also wore two pelts. I sat like a furry lump on yet a third pelt, managing to keep my eyes open a slit as Halvar regaled—in uplander—the village with my exploits.

Well, our exploits; Del was not left out.

“Stay awake,” she hissed, sitting on the pelt next to mine.

“I’m trying. Hoolies, bascha—what do you expect? Aren’t you tired after everything we did?”

“No,” she answered cruelly. “I’m too young for it.”

I chose to ignore that, since I knew very well she was lying. Maybe she wasn’t yet sleepy, but certainly she was sore. It showed in all her movements. It showed when she sat very still. “How much longer do we have to sit out here?”

“Until the celebration is finished.” Del watched Halvar, half-following his words even as she spoke to me. “We’ve eaten, and now Halvar’s retelling the story. Once that’s done, they’ll all sing a song of deliverance. Then everyone will sit around retelling the story, marveling at the accomplishment, and drink to your health.” She paused, observing me. “But since, from the look of you, I doubt you can manage that, you’ll probably be able to slip away.”

I nodded, stifling a yawn. It took all the strength I had.

Halvar said something to Del, glanced past her to me—Del had wound up beside the headman to translate—and repeated to me whatever it was he’d said to Del, just to be polite. I caught one word out of twenty: song.

I nodded. “Sing, then. I’m listening.”

Del slanted me a disapproving glance, then spoke briefly to Halvar. In response the headman grinned, turned to the gathered villagers all wrapped in warmest furs, and announced something. Yet again I saw musical instruments brought out.

I sat there with a polite smile pasted onto my face and tried to look interested as Ysaa-den launched into song. My own bout with singing in order to defeat Chosa Dei had not resulted in improved comprehension or appreciation; it all sounded like noise to me, though admittedly with a pattern. I suppose it was even pretty, if you like that kind of thing.