Sword-Maker(61)

“You want to kill him. Ajani’s not my problem. My problem, right now, is finding a man who can give me exactly what I want in the way of a proper harness.”

Which had led me to ask yet a third sword-dancer, who gave me the same name. So we went to see him.

He was a typical Southroner: brown-haired, brown-eyed, burned dark by the sun. He wore the plain clothing of the tradesman—gauzy tunic, baggy trews, robe—and no ornamentation. Which meant he didn’t take an inordinate amount of pride in his appearance, unlike some gifted men, but, more likely, in his craftsmanship.

He stood behind a table. The shop was small, jammed with flats of skins, racks of wood, trays full of wire, thong, tools. He watched Del and me come in through the curtained doorway and nodded greeting. It was very brief to Del, intended mostly for me; the man, the Southroner. Nothing much had changed while I’d been North.

I stopped at the table and looked the man dead in the eye. “It’s a very special sword.”

Juba smiled. Undoubtedly he had heard the exact same words before, uttered by countless sword-dancers intent upon the blade that earned them a living. Only in this case, what I said was understatement.

“Very special,” I repeated, “and in need of precise attention.” I set the sheathed sword on the table in front of Juba. “Don’t touch,” I said.

Again, Juba smiled. It was not a condescending smile, or one of disbelief—he was too professional to let his thoughts show so plainly—but it was a smile of subtle acknowledgement: Let the customer say what he will. Juba will be the judge.

Only the hilt was visible above the lip of Halvar’s sheath. It was bright, twisted-silk steel devoid of excess ornamentation. The sword was simply a sword.

“Jivatma,” I said, and Juba’s brown eyes widened. “What I want,” I continued, “is a true sword-dancer’s harness, cut to my size, and a diagonal scabbard as well. Split sheath, of course—six-inch cut at the lip—so when I hook it out of the scabbard the blade rides free. While sheathed I want it snug—I can’t abide rattling—but I need it to come to hand easy. No snags or awkward motion.”

Juba nodded slightly. “Cadda wood,” he said. “It’s light, but very strong. And suede lining inside. Outside I will encase it in danjac hide, then lace and wrap it with thong, with a bit of wire for strength.” He paused. “Do you want ornamentation?”

Some sword-dancers like to hang coin or rings or bits of jewelry from their sheaths, to prove they’ve been successful. Some even like to take something from the loser—dead or alive—as a kind of trophy. Me, I’ve always kind of thought that sort of thing was asking for trouble. While it’s true not too many thieves want to tangle with a man who earns his living with a sword, I’ve never known a bandit yet who wouldn’t do whatever he could to separate a man from his wealth. Which meant that a sword-dancer who got drunk, or fell in with a scheming cantina girl, or who simply lost track of his wits, was asking to be robbed.

I started to shake my head.

“Yes,” Del said. “Can you copy this?”

She had waited so quietly behind me, saying nothing to Juba or me, that I’d nearly forgotten she was there. But now she came forward, asking Juba for clay slate and stylus. He set the slate out on the table, passed her the stylus, watched in pensive silence as she scraped out the design.

“There,” she said at last. “Can you work those into the leather? From top to bottom, like so—twisting around and around and around … can you do this?”

Juba and I stared at the slate. Del had painstakingly carved elaborate runes into the unbaked clay, then blown the dust away. The shapes were intricate and precise, and like nothing I’d ever seen.

Except on Samiel’s blade.

Juba frowned, then looked at me. “Do you want those?”

His tone expressed doubt; he was, after all, a Southroner, and Del a Northern woman … but his job was to please the customer. He’d let me decide.

I glanced sidelong at Del. She offered nothing save silence again, but I felt the tension in her body. She wouldn’t ask me to say yes, because it had to be my choice. But clearly she wanted me to let Juba put in the runes.

What the hoolies … “Put them on.”

Juba shrugged and nodded. “I must measure you,” he said, “and also measure the sword. But if you won’t allow me to touch it—”

“I’ll help,” I told him. “Measure me first, then we’ll get to the sword.”

He worked quickly and competently, wrapping thong this way and that way around me, then tying knots on it to mark his place. When he was done, all I saw was a leather thong full of knots, but Juba knew the language.