Sword-Maker(62)

Then he looked at the sword.

I slid it clear of Halvar’s sheath, dropping the scabbard aside. Now the blade was naked. It was black at the tip, a smudgy dull black extending three fingers up the blade, as if it had been dipped. Runes caught light like water.

Juba sucked in a breath. Desire darkened his eyes. I saw his fingers twitch.

“Jivatma,” I repeated. “Did you think the Sandtiger lies?”

I did it on purpose. Not to brag, although there’s always a little of that; but to make certain he understood who he was making the harness for. If a sword-dancer like the Sandtiger was pleased by Juba’s work, it could improve his reputation and increase business one hundredfold. If he didn’t like the workmanship, Juba might be finished.

But I did it also because I knew there was a chance that Juba, left alone, might yet touch the sword. Might try to pick it up. And I recalled much too well the pain of Boreal before Del had told me her name.

“Measure it,” I said. “If you need it moved, I’ll do it.”

Swiftly Juba drew out yet another leather thong and measured the sword, tying knots here and there. I moved it as instructed, holding the thong for him when he needed to make contact. When he was done, he nodded. “It will fit. I promise. It will be as you have said.”

“And the runes,” Del said intently.

Juba looked at her for the second time. This time he looked at her, and saw what she was. Saw past the Northern beauty. Saw past the independence. Saw beyond the cool demeanor to the woman who lived inside.

And looked away again, being a Southron fool. “How soon?” he asked.

I shrugged. “As soon as you can. I don’t like carrying my sword by hand, and I can’t abide a belt or baldric.”

No, of course not; no true sword-dancer carried his weapon in anything but harness-and-sheath. I wasn’t about to change the custom and risk looking like a fool.

Juba thought about it. He might ask for better payment if I wanted it so quickly; then again, my name ought to be enough. “Two days,” he offered.

“Tomorrow evening,” I said.

Juba considered it. “Not enough time,” he explained. “There is much work for me, with so many going to Iskandar. I would be honored to make my best harness and sheath for the Sandtiger, but—”

“Tomorrow evening,” I said. “What’s this about Iskandar?”

He shrugged, already digging through piles of leather. “They say the jhihadi is coming.”

I grunted. “They say the same thing every ten years or so.” I sheathed my sword and picked it up. With Del on my heels, I went out the curtained doorway.

“You heard him,” she said as soon as we were outside. “He mentioned Iskandar and the jhihadi … are you going to pretend it’s nonsense when a Southroner brings it up.”

“Iskandar is a ruin,” I said yet again. “There’s no reason for anyone to go there.”

“Except maybe if the messiah is coming.”

“All sorts of rumors get started, bascha. Are we supposed to believe them all?”

Del didn’t answer, but her mouth was set firmly.

“And now,” I began, “suppose you tell me what these runes are all about.”

She shrugged. “Just runes. Decoration.”

“I don’t think so, bascha. I know you better than that. You were too precise, which makes me nervous. I want to know what kind of runes—what do they say?—and what they’re supposed to do.”

Del didn’t offer an answer. We were just outside Juba’s shop; I stopped dead, swung to face her, very nearly stepped on her toes. She looked into my face and probably saw how serious I was; she took a step back and sighed.

“A warning,” she told me. “Wards against tampering. Also your name, and who you are … and your Northern rank.”

“I’m a Southroner.”

She took it in stride. “Southron rank, as well,” she continued evenly. “Seventh-level, as you have said; I have forgotten nothing.”

“You forgot to ask me if I wanted such things on my scabbard.”

Del was plainly troubled. “You yourself told me how dangerous a jivatma can be in the wrong hands. You pointed out that even a Northerner, if he felt strongly enough, might reject the teachings of Staal-Ysta to gain additional power.”

“But what has that to do with my sword?”

“Protection,” she said quietly. “If an unscrupulous sword-dancer wanted power for himself, he could not do better than to steal your jivatma.”

“You mean—” I stopped. “Do you mean the runes are to protect me?”

“Yes.”