Sword-Maker(77)
“The Punja,” I said. “No one rules the Punja. Except the tribes, maybe … but they have more respect for the land. They don’t divide it up and sit on it. Nor do they give in to the rule of any man proclaiming himself a tanzeer. They just go with the wind, blowing here and there.”
“Much like a sword-dancer.” Del turned her cup on the table. “So, the Oracle—who gains disciples among the tribes—offers threat to the tanzeers.”
“By rousing the tribes, yes,” Abbu agreed.
“But the Oracle is only a mouthpiece,” I said. “It’s the jhihadi who offers the true threat. Because if the stories were to come true—that sand will be turned to grass—it means all of the South would be worth having. Each man would be a tanzeer unto himself, and the authority of those petty princes holding the present domains would collapse.”
“So they will try to kill him.” Del’s tone was matter-of-fact. “No matter who he is, no matter why he’s come; even if it’s all a lie—the tanzeers will have him killed. Just in case.”
“Probably,” I agreed.
Abbu smiled a little. “First they would have to find him.”
“Iskandar,” Del said. “Isn’t that where he’s supposed to appear?”
Abbu shrugged. “That’s what the Oracle says.”
“You’re going,” she pointed out.
Abbu Bensir laughed. “Not for the Oracle. Not for the jhihadi. I’m going for the dancing. I’m going for the coin.”
Del frowned. “Coin?”
Abbu nodded. “Where there are people gathering, there will be wagering. Where there are tanzeers, there will be employment. Easier to find both in one place rather than scattered across the South.”
“In uplander, a kymri,” I explained. “We don’t have many here in the South … but Abbu is right. If this Oracle rouses enough people, they will all go to Iskandar. So will the tanzeers. And so will sword-dancers.”
“And bandits?” she asked.
“Borjuni, yes,” Abbu agreed. “Even whores like Kima.”
“I want to go,” Del said.
I sighed. “Seems as good a place as any to learn something of Ajani’s whereabouts.”
But Del wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at Abbu. “And I want you to teach me.”
I nearly choked on aqivi. “Del—”
“Tomorrow,” she declared.
Abbu Bensir merely smiled.
Seven
“Why?” I asked, standing in the doorway. “What are you trying to prove?”
Del, inside her tiny room at the inn, barely glanced at me as she sat down on the edge of her slatted cot to pull off boot and fur gaiter. “Nothing,” she answered, unwrapping leather garters.
“Nothing? Nothing?” I glared. “You know as well as I do you don’t need Abbu Bensir to teach you anything.”
“No,” she agreed, peeling gaiter from boot.
“Then why—”
“I need the practice.”
I stood braced in the doorway, watching her tug off the boot. She dropped it to the floor, then turned to the other boot. Once again, she started with the gaiter. Her bare right foot was chafed at the edges; the rest of it was white.
“So,” I said, “you’re using him for a sparring partner.”
Del unlaced the garter. “Is he as good as he says he is?”
“Yes.”
“Better than you?”
“Different.”
“And was it you who put that scar on him?”
“No.”
She tilted her head slightly. “So, he is a liar.”
“Yes and no. I didn’t give him the scar itself, but I did provide the reason for making it necessary.”
Del looked up at me. “He doesn’t hate you for it. He could—another man might—but he doesn’t.”
I shrugged. “We’ve never been enemies. Just rivals.”
“I think he respects you. I think he knows you have your place in the South—in the pecking order of sword-dancers—and he has his.”
“He is an acknowledged master of the blade,” I said. “Abbu Bensir is a byword among sword-dancers. No one would be foolish enough to deny him that to his face.”
“Not even you?”
“I’ve never considered myself a fool.” I paused. “You’re really going to spar with him?”
“Yes.”
“You could have asked—”
“—you?” Del shook her head. “I did ask you. Several times.”
“I’ll spar,” I said defensively. “Just not with my jivatma. We’ll go find some wooden practice swords—”