Sword-Maker(85)

“So,” I said lightly, “you slept with the girl. And you liked it. You like it very much.”

Nabir, still standing, nodded. He clutched the bota tightly.

“Nothing wrong with that.” I squinted up at him. “But you don’t have to marry her.”

“I want to.”

“You can’t marry every girl you sleep with.”

Obviously, it had not occurred to him that other women might enter into it. He had discovered the magic in a woman’s body—and in his own—and thought it was supposed to be that way—with this woman—for the rest of his life.

Poor boy.

“She won’t have me,” he said tightly.

A blessing, undoubtedly. But I asked, since he expected it. “Why not?”

Muscles twitched in his jaw. “Because I am a bastard. Because I have no tribe.”

Better yet, because he had little coin and fewer prospects. But I didn’t say it. “Look at it this way, then,” I said. “It’s her loss, not yours.”

“If I could rejoin the tribe—” Abruptly, he altered his sentence. “If I could prove myself worthy, they would overlook my birth.”

“Who would?”

Nabir scowled, handed down the bota. “The elders.”

“Which tribe?”

Nabir shook his head. “I shouldn’t speak of it. I have said too much.”

I didn’t really want to spend too much time trying to decipher Nabir’s past, or foretell his possible future. I scratched at sandtiger scars. “Well,” I said finally, “it’s their loss, too. Meanwhile, we have a lesson to finish.”

“If I could be worthy of the tribe, I’d be worthy of her,” he persisted. “She said so.”

More likely she’d said anything she could think of, just to put him off. It also might be true; a cantina girl hoping for a better life would fix her dreams on someone of greater stature, not a bastard-born halfbreed with nothing to offer but himself. For a girl who sold herself nightly to men of all ilk, Nabir’s regard—and his presence in her bed—would not be enough. She’d have to know there was more.

Right now, there wasn’t.

I sucked water, replugged the bota. “A sword-dancer really shouldn’t think about marriage, Nabir. It dulls the edge.”

“We have no edge at all.” He grinned, lifting his blade. “See? Only wooden.”

I smiled. “Still after me to use real swords, are you?”

“My shodo told me wood was useful for only so long. That to develop a true understanding of the dance, a true sword is required. Because without the risk, nothing is learned.”

Yes, well … Nabir’s shodo had never known my jivatma. “Maybe so,” I agreed, “but right now I prefer wood.”

Nabir looked beyond me. “It’s her,” he said obscurely.

The cantina girl? I turned. No. Del.

She had, at last, traded Northern wool for Southron silks. Rich blue burnous rippled as she walked, hood puddled on her shoulders. Already the sun had bleached her hair a trifle blonder, and her skin was pinker than normal. In time, it would turn creamy gold. The hair would pale almost to white.

Del crossed the sand smoothly, hilt shining behind her left shoulder. Her sessions with Abbu Bensir had removed some of the tension from her body, as if she understood she was doing something definite toward reaching her goal, since she needed to be fit to meet Ajani. I was glad to see her moving better, feeling better, but I wasn’t pleased by the source. If she’d been willing to meet me with wooden blades, like Nabir, I could have done the same. Hoolies, I could have done more.

Del stopped beside the circle. “Tiger is the only sword-dancer I know who practices his dancing by sitting on the ground.”

Nabir’s eyes widened; how could I stand for this?

“Not true,” I replied equably. “Nabir can tell you I’ve thwacked him upside the head more times than you can count—I’m giving him a breather.”

Nabir frowned; it wasn’t true. Del, who saw it, smiled crookedly, interpreting it easily. But she said nothing, looking critically at the wooden blade the boy held. “Do you ever plan to use steel?”

Nabir opened his mouth.

“No need,” I answered for him. “You know as well as I the fundamentals are better taught with wood than with steel.”

“He doesn’t need the fundamentals … at least, not independent of steel. There is no risk with a wooden blade, and nothing is learned without risk.”

I glared at her sourly as Nabir snapped his head around to stare at me. “I told you why,” I said. “As long as we’re speaking of risk, what about the kind of risk the boy would face if I did use my sword?”