Sword-Maker(91)

Del scooped up the pouches. “Fine,” she declared. “I’ll go there with Abbu.”

Del never threatens. Del does. She was about to do now.

“Wait—” I levered myself up, squinted through too-bright daylight at her, tried to remember my name. My mouth tasted like an old dhoti. “Give me a moment, bascha.”

She didn’t give a moment. “Meet me at the stables.” And thumped the door behind her.

Oh, hoolies.

Hoolies.

Why does she always do this on the morning after the night before?

I swear, the woman plans it. She plans it, and she waits. She knows what it does to me.

With effort I turned all the way over and sat up. Sure enough, the door was still shut. Del was still gone.

I sat on the edge of the bed and buried my face in my hands, scrubbing at sleep-creased flesh. I needed food and a taste of aqivi; Del would give me neither. Nor would she give me time.

“You could always catch up,” I suggested.

Yes. I could. I knew where she was going.

And I knew who’d be going with her.

Hoolies, hoolies, hoolies.

I hate men like Abbu.

I used the nightpot. Then, in an effort to wake up as much as wash myself, I splashed water all over my face and soaked most of my hair. Wet tendrils straggled down my neck. Droplets broke free and rolled, tickling shoulders, chest, belly.

I didn’t feel any better. Just wetter.

I glowered at the door as I reached for underrobe, harness, burnous. “What do you expect? I sat up with Rhashad all night.”

Del, being gone, didn’t answer. Which was just as well with me. She’d say something back. Then I would be required to respond. And we would waste too much time bickering over nothing in an attempt to prove dominance.

Which struck me as pretty stupid.

I bent over to pull on the boots Del had found me. “You are stupid,” I muttered. “You could be sitting in a cantina right about now with a warm and willing little Southron beauty in your lap and a jug of aqivi at your elbow. Or you could be hiring on with some rich tanzeer to protect his dewy-eyed daughter—some cushy job like that. Or sitting over the oracle bones with Rhashad, stealing all his money. Or you could be sleeping.” One boot was on. I turned to the other. “Instead, what are you doing? Getting ready to ride to Iskandar on a mission of revenge with a cold-hearted, hot-tongued bascha—”

—whom I very badly wanted back in my bed.

I glared at the door. “Message for you, Ajani: if she doesn’t kill you, I will.”

Del was waiting at the stables. With the blue roan. Out in front. In the street. Which told me a little something.

“It’ll be there,” I told her. “It’s been there for hundreds of years.”

She frowned.

“Iskandar,” I clarified.

Del’s frown deepened. But she spoke about something else. “I’d have had him waiting for you, but no one can get near him.”

Him. She could only mean one thing. “That’s because they don’t have the proper technique.” I went by her into the lathwork stable, gathered up bridle, went over to the stall. At least, it was sort of a stall; there wasn’t much left of it. “All right,” I said, “what have you been up to?”

The stud, who was tied to a thick piece of timber sunk in the ground, answered by pawing violently. More bits of stall came down. The ground around him was littered.

“Ah,” I said, “I see.”

So did the stableman. He came running when he realized the stud’s owner was back. I listened to his diatribe for much longer than I liked, but since I had to bridle, saddle and load the stud anyway, I didn’t lose any time. Only my waning patience.

“How much?” I asked.

The stableman took the question as an invitation to start all over again with complaints. I cut him off in mid-stride by drawing my knife.

He went white. Gaped. Then changed from white to red as I bent over the stud’s left forehoof to check for stones or caked dirt, cleaning the frog of the hoof with my knifetip.

“How much?” I repeated.

The stableman named a price.

“Too much,” I told him. “That would buy you a second stable; he didn’t do that much damage.”

He named another price.

I let the stud have his left hoof back and moved to work on the right. “I could leave him here …”

A third—and better—price. I nodded and gave him money.

Del was mounted and waiting as I led the stud out of doors into daylight. Her roan snorted. The stud curled back his upper lip and trumpeted his dominance, meanwhile stomping on my heels as he raised his tail and danced. A stallion dancing around on the end of an all-too-human arm is rather disconcerting. So between being momentarily deafened by his noise and having my bootheels tromped on, I was not in a good mood.