But then, neither was Del. “Nice technique,” she observed as I bashed his nose with a fist.
“Have to get his attention.”
“You did,” Del said. “Now he’s trying to bite you.”
Well, he was. But horses have bad moods, too.
I put my left foot in the stirrup and started to pull myself up. The stud bent his head around and missed getting a hunk of me only because I saw it coming and slapped him in the mouth. He tried twice more; I slapped him twice more. Then I gave up on the leisurely mount and swung up all at once, coming down into the saddle with toes hooking stirrups.
“Now try,” I suggested.
He might have. He has. This time he didn’t. For which I was very grateful, since I had the feeling he’d win.
“Are you done?” Del asked.
Before I could answer—though nothing was expected—the stableman stepped forward. “I couldn’t help noticing your scars—are you the Sandtiger?”
I nodded, gathering rein.
The man showed me a gap-toothed grin. “I sold a horse to your son.”
“My son—” I scowled down at him. “What kind of horse, where was he going, and what does he look like?”
Del’s tone was dry. “One at a time, Tiger. You’ll confuse the poor man.”
The stableman knew horses best. “Old gray mare,” he said. “Splash of white down her nose, and three white legs. Very gentle. A lady’s mare, but he said that’s what he wanted.”
“Where was he going?”
“Iskandar.”
Where else? “What does he look like?”
The man shrugged. “Not tall, not short. Eighteen or nineteen. Brown-haired, blue-eyed. Spoke Southron with an accent.”
“What kind of accent?”
He shrugged, shaking his head.
“But he told you he was my son.”
“Son of the Sandtiger; yes.” He grinned. “Hasn’t got the scars, but he wears a necklet of claws.”
“And a sword?” I asked grimly.
He frowned. Thought back. Shook his head. “A knife. No sword.”
“A necklet, but no sword. And riding an old gray mare.” I glanced at Del. “If he’s really going to Iskandar, at least we know what to look for.”
She was startled. “You’ll look?”
“Shouldn’t be hard to find him. He’s obviously not shy of boasting about his parentage—even though it’s a lie.”
Her tone was a little odd. “How do you know it’s a lie?”
“He’s too old,” I told her. “If I’m thirty-six, and he’s eighteen—or even nineteen—it means I was all of—” I stopped.
“Eighteen,” Del supplied. “Or maybe seventeen.”
Not too old after all. “Let’s go,” I said curtly. “No sense in staying here.”
By the time we were out of Harquhal, most of my bad temper was gone. It was too hard staying out of sorts when the Southron sun was shining on my face, warming the place where the beard had been. It felt odd to be clean-shaven. It felt odd to wear gauze and silk. It felt odd to be so carefree.
But it felt good to feel so odd.
“You know,” I remarked, “you might have warned me last night you wanted to leave. I could have said good-bye to Rhashad, told Nabir there’d be no more lessons—”
“Nabir knows. I told him.”
“Oh? When?”
“Last night. You and Rhashad were full of aqivi and too busy trying to win one another’s money … Nabir came in, and I told him.” She shrugged. “He said he would come, too, if he could convince Xenobia to quit her job and go with him.”
“Xenobia,” I murmured.
“And I told Abbu, who also came in last night.”
I looked at her. “He did? I didn’t see him. When did he come in? Last night? In our cantina?”
“I said you were full of aqivi.” Del waved a fly away. “Not long before I left.”
“Left,” I echoed. “You left? When? Why?” I frowned. “With him?”
“Aren’t you full of questions today.”
“I think I have a right.”
“Oh? Why?”
“I just do.” I scowled, disliking her tone. “Who knows what kind of trouble you might have gotten yourself into, going off with Abbu like that. You don’t know what kind of man he is, bascha.”
“One very much like you.” She raised a hand to forestall my protest. “No—like you were. I’ll admit, you’ve changed. You’re not the arrogant fool you once were.”
“So comforting,” I said dryly. “And was he like me in bed, too?”