Sword-Maker(95)

“No. But I wouldn’t run the risk.”

“Neither will I,” I muttered. “Time to show him who’s boss again.”

As before, I shut both hands around the grip, locking fingers in place. It had taken a song last time, a snatch of a little song sung to put Chosa Dei in his place. I summoned it again and let it fill my head. Thought briefly of nothing else other than proving my dominance. Like the stud with Del’s blue roan.

I was sweating when I opened my eyes. The song in my head died away. The runes were free of charring, but not the entire blade. “Only a little,” I rasped. “Each time, more of the black remains.”

“You must be vigilant,” Del declared.

“Vigilant,” I muttered. “You be vigilant.”

Her face wavered before me. “Are you all right?” she asked.

I staggered toward the stud, who, bored, lipped idly at dirt. His muzzle was crusted with it. “Am I all right, she asks. I don’t know; should I be all right? Every time I have this little argument with my sword, I feel like I’ve aged ten years.” I stopped short of the stud and swung around. “I haven’t, have I?”

“What?”

“Aged ten—or twenty—years.”

Del appraised me critically. “I don’t think so. You look the same as before—about sixty, I would say.”

“That’s not funny,” I snapped, and then realized how I sounded. “All right, all right—but do you blame me? Who knows what Chosa Dei can do, even in a sword!”

“True,” Del conceded. “No, Tiger, you do not look like you have aged ten or twenty years. In fact, you look better than a week ago; sparring agrees with you. You should do it more often.”

“I would if I could,” I muttered. “Maybe at Iskandar.”

I turned back to the stud, who greeted me with a bump of his muzzle against my face, followed by a snort. His snorts are bad enough any time; this time it included dirt. Dirt and mucus make mud.

I swore, wiped slime from face and neck, called him a dozen unflattering names. He’d heard them all before and didn’t even flick an ear. So I caught reins, dug a foot into the left stirrup, dragged myself up with effort, plopped rump into saddle. Peered over at Del.

“All right,” I said, “all right. I give up. The sooner I get Chosa Dei out of this sword, the happier I’ll be … and if that means finding this Shaka Obre, then that’s what we’ll do.”

Del’s expression was odd. “It could take months. Maybe years.”

I gritted teeth. “I know that,” I told her. “What in hoolies else am I supposed to do? Fight this thing for the rest of my life?”

Del’s tone was quiet. “I just think you should realize what sort of commitment you’re making.”

I glared at her. “This sword just tried to make me kill myself. Now it’s personal.”

Her smooth brow creased. “Shaka Obre is little more than a name, Tiger … he will be difficult to find.”

I sighed. “We found Chosa Dei. We’ll find Shaka Obre, no matter what it takes.”

Del’s smile was oddly abrupt.

“What?” I asked warily.

“Only that you sound very like me.”

I thought about it. About Del’s quest to find Ajani, and the sacrifices she’d made.

Now it was my turn.

She brought her roan up beside me. “How much farther to Iskandar?”

“According to what Rhashad told me, another day’s ride. We should make it by tomorrow evening.” I peered down the track winding through scrub trees and webby grass. “You know, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if there is a jhihadi due. Maybe he can cure my sword.”

Del sounded cross. “There’s nothing wrong with your sword that you can’t cure yourself. All it takes is control. And the willingness to try.”

I looked at her a long moment. Then shifted in my saddle. “You know,” I said lightly, “I’ll be glad when Ajani’s dead.”

It caught her off guard. “Why?”

“Because maybe then you’ll remember what it’s like to be human again.”

Her mouth opened. “I am—”

“Sometimes,” I agreed. “Then again, other times you’re a coldhearted, judgmental bitch.”

I turned the stud and went on. After a moment, she followed.

Silence is sometimes noisy.

Iskandar, I knew, had been very old even before Harquhal was born. Which meant the track between them was very new, beaten into the ground only in answer to the Oracle. In time the track would fade, washed away by wind and rain, and the land would be true again, lacking the scars put on it by pilgrims gone to see the new jhihadi. Until then, however, the track would become a lifeline.