Punja yet. There was only one season in the Punja: hot.
Del dampened the hem of her burnous and wiped dust from her face. 'Tonight I get the bath.' Then, 'How many sword-dancers are likely to be here?'
I backhanded water from my chin, realizing I needed to shave before we hit the Punja. 'Oh, a few.'
'Then we shouldn't stay longer than is necessary.'
'We'll head out first thing tomorrow. In the meantime, except for a visit to Fouad's cantina, we'll keep our heads down.'
'Walking into Fouad's, where at any time there may be half a dozen sword-dancers drinking his spirits, strikes me as keeping our heads up.'
'Maybe. But we knew we'd face this coming back here.'
Del said nothing. She had not argued when I said I wanted to return home—we had established that Skandi, for all my parents had come from the island, did not qualify—but she had quietly pointed out that to do so was sheer folly for a man sentenced to death by the very honor codes he'd repudiated. But the mere fact that she hadn't argued struck me as significant; I suspected Del was recalling that she was exiled from her own homeland and understood how much I needed to go back to mine. Unlike Del, I wasn't truly exiled. I wasn't under pain of death if I went back South. Oh, men would try to kill me, but that had nothing to do with exile. Just with broken oaths.
At my behest, we waited until sundown before entering Fouad's cantina. We had in the meantime secured lodging in an only slightly disreputable inn with a tiny stable out behind in an alley and had eaten at a street vendor's stall. The odors and flavors of spiced, if tough, mutton, sizzling peppers, and pungent goat cheese had immediately snatched me back to the days before we left for Skandi. I'm not sure Del appreciated that so much, having a more delicate palate—or so she claimed—but it felt like home to me. Then I led Del to Fouad's cantina, which was only fitfully lighted by smoking tallow candles on each small knife– and sword-hacked wooden table. I selected one back in the farthest corner from the door, a windowless nook veiled with smoke from a dying torch stuck in an iron wall sconce, dripping tallow. As we found stools to perch our rumps upon, I leaned forward and blew out our candle. Dimness descended.
'Oh, good,' Del commented, brushing bread crumbs off the table. 'Makes it so easy to see whom I'm to stick my sword into.'
'We're not going to stick swords into anyone, bascha.'
'Not even Fouad?' Del really seemed focused on the fact that my friend had betrayed us.
'Not immediately,' I told her. 'Maybe for the after-dinner entertainment.'
Fouad, proprietor of my favorite cantina, was a small, neat, quick man of ready smile and welcome. Though he had wine-girls aplenty—Silk was working our corner, though clearly she hadn't yet recognized me—he enjoyed greeting newcomers personally. He approached the table calling out a robust greeting in Southron and offering us the best his cantina had to offer.
In bad light, wreathed in smoke, shorn of most of my hair, with double silver rings hanging in my ears and a tracery of blue tattooing along my hairline, I was no doubt a stranger to him at first glance, as I'd hoped. But Del, as always, was Del, and no man alive, having seen her even once, forgot what or who she was.
Or whom she traveled with.
Fouad stopped dead in his rush to greet new custom. He stared. He very nearly gaped.
He had, helpfully, placed himself within my reach. I rose, kicking back my stool, and leaned close, slapping one big hand down upon his shoulder in a friendly fashion. 'Fouad!' I shut the hand, gripping him so firmly a wince of pain replaced his shocked expression. 'Join us, won't you? It's been a long time.' I shoved him toward the empty stool and pushed him down upon it. 'There's much to catch up on, don't you think?'
He was trembling. Very unlike Fouad. But then, so was betrayal.
I yanked over another stool and sat down upon it. 'So, what's the news? Any word out of Sabra?'
Fouad flicked a white-rimmed glance at Del, then looked back to me again. The robustness had spilled from his voice. 'They say she's likely dead.'
I raised a brow. ' 'They say'? They're not sure?'
'She disappeared.' His thin tone was a complex admixture of emotions. 'Some say a sandstorm got her, or a beast, or the Vashni. But Abbu Bensir said differently.'
I grinned. 'Abbu would. He's always one to tell a good tale. So, what did Abbu say about Sabra?'
'That you killed her.'
'He did not.' That from Del, who was never one to let a good story get in the way of the facts. 'Sabra died of her own folly.'
In truth, Sabra had died because she laid hands on a jivatma which was, at the time, utterly perverted by magic, full of a sorcerer wanting very badly to get out. Which he had managed. Unfortunately, the vessel he chose for freedom—Sabra—was far too weak to contain him. But I suppose 'folly' fairly well summed it up.
'And just when was good old Abbu here last?' I asked idly.
Fouad had stopped trembling. Color returned to his face. We had always been friends, and I supposed he was recalling that. But wariness remained. And guilt. 'Weeks ago,' he said. 'He's north of here now, I hear.'
Well. At least I wouldn't have to grapple with Abbu Bensir immediately. 'Aqivi?'
'Water for me,' Del said.
It gave him something to do. Rather than calling Silk over, Fouad sprang up.
'This time,' I said quietly, 'leave out the drug.'
His face spasmed. 'I will drink first of each, if you like.'
I was prepared to wave it away, knowing my point was made, but Del was less forgiving. 'Do so,' she said, in a tone that lowered the temperature of the room markedly. 'And you will remain at this table. Let it be brought.'
After a moment, Fouad bowed to her with one hand pressed over his heart and quietly bade Silk, lingering nearby and trying to catch my attention now that she had recognized me—Silk had always been one of my favorites and, she said, I one of hers—to bring water, aqivi, bread and cheese. Then he sank down on the stool. He looked older than he had when we first entered the cantina.
I waited.
He drew in a deep, sharp breath, then let it out in a rush of helpless sound. 'She would have killed me had I not done her bidding.'
'Of course she would have,' I agreed.
'I begged her not to make me do it.'
'Of course you did.'
'I prayed—'
'Enough,' Del snapped. She glanced at me. 'Do you intend to kill him, or shall I?'
Bloodthirsty Northern bascha. I smiled, and let Fouad start sweating again. When the water and aqivi arrived—and Silk was shooed away—he poured cups of each and tasted both. Del rather pointedly turned her cup so her mouth would not touch the rim where his had touched. Me, I just picked up the aqivi and knocked back a slug.
Long practice kept me from choking. Long abstinence—from aqivi, anyway—burned a line of fire from throat, through gullet, into belly. But being the infamous Sandtiger, I did not indicate this. I merely took another big slug.
Del's brows pulled together briefly, but she blanked her face almost at once.
'So.' I grinned companionably at Fouad. 'At Sabra's behest, in fear for your life, you drugged our wine. I, innocent as a woolly little lamb, wandered off looking for someone and walked into a trap you helped set. Del, meanwhile—also drugged—was handed over to Umir the Ruthless to become a part of his collection.' Umir the Ruthless had tastes that did not incline to women but to unusual objects. He was ruthless not because he was particularly murderous personally, but because he'd do anything to get what he wanted. Even if he hired others to murder for him. 'Del apparently feels what you did is worthy of execution. But I'm a more generous soul. What do you suggest I do about this?'
Fouad's tone was a carefully weighed mixture of resignation, suggestion, and hope. 'Forget it?'
I nearly choked on a mouthful of aqivi. Far less amused, Del stared him down.
Fouad, suddenly smaller on his stool, sighed deeply. 'No, I suppose not.'
