I drank. Swallow after swallow. Then he pulled it away.
'Not so much,' he repeated.
I wanted all of it.
'Del,' I croaked. Swollen lips split and bled. Swollen eyes wouldn't open. 'Del. . .'
'She's alive.' Damp cloth bathed my face. 'I swear it.'
'Poison,' I said. 'Sandtiger—'
'I know. I recognize the wounds. Here. A little more.'
More water. I drank, wanting to drown. 'Del?'
'Alive.'
'Poison . . .'
'Yes.'
Dread was a blade in the vitals. 'She's dying . . .'
'Maybe,' he said.
Del's bones in the sand?
'Don't let her die.'
'It wants a healer,' he said. 'I need to go back to Julah.'
Julah. 'Fouad's,' I told him. 'Cantina.'
'Later,' he replied. 'I'll stay awhile yet.'
'I won't die,' I said. 'Not from a sandtiger.'
I heard a breath of laughter. 'I don't doubt it.'
'Del?'
'Alive,' he repeated.
'You swore.'
'Yes. I'm not lying. She might die, but she's not dead yet.'
It was something.
'Who are you?' I asked.
But before he could answer, the world winked out.
When next I roused, the weakness was less. I still lay on hardpan, itching from sand, but a light blanket was thrown over me and another, still rolled, pillowed my head. A bota lay at hand, as I had left one for Del. I shut fingers on it, brought to my mouth, drank and drank and drank.
'Del?'
No answer.
I opened my eyes. I had no idea what hour it was, or day. Merely that I was alive despite the best efforts of my body to die.
'Bascha?' My voice was hoarse.
No answer.
I collected strength. Hoarded it. Hitched myself up on an elbow. Saw the colorful Vashni blanket and the body beneath.
Shadow fell across me. I glanced up, staring blearily at the opening and the man squatting there. 'You?' I croaked.
Stubble emphasized the hollows and angles of his face. He was dark as a Southroner, but with the faintest tint of copper to his tan. And those honey-brown eyes, liquid and melting, fringed in black lashes Del would claim too lush for a man, and infinitely unfair when women would kill for such.
'Me,' he agreed.
I slumped back onto the ground, wanting to groan. Didn't, since we had company. 'If you've come to challenge me—again – you picked a bad time.'
'So I see. And no, I haven't. I've learned a little since you killed that sword-dancer in Julah.'
When was that? I didn't remember. A day ago. A month. 'Then what are you doing here?'
'I am,' he said, with grave dignity entirely undermined by a glint of irony in his eyes, 'looking after a man who has repudiated his honor. And the infamous Northern bascha who should be lacking in such, being merely a woman, but who appears to have it regardless. Or so some say.' He crawled into the lean-to, sat down beside me. 'I couldn't ask a dead man what elaii-ali-ma meant,' he said, 'but I asked another sword-dancer when he came into town.'
'Oh, good.' I managed my own irony despite the hoarse voice. 'Then you know. You don't have to challenge me to a dance, because there can be no dance. But you can kill me if you want to.' I paused. 'If you can.'
The faintest of smiles twitched one corner of his mouth. 'Well, that would at the moment be a simple thing.'
'And where's the honor in that?'
'So I asked myself.' He placed a hand against my forehead. 'The worst of the fever has passed, I think, but you're far from well.'
I knew that without being told. 'Who are you?'
'My mother named me Nayyib.'
'This isn't the road from Julah. What are you doing here?'
'It's a road from Julah,' he clarified, 'now. And I came looking for you. Fortunate thing, yes?'
'I thought you said you weren't going to challenge me.'
'I'm not. At least, not in that way.'
That sounded suspicious. 'In what way, then?'
'I wish to become a sword-dancer.'
I grunted. 'I figured that.'
'I wish you to teach me.'
'What, you just decided this?'
'I decided this in Julah, after you killed that sword-dancer.'
'Khashi.'
'After you killed Khashi.'
'Why? Didn't you originally want to kill me?'
'No. I wanted to dance against you. I didn't know anything about this elaii-ali-ma. You were just—you. After I saw what happened to Khashi and learned what had happened to you, I decided to follow you.'
I attempted to frown, which isn't easy when you're sick. 'You followed us to Julah.'
'Well, yes.'
'And at that point you still wanted to challenge me.'
'I did. At that point I thought I was good with a sword.'
'You don't anymore?'
His mouth twitched. 'Not good enough.'
'So now you want to be taught by a man who has no honor?'
'A man who once was the greatest in all the South.'
Once was. Once. What in hoolies was I now?
Well, sick. That's what.
'So you figure if you look after us while we're sick, you'll earn some lessons.'
His tone was exquisitely bland. 'I should think saving your lives might be worth one or two.'
I shut my eyes. 'You're a fool.'
'Undoubtedly.' He placed the bota under my hand again. 'I've tended her, got more water down her, wet the cloth again. And I've watered your horse. Grained him. Tied him under a tree for what little shade there is, and the few blades of grass.'
'Busy boy,' I muttered.
He ignored that. 'But he'll need more water later. So will she. Can you manage it?'
'I'll manage it.' How, I didn't know. But I wouldn't admit it to a kid. Especially not this kid, who had a mouth on him.
He seemed to know it anyway. 'I'll go to Fouad's and ask him for help. I'll bring a healer, food, and more
