Del nodded. 'Are you going to go to Oziri tomorrow?'
'You were the one who said it'd be rude to refuse.'
'That was before you collapsed in a heap with your eyes rolled up in your head.'
The image was perversely intriguing. 'They did that?'
'They did.'
I felt my eyelids. 'Hmmm.'
'Very dramatic,' Del added. 'I thought you might break out into prophecy at any moment.'
'You did not,' I said sternly. 'Besides, that doesn't really happen. Only in stories.'
Del shrugged. 'Jamail apparently did it. That's why the Vashni called him the Oracle.'
I gazed up at her. I didn't want to think about dream-walking or oracles or stillness anymore. I tugged her hair. 'Come down here.'
Del followed the pressure on her hair and stretched out next to me.
'Just how tired are you?' I asked.
She suppressed a smile. 'Oh, very tired. Extremely tired. Excessively tired. Far too tired for what you have in mind.'
I sighed very deeply. Extremely, excessively deeply. 'And here I was hoping it might be you I dreamed about.'
Her fingers were on my belt, working at the buckle. 'If you walk anywhere,' she said, 'I'm going with you.'
The belt fell away. I arched my back so she could pull it out from under me. It took but a moment to free myself of the damp burnous. Then I performed for her the identical service, stripping away folds of cloth.
I turned her under me, taking weight onto knees and elbows. 'How tired was that again?'
Del's hand moved downward from my ribs. Closed. 'You tell me.'
True to my word—well, actually it was true to Del's expectations, because I didn't feel like opening a debate—I met her for a brief match the next morning. The last time we'd sparred was aboard ship on the way to Haziz, and it had been Del's task to challenge me enough to help me regain fitness and timing as I adapted to the lack of little fingers. This time it would be me leading her through the forms trying to improve her fitness.
She had, of course, not bothered to don her burnous. Her cream-color leather tunic showed the aftermath of her encounter with the sandtiger, but a Vashni woman had patched it and stitched up the rents as Del recovered. The new leather didn't match, being the pale yellow hue of foothills deer, but the tunic was whole again.
Del, however, wasn't. In exploring her body the night before I'd examined with fingers and mouth the scars she bore, but I'd seen none of them. I knew better than to react as she exited the hyort, sword in hand—I was already outside—but inwardly I quailed to see the damage. Her right forearm bore a knurled pur-
plish lump of proud flesh around the puncture wound and a vivid ditch left by a canine tooth as she'd wrenched her arm free. At the point of her jaw a claw tip had nicked flesh clear to bone. There were other scars, I knew—those stretching from breast tops to collar bones; and the punctures and claw wounds, not to mention the cautery scar atop her left shoulder—but the tunic covered them.
I caught her eye, then tossed her the leather thong I'd bought with a smile from a Vashni woman repairing a hyort panel. Del caught it, suspended it in midair, noted the curving black claws. Between them, acting as spacers, were the lumpy red-gold beads formed of heartwood tree resin. She'd worn them strung as a necklet as I wore my claws; I'd stolen them earlier this morning, since the Vashni had taken the necklet off to treat her wounds.
'Welcome,' I said, 'to the elite group of people who've survived sandtiger attacks.'
Del looked at me over the necklet. 'How many are there in this elite group?'
'As far as I know, two.'
She nodded, half-smiling, and hooked the necklet one-handed over her head. 'Too long,' she murmured. 'I'll shorten it later.' Then she lifted her sword and placed both hands around the grip. 'Shall we dance?'
'Spar,' I corrected.
Her jaw tightened. 'Spar.'
'Until I say to stop.'
That did not please her. 'You'll say to stop after one engagement.'
'I will not. Three, maybe.' I waved fingers at her in a come-here gesture. 'We're too close to the fire ring. Let's go out into the common area.'
'Here, then.' Del tossed me her unsheathed blade, which I managed to catch without cutting off any vital parts—I scowled at her even as she smiled sunnily—and accompanied me out to the common as she worked at the knot in the leather thong.
By the time we reached the spot I'd selected, she'd shortened the necklet and retied the knot. Then she flipped her braid behind her shoulder, gestured for the sword, and caught it deftly as I tossed it. Well, that ability she hadn't lost.
More than two weeks before, I had been clawed and sick from sandtiger poison, then unceremoniously hauled off to Umir's with both hands tied at the wrists, and imprisoned in a small room out of the sun and air. Such things should conspire to rob me of any pretense to fitness and flexibility, but I'd spent my ten days of imprisonment profitably in near-constant exercise accompanied by good food and restful sleep. I had then met an excellent sword-dancer in the circle, which had the effect of not only challenging my body but my confidence. Aside from missing two fingers– actually, because of missing two fingers—I was in the best condition I'd been in for years.
Del, on the other hand. . . . Inwardly I shook my head, even as I pointed to the spot where I wanted her to stand. I took up my own position, closed my hands on leather wrapping, nodded. She came at me.
It is impossible to spar in silence. Steel brought against steel has a characteristic sound; blade brought against blade is unmistakable. Before long we had gathered onlookers. I was too focused on the match to listen to what they said, but many comments were exchanged. I didn't doubt some of them had to do with a man meeting a woman; Vashni women, who look every bit as fierce as their men, do not avail themselves of the sword. No women in the South did. Oracle's sister or no, once again Del was opening eyes and minds to the concept that a woman too could fight.
Probably everyone watching expected me to 'win.' But, as I've said before, that's not what sparring is all about. Del and I worked until the sweat ran down her flushed face, the breath was harsh in her throat, and her forearms trembled. I let her make one more foray against me, turned it back easily, then called a halt.
'Don't fall down,' I told her cheerfully as she stood there breathing hard, 'or they'll think I'm punishing you unduly.'
Del shot me a scowl.
'Not bad,' I commented. The scowl deepened. 'Go cool off,' I ordered.
She wanted very badly to say something to me, but she hadn't the wind for it. Instead she turned, visibly collected herself, and stalked back through the ring of hyorts. Upon reaching ours, I did not doubt, she'd suck down water, then collapse. Or collapse, then suck down water. Once she could move again. Actually, she'd gone longer than I had expected. It was sheer determination and stubbornness that carried her, but such things count, too, when it comes to survival.
After the physical exertion, the taste of Oziri's herbs was back in my throat. I hacked, leaned, spat. Heard onlookers discussing the origins of the scar carved into one set of ribs. I wanted badly to tell them Del had been the one to put it there so they'd understand she was indeed a legitimate sword-dancer, but I decided against it. Anything that demoted me from jhihadi could well end in my execution, if I believed Oziri's explanation that anyone else in Vashni territory was put to death. And I had no reason to disbelieve him. One had only to look at all the human bones hanging around the necks of men and women alike.
I turned to follow the departed Del, found a warrior standing in my path. 'Oziri,' he said merely.
Numerous refusals ran through my mind. All of them were discarded. Glumly, carrying a naked blade, I followed the warrior.
