I turned, paused, and gravely offered her the remains of the melon, creamy green in the dying sun. I could not think of a way to explain about the dream. 'It seems—appropriate.'
She was not interested in the melon. ' 'Appropriate'?' Del shook her head. 'Only you would want to go dig up a sword buried under tons of rock, when there are undoubtedly plenty of them here in this city. Un buried.'
Again the answer was in my mouth. 'But I didn't make those swords.'
Which conjured between us the memories of the North, and Staal-Ysta, and the dance that had nearly killed us. Not to mention a small matter of Del breaking, in my name, for my life, the sword that she had made while singing songs of vengeance. Boreal was dead, in the way of broken jivatmas and their ended songs. Samiel was not.
And something in me wanted him. Needed him.
Del said nothing. Nothing at all. But she didn't have to. In her stunned silence was a multitude of words.
I tossed the melon toward a wall. It splatted, dappled outer skin breaking, then slid down to crown a malodorous trash heap tumbling halfway into the street. 'We'll stay the night, buy some serviceable swords and harness, then go to Julah, to Fouad's.' I said quietly. 'A small matter of a debt between friends.'
And the much larger matter of survival.
TWO
DEL WAS a little leery about the two of us striding around Haziz, instantly recognizable to any sword- dancers who'd seen us before. I tried explaining that Haziz wasn't all that popular with sword-dancers, who generally kept themselves to the interior, and that I didn't precisely look the way I used to, thanks to my sojurn at Meteiera, but Del observed that even with short hair, earrings, the tracery of tattoos at my hairline, and no sandtiger necklet, I was still a good head taller than most Southron men, decidedly bigger and heavier, still had the clawmarks in my face—and who else traveled with a Northern sword-singer? A female Northern sword-singer?
Whereupon I pointed out we could split up while in Haziz.
Del, tying on her high-laced sandals as she perched on the edge of the bed—we'd spent the night in a somewhat squalid dockside inn, albeit in the largest room—lifted dubious brows. 'And who then would protect you?'
'Protect me against what?'
'Sword-dancers.'
'I already told you there's not likely to be any here.'
'We're here.'
'Well, yes, but—'
'And you already admitted you needed my protection.'
I was astounded. 'When was that?'
'On the island.' Now she slipped on the other sandal. 'Don't you remember? You were talking about starting a new school at Alimat. I was talking about Abbu.'
Come to think if it, I did vaguely recall some casual comment.
'Oh. That.'
'Yes. That.' She laced on the sandal, tied it off, stood.
'Well?'
'That was pillow talk, bascha.'
'We didn't have any pillows. We had sand.'
'I'm fitter than I've been in months. Leaner. Quicker. You've sparred with me. You know.'
Del cocked her head assessingly, pointedly not observing that I also lacked two fingers. 'Yes.'
'So, you don't need to protect me.'
'Are you prepared to meet Abbu Bensir?'
'Here? Now?'
'What if he is here? Now?'
I gifted her with my finest, fiercest sandtiger's glare. 'So, you want me to hide up here in this pisshole while you go hunting a swordsmith in a town you don't know?'
She was not impressed by the glare. 'You don't know it much better. And I can ask directions.'
'A lone woman? In the South? Looking for a swordsmith?'
Del opened her mouth, then closed it.
'Yes,' I said. 'We're in the South again.' Which was very different from the North, where women had more freedom, and very much different from Skandi, where women ran things altogether.
'I could,' she said, but there wasn't much challenge in it. Del was stubborn, but she understood reality. Even when it wasn't fair.
(Once upon a time she ignored reality, but time—and, dare I admit it, my influence—had changed her.)
'Tell you what, bascha. I'll compromise.'
With excess drama, 'You?'
I ignored that. 'We'll send a boy out to the best swordsmith in Haziz and have him come here.'
Del considered. 'Fair enough.'
'And after that,' I said, wincing, 'I'll have to pay a visit to the stud.'
'Ah, yes,' she agreed, nodding. 'Maybe he'll save the sword-dancers some trouble and kill you himself.'
'Well, since you're so all-fired ready to protect me, why don't you ride him first?'
Del scowled. Grinning, I exited the room to scare up a likely boy to run the message summoning a swordsmith.
The swordsmith's two servants delivered several bulky wrapped bundles to our room as well as a selection of harnesses, swordbelts, and sheaths. Then they bowed themselves out to permit their employer to conduct business. That employer was an older man in black robes and turban, gray of hair and beard but hardly frail because of it. Anyone who spends years pounding metal to fold it multitudinous times trains his body into fitness. A different kind from mine, perhaps, because of different needs, but age had not weakened him. Nor his assessment of customers.
After formal pleasantries that included small cups of astringent tea, he had me stand before him, then looked at me and saw everything Del had described earlier, cataloging details. All of them mattered in such things as selecting a weapon. Most tall men had long legs but short to medium torsos; shorter men gained what height they had in a long torso. I, on the other hand, was balanced. My height came from neither, but from both. I had discovered that in Skandi mine was the normal build. Here in the South, it was not. Southroners were shorter, more slender but wiry, very quick, and markedly agile.
Fortunately, I had been gifted with speed despite my size, and superior strength. Both had served me well.
Now the old man examined me to see what kind of sword would serve me well.
After a moment he smiled. He lacked two teeth. Without a word he turned, knelt, and set aside four of the bundles. He pulled out a fifth bundle I hadn't noticed, much narrower than the others and more tightly wrapped, and began to undo knots.
Del seated on the bed, exchanged a glance with me, eyebrows raised. I shrugged, as baffled.
The swordsmith glanced up, saw it as he began to unwrap the bundle. A spark of amusement leaped in dark eyes. In a Southron dialect I hadn't heard in well over a year, he said, 'It is a waste of time to display my best to undiscerning customers. Then, I begin with the lesser weapons.'
'And I'm a discerning one?'
Tufted brows jerked upward into the shadow of the turban. 'With a body so carved and cut by blades? Yet
