“Sandtiger?” he asked again, hands tucked into voluminous sleeves.
“Sandtiger,” I agreed, still watching the dance.
He sighed a little and smiled. The smile faded; he realized my attention was mostly on the circle, not on him. For just an instant, anxiety flickered in his eyes. “My master offers gold to the sword-dancer called the Sandtiger.”
There was a time I’d have given him my full attention at once. But now Del and I owned two-thirds of a cantina, and earning coin by dancing wasn’t quiet as vital as it had been. “Can we talk later? I’m a little busy.”
“Of great urgency, my lord Sandtiger. My master waits to speak with you.”
I didn’t answer at once. Too much noise. All the indrawn breaths of the onlookers reverberated as one tremendous hiss of shock and disbelief. Well, I could have warned them…I glanced at Del, automatically evaluating her condition. Her face bore a faint sheen of sweat. She was sun-flushed, lips only slightly parted. Her breathing was even. Khalid hadn’t offered her much at all. He lay sprawled in the sand, dust sticking to every inch of bared flesh. His chest heaved as he sucked air.
“He’ll never live this down,” Neesha observed. He looked at the robed, turbanned man. “What business have you?”
“With my lord Sandtiger.”
I couldn’t help but grin at the expression on Neesha’s face as he was dismissed so swiftly.
Del turned and looked at me. The sword hung loosely in her hand. She hunched one shoulder almost imperceptibly—a comment; an answer to my unspoken question on whether she was all right—and then she nodded, only once; an equally private exchange.
I turned back to the messenger. A servant, I was certain, but not just any servant. Whoever his master was, his wealth was manifest. And in the South, wealth is synonymous with power.
“Yes?” I asked.
The hazel eyes were fixed on Del as she cleaned her sword. Onlookers huddled and muttered among themselves, settling bets. None were winners, I knew—not even my foolish son. Only the one wise man who knew her better than most. Many drifted away from the circle entirely, away from the woman who had defeated a man in a supremely masculine occupation with supremely “masculine” skill.
Khalid got up, shook sand out of his hair and, red-faced, inclined his head. Del nodded back, accepting his retirement from the circle.
I smiled a little. The servant looked back at me. He didn’t smile at all. “A woman,” he said. Two words full of disbelief, shock, a trace of anger as well. Underlying hostility: a woman had beaten a man.
“A woman,” I agreed blandly. “And what is it you wish to speak to me about?”
He pulled himself together. “My master extends an invitation for you to take tea with him. I am not authorized to inform you of the employment he has to offer. Will you come?”
Tea. Not one of my favorite drinks. Especially effang tea, gritty, thick, offensive, but customary in the South. Maybe I could talk the man into some aqivi, now that I was drinking it again. But it wasn’t entirely my decision.
I glanced at Neesha, who shrugged. “The horse farm will be there when we’re done. And this might be an adventure.”
I laughed, then looked back at the short man. “There are three of us,” I said. “Including the woman.”
He was torn. Utterly torn. “Will you come without her?”
“I will not.”
He sighed deeply and began to turn away. Then he swung back. A hint of desperation showed in his face. “The woman comes.”
“And me,” Neesha added.
The servant barely looked at him. He gestured expansively, one smooth hand sweeping out of its silken sleeve. “This way, my lord Sandtiger.”
I grinned at Neesha as I followed the man.
Rather than Umir’s sprawling brick palace, this tanzeer currently occupied a series of elaborate tents. And we did not see him immediately. Well, we didn’t see him at all—only I was given the honor of stepping into the man’s presence. And what he desired of me might indeed qualify as one of Neesha’s adventures. But I didn’t think it was one we could accept.
When I was guided back to the guest tent, I found Del and my son ensconced comfortably on low divans, nearly buried in colorful tribal pillows, picking black grapes off a cluster and eating pale green melon chunks.
“You started without me?” Half of me was serious. I sat down on the edge of Del’s divan and began dining on various kinds of fruit. Wine was also offered in a ceramic carafe. I tasted it and nearly spat it out; too sweet for me.
Neesha had no patience. “Well?”
I ate a little more. Then sighed. “He’s the tanzeer of Hafiz, which is where we are. A small domain, yet wealthy; next door to Dumaan, also small, but not wealthy.” The South was full of domains large and small. Basically, it depended on who was strong enough to keep his patch of dirt and sand. “But there might be a slight problem with this. We might want to consider continuing our journey to your mother’s place.”
Neesha frowned. “Why? Coin is coin. Does he want us to kill someone?”
I shook my head.
“Well then,” he said, “what’s the problem?”
“He’s a khemi.”
“Oh,” Neesha said after a moment. “Uh-oh.”
Del frowned at us both. “What? What do I not know?”
I sighed. “It’s a religious sect. An offshoot of the Hamidaa faith. Hamidaa hold majority here in Hafiz.”
She nodded acknowledgment, but the frown didn’t fade.
“Khemi are zealots,” I explained. “They take the word of the Hamidaa’n—the sacred scrolls of the Hamidaa—rather literally.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And what does the Hamidaa’n say?”
I cleared my throat. “That women are abominations, unclean vessels that should not be touched, spoken to, or allowed to enter a khemi’s thoughts.”
Silence. Neesha stopped chewing, waiting for Del’s reaction.
“Pretty conclusive,” she observed after a moment. “Can’t be too many khemi left, if they don’t have congress with women.”
She was taking it better than I’d expected. “I imagine they’ve figured out a few loopholes, since the job involves a son. Ordinarily I’d have turned it down, of course, since I do have some sensibilities, after all, but, well, it’s not entirely up to me.”
Neesha was puzzled. “Just what is this job?”
“We are expected to negotiate the release of this son, who was kidnapped two months ago.”
“Negotiate.” Del nodded. “That means steal back. Who, how, and when?”
“Name’s Dario,” I said. “Soon as possible.”
“Of course,” Del said dryly. “But that’s the who and the when. What about the how?”
“Haven’t gotten that far. I wanted to leave something for you and Neesha to contribute.”
“Hoolies,” Neesha said, reaching for the wine carafe. “I have no idea. Steal back a kid?”
“We stole you,” I reminded him.
“You traded for me,” Neesha clarified. “I’m worth a book.”
“You’re worth a grimoire,” I said. “A book of magic. Better than just a book.”
“Ah,” he said. “Certainly it’s better if my life is worth more than a book.”
Del smiled briefly, but she was more interested in the central topic. “I imagine this khemi had an explanation for why his son was kidnapped in the first place.”