I quit whistling. I grinned. Then laughed. I leaned forward in the saddle, speaking to twitching ears. “Hey, old son. Care for a gallop?”
The ears twitched again, trying to sort that out. But he knew exactly what I meant when I leaned down closer and squeezed with my legs.
He trotted. Loped. Then, when I urged him onward, he leaped into a gallop, and we went running, running hard, across the wind-waved grasslands beneath a gentler sun.
There were no borjuni at the stopping place. In fact, there was no one at all, only me and the stud. I swung off, leading him in. It was a considerably smaller well than the one farther south, but there was a low rock surround and a wooden bucket tied to a rope for raising water up. Visits from others had beaten the soil into dust immediately around the waterhole, but it had some substance to it and held foot and hoof prints easily. There was some shrubbery, one broad-leafed tree, and three fire rings. None of the stone surrounds was warm, and all the horse droppings were old. So even if the raiders had been here, it was at least several days ago. And it was entirely possible they had their own encampment elsewhere.
I was in no hurry to return. I pulled the saddle off the stud, wiped him down while he drank from the bucket. The gallop had done us both good. I felt more relaxed than I had for a while. His temper seemed better, also.
Afterward, I stretched, applied thumbs to spine to pop out somewhat noisy kinks, twisted my torso to loosen a few more, and rolled my neck for anything remaining. What I wanted most was a hot bath. I wondered if the horse farm boasted a bathing tent. Neesha wasn’t one to build himself up to others, but from a few matter-of-fact comments he’d made, I got the impression the family lived very comfortably.
Speaking of a bath tent…well, there was no tent available here, but there was water. I appropriated the bucket when the stud was done drinking, refilled it, then took off burnous and harness and poured water over my shoulders to run down chest and back.
As I slicked water over ribs, arms, and legs, it occurred to me to wonder if Neesha, after taking the trouble to track me down two years ago, would stay with me very long, or return to what he had known as home all of his life. I believed he intended to be a sword-dancer, no question. He had the dedication, focus, skills, and raw talent, but by watching him with the horses it was obvious he cared deeply for them. His departure left his stepfather the only male working the farm, unless he’d hired help—which was entirely possible. But what was also possible was Neesha discovering he liked horses better than dancing. And dancing was all I had to offer.
I caught movement out of the corner of one eye even as my ears registered the metallic chip of shod hoof striking stone. I glanced up and saw a man riding in on a blue roan. A mare, I noticed. He wore a sun-bleached, rust-colored burnous. And from behind his left shoulder a sheathed sword poked the air.
Borderer, I guessed. His hair was sandy, skin tanned but not dark, and his eyes, once he rode close enough for me to see, were blue. I thought it likely that beneath the burnous was a well set-up man, judging by the width of his shoulders. Borderers were just that: born of Southron and Northern parents who lived in the northern South and the southern North. Sometimes they looked all Southron, sometimes they looked all Northern, sometimes, as with this man, they were clearly a mix.
I judged him younger than me, but then, that wasn’t unusual among sword-dancers anymore. I’d outlived many, had danced for over twenty years, was old enough to have sired some. After all, there was Neesha.
The borderer nodded at me as I bent down to gather up saddle with attached pouches, blanket, harness, and sword. I hitched everything up on my right hip, leaning away to counterbalance the weight, and walked from the well to give the man room to bring in his horse. I took up residence beneath the lone tree, set down gear, pulled the saddle blanket free and swung it over the stud’s back. I did not touch the harness or sword, but anyone intending harm would note that it was easy for me to yank it out of the sheath and engage with an attacker. But this man was a sword-dancer, not a borjuni. Sword-dancers do not as a rule steal; or if they do, they soon find themselves targets of other sword-dancers who send a message loud and clear: It isn’t tolerated.
However, if you won a death-dance, you were entitled to anything the dead man had.
I swung the saddle over the blanket, settled it, made sure it was positioned properly. Bent, grasped the dangling cinch, pulled it beneath the ribs, up the stud’s side, and ran a long length of leather through it. Then I pulled it tight, doubled over the leather, and ran it through itself. Yanked it snug.
The stranger dismounted, pulled up the bucket hand-over-hand, set it on the ground. Before letting the roan nose her way in, he scooped up water and sluiced it over his face and head. Then he shook water out of his hair and blinked droplets away.
He smiled at me. “I know exactly who you are,” he said pleasantly. “You can’t hide those scars on your face.”
I waited for it.
“My name is Kirit.” he said. “Let’s dance.”
I nodded. Under the circumstances, it had to be asked. “To the win? Or to the death?”
He laughed. “Oh, to the death.”
I bent, slid my sword from the sheath. Straightened, grasping it lightly. Modesty had never been a virtue of mine. But then, arrogance has its place among sword-dancers. Why not use what you have? Or what you can affect?
Or what is wholly true?
I met his eyes. “Are you absolutely certain this is what you want to do?”
“Hah! I think so!”
“No,” I said levelly. “Are you certain? Are you willing—ready—to die?”
Sandy brows rose. “I don’t plan to. That’s your role.”
“This is what you want,” I said clearly. “Is this what you can win?”
“Your life? Oh, I think so.”
He was arrogant. It had its place, and he knew how to use it. You use what you have. Or what you wish to have.
“Ride out of here,” I said gently, “and live another day.”
He laughed. The roan mare nosed his shoulder. “Are there people I should tell when you’re dead?” His brows rose sharply. “Ah, that’s right. There’s the Northern woman. Well, the winner takes it all. Even a woman.”
I left the stud. Left the tree. Walked out into the sun. “Draw the circle.”
Smiling, he agreed.
And eventually, smile entirely banished, he died.
Chapter 14
MAHMOOD’S FOUR-WAGON CARAVAN was right where I’d left it. A small part of me had wondered if they would set out for the stopping place without me. But no. For a wonder, they had actually taken my advice. Though I suppose some might declare it an order, such as Mahmood, Neesha, and Delilah.
The drivers were apparently napping in their respective wagons. Mahmood, Neesha, and Del sat on blankets on the shady side of the first wagon. Del’s gelding and Neesha’s bay, tied behind the wagon, dozed in the sun but woke when the stud whinnied loudly in greeting.
“No raiders.” I halted the stud and swung myself down. “So yes, all of you may now take me to task for being so stubborn.”
Neesha grinned. “Well, we talked it over after you left and decided you were probably right.”
“I usually am.” I looked at Mahmood, still sitting on his blanket. “It will be dusk when we reach the well. If we leave now.” I glanced at Del. “How far is Istamir from this place?”