Everywhere green, in rolling hills and meadows, freckled by flowers of red and white and yellow. Del and I had ridden to Staal-Ysta in winter. But this was summer, and Istamir was glorious with it.
The young man riding with me wished me a pleasant goodbye, said his duty was done, and rode away. The other three departed as well. Mahmood’s four wagons once again had only three outriders.
“What now?” I asked the merchant. Our job required us to escort him to wherever his destination, but no further.
“To the end of this street, then right. Not far.” He looked at me sharply. “You will be paid the other portion. On my honor.”
I stared at him a moment. “Why would I think you wouldn’t pay us?”
Mahmood shifted and glanced away from me, clearly uncomfortable. “Merchants are sometimes accused of dishonesty.”
“Well, that may be, but I never thought it of you.”
He was a proud man. “Thank you.” Then he gestured, indicating the street ahead of us. “See the cantina sign? The red one with yellow paint? We turn there. Marketfield is behind it, though at some distance beyond.”
Still in formation, we traversed the center of the road. Dirt was soon replaced with hewn stone laid down atop the churned up surface, fitted together into a wide paved street. Shod hooves clopped on stone.
Clearly it was considered perfectly normal for caravans to travel down the middle of the main street. Passersby glanced at the wagons but paid little attention, busy about their own business. “Not much interested, are they?” I observed.
“Oh, they don’t bother until marketday,” Mahmood explained. “Then everyone comes to see and to buy or trade. Marketfair opens tomorrow; I was late getting started on the journey. My men and I will begin setting up tonight, finish tomorrow at dawn, and people will begin coming shortly afterward. Some will buy, some will look, as always. But I expect to sell out of all goods by the end of tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.” He looked up at me. “You will of course return the merchandise carried in your pouches.”
I affected dismay. “And now sword-dancers, like merchants, are considered dishonest?”
Mahmood opened his mouth to answer, thought about it, and offered a small smile. “Never.”
I directed his attention forward with the jutting of my chin. “Red sign with yellow paint.” In fact, it was a red background and painted upon it was a howling wolf.
“Yes,” Mahmood said and worked the reins to begin the turn.
It neared dusk. I was ready for dinner. And some spirits. And a bed with Del in it. And as I smiled to myself, content with my plans, I heard the shout: “That’s Kirit’s roan mare!”
It was a very loud shout. Everyone in the street stopped talking at once and looked at the man who shouted.
Ah, hoolies.
I twisted in the saddle to look, sighing in resignation. As might be expected, he was a sword-dancer. Dinner, drink, bed, and Del would all have to wait.
Chapter 16
I LOOKED AT MAHMOOD. “I think you’d best move on. It seems we have business, and you’re close to this Marketfield anyway. I’ll find you later for our payment and Neesha’s horse.”
The merchant nodded vigorously and called out orders to his drivers. Del and I let the caravan roll on; Neesha held his place upon the roan mare; and once the caravan passed, the three of us gathered together in the midst of the paved street. There was no mistaking what we were, anymore than we could mistake the other sword-dancer for what he was.
He was blond, hair to his shoulders, tall, broad-shouldered. His burnous was a faded green. As expected, the grip and hilts of a sword jutted up from behind his back.
“Northerner,” Del observed. “But young. Nineteen?”
Quietly I told Neesha, “A choice. Give over the mare or fight him for her.” I paused. “Oh, wait—there’s another possibility: Offer to buy her, even though he doesn’t own her. We’ve got the coin.”
Neesha looked at me. I discovered he was smiling. Not a mouth-stretching, happy smile, but a smaller, subtler one. I had the feeling he wasn’t giving up the mare. Or buying her.
Del, to my right, quietly backed her horse a few steps, rode behind me and fell in on Neesha’s left side. It was a silent solidarity and very clear to anyone looking on. Including the Northern-born sword-dancer.
Heedless of the opposition we offered, he strode swiftly across the street and grabbed the roan mare’s near rein. He stared up at Neesha, plainly angry. “This is Kirit’s horse. What are you doing with her?”
Well, there were several possible answers. Kirit sold her to Neesha, lost her in a wager, or was killed. By me. I wondered which Neesha would offer.
Mounted, my son looked down at the man. His tone was delicately shaded with something akin to sympathy, which I found curious. “Was he your friend?”
That was not what I expected. Apparently neither had the Northerner.
“Is,” he corrected. “Kirit is my friend. Unless you say otherwise.”
“I’m very sorry,” Neesha said quietly. “Your friend met with an accident.”
Hmm. Was Neesha going to lie his way out of a confrontation?
“An accident,” the young man echoed. “What kind of accident would result in the loss of his mare?” He flicked a glance at the sword rising above Neesha’s shoulder, then met the rich, honey-brown eyes of my son. “Did you kill him?”
Silence. Well, there was no help for it. “No,” I said. “I killed him.” I glanced sidelong at Neesha, who looked disappointed. “Well, I can’t help it. He asked.”
Naturally the young man’s attention shifted to me. He released the mare’s bridle, took a step toward the stud. The stud didn’t like it. He snaked out his head and snapped at the sword-dancer, who leaped back with alacrity, swearing.
“Sorry,” I said lightly. “My horse is picky about who his friends are.”
The Northerner attempted to recover his composure by yanking his burnous into order. His eyes, a grayish blue, now were empty of fear. Now were full of anger. “Was it a challenge?” he asked curtly. “Or murder?”
It truly caught me by surprise. “Murder? Why in the name of the gods would I wish to murder him?”
The reply didn’t amuse him. “Then I challenge you.”
He didn’t know who I was; he didn’t say anything about it, didn’t look or act like he knew. I was, obviously, just a stranger, a sword-dancer like any other. It was rather refreshing. “Well,” I said, “I don’t think you want to do this. Really. You shouldn’t. It would not be a good thing.”
“My name is Darrion,” he said. “I challenge you.”
I winced. “You might want to think again.”
“I challenge you.”
“Who was the better of you?” I asked. “You? Or Kirit?”
He lifted his chin. “I.”
I sighed. “Darrion, please reconsider. Kirit and I engaged in a death-dance, as might be obvious. It was fair. He lost. There was no trickery, no murder, no anger in me. It was a sword-dance.”
“A death-dance.”
“Well, yes. Kirit made the challenge, and that’s what he insisted on.” I shrugged. “I did give him the option to ride away.”
“He would never do such a thing!”
I nodded. “And so he is dead.”
Darrion flicked a hard glance at Del. This time he registered what she was. He saw her. “Northerner.”