The snap of command in my voice obviously surprised him. “You’re bleeding. And you look like you might topple over any moment.”
“Probably I am. But don’t touch me.”
“Later, Neesha,” Del said quietly. “And you have your own cuts to tend.”
“Only three,” he said.
She sounded amazed. “You counted?”
“Three that I could see.”
Gods above and below, my son was counting his cuts.
At Mahmood’s wagon, Del took the reins from his hand. She untied the saddle pouches on her gelding, then handed over all the horses’ reins to Neesha, except for his bay. “Take them where they were last night,” she said.
His voice was full of surprise. “Are we staying?”
“We’ll leave tomorrow morning,” she told him firmly. “Now go. We’ll see to all three of your terrible, gaping wounds when you have returned.”
Suddenly concerned, I asked him, “Are you all right?”
“He’s fine.” Del shooed Neesha away, then pointed to Mahmood’s wagon as she tied off the bay. “Up. Now.”
“I have a better idea,” I said, “how about I just sit on the tailgate.”
“Up. In.”
I climbed up. In.
Del followed. “Sit.”
When she was in a dictatorial mood, the better part of valor was to do whatever she said. I made my way to the sleeping platform, turned, sat on the edge. Only then could I plant my elbows, hands held upright, and bow my head, trying to regain composure, to acknowledge and bear the pain. With Del, I need hide nothing.
I swore. Cursed. Gritted my teeth. Fingers—and lack of—throbbed. My thigh muscles quivered under flesh. The strength and power that burned so hot in the circle ebbed once out of it and, eventually, was extinguished. But in the meantime I trembled from extreme exertion ended so abruptly, from the magnitude of the effort. I felt diminished, dull, almost unspeakably exhausted.
“He pushed me.” My throat was dry, my voice raspy. “He pushed me to the edge. Right to the edge.”
“But not over it,” said my bascha.
I wiped the heel of one hand against my forehead, scrubbing away crusty hair. Winced as it stung my hand. I examined the stumps of two little fingers. My wrists ached. “No, not over the edge. But closer than I ever want to be again.”
After a moment, Del said, “It was beautiful, Tiger. The dance.”
Annoyed, I declared, “It was nothing of the sort.”
“Well, maybe not near the end. But when you began…oh, it was beautiful up till, well…”
“When I lost my sword, you mean?”
“You recovered it. I don’t think anyone else could have.” She rummaged in the saddle pouches. “I have medicaments. Ointment, bandaging. I don’t see that you need stitching.”
I was, at long last, breathing easily and no longer swearing, cursing, or gritting my teeth. “Why is your lip swollen?”
“I bit it.”
“Ah, did Darrion manage to reach you?”
“I bit it watching you dance. At the last, when he brought down his sword so hard, so fast.”
For the first time, I met her eyes squarely. I saw in them the simple comprehension of a sword-dancer who knew precisely how hard the dance had been, how close I had come to losing, to dying, and what it had taken out of me. She knew. I had been there before. So had she, on Staal-Ysta, when we’d nearly killed one another.
“I’m fine,” I told her. “Cuts and slices heal. And maybe by next year, my hands will stop hurting.” I drew in a breath, blew it out sharply. “You won, I take it?”
“I won.”
“Swiftly.”
“Immediately.”
I grinned. “Do you suppose Darrion learned anything?”
She took from one pouch a small stoppered pot. “Oh, he learned a great deal. He learned it’s probably best that he find other employment.”
I snickered, then let it die. “And Neesha won?”
“No. But he did better than his last dance. He didn’t step in any horse piss this time.” She pulled a roll of soft muslin out of the pouch. Then she looked up at me, smiling a little. “Eddrith was simply more experienced. Neesha did well against him.”
“And the woman’s husband?”
“Sit up straight on the edge of the platform. Put your hands on your head. I want to reach all of your cuts.” I dutifully put my hands on top of my head. She began spreading ointment on all the nicks, cuts, and slices. I began swearing again.
“Bascha—”
“Be quiet. You say the same things every time I do this for you, and I’m weary of the complaints.”
“But bascha—”
“Be quiet.” She moved from cut to cut. “The woman’s husband was satisfied. Especially as his hired sword-dancer won. He wanted Eddrith to kill Neesha, but Eddrith explained that he’d do no such thing. Honor was served. Here—move a little.”
I moved a little. “Is Neesha terribly disappointed?”
“Not terribly, no. And he had no time for it, anyway. As soon as he yielded, he was at the edge of your circle. So was Eddrith.”
“How badly is he cut?”
“Eddrith?”
“No, not Edd—oh. Hah. See me laugh.”
“Turn sideways.” She was never gentle unless I was badly hurt, and wasn’t gentle now. “No, he wasn’t cut badly. He did break most of the stitches I’d put in his forearm before we left, so I’ll have to restitch. Which will not please him. The other four cuts will heal on their own.”
“Four cuts? He said three.”
“Neesha is like his father. He lies when pain is involved. Extremes, always: ‘Oh, it’s nothing’ when it really is something; or ‘oh, I’m miserable, see how injured I am’ when all you want is attention.” She pressed the end of the muslin roll against my chest. “Hold that.”
As I did, she fed out the roll and wrapped my torso where the worst of the cuts were. A few bled through slowly, sluggishly, which meant Del would be pulling wrappings off along with scabs. “There. Done. Here’s a cloth; you’re crying salt tears from the sweat.”
I opened my mouth to say something even as I wiped my forehead and face, blinking sweat-scoured eyes, but forgot whatever it was as Neesha climbed into the wagon. He bent to avoid brushing his head against the canopy.
“Horses distributed.” He sat down on the plank floor. “And I brought the aqivi.” He displayed the bota.
“For medicinal purposes,” Del said firmly, scowling at us both. Then I saw the gleam kindle in her eyes. “Your turn,” she told Neesha. “There’s stitching to be stitched, ointment to apply, wrapping to be wrapped. Your share of aqivi must wait.” She took the bota from him and handed it to me even as Neesha protested. “Tiger, get off the platform. Neesha needs to rest his arm on it while I stitch.”
“Cruel, cruel woman.” Mostly what I felt now was sheer exhaustion, and it was topping pain. I stood up slowly, inventing new curses as I made my way past Neesha to the end of the wagon. “I’m wounded, and I’m old.”
“Drink your aqivi,” Del said severely.
I sat down carefully and did exactly that. And listened to Neesha swear, which was far more entertaining than when I did it myself.
Chapter 21
DEL HAD COME THROUGH HER DANCE UNSCATHED, which wasn’t particularly surprising in view of her opponent. Neesha hissed and muttered now and again as he moved, stretching cut flesh. Del had wrapped his forearm after re-stitching it. It would, she informed him, cause “a beautiful scar,” two cuts in nearly the same place.
Mahmood had assigned a driver to build a fire ring for us, to lay kindling and light it. He’d also provided food and water. Blankets down, Neesha, Del, and I pillowed our heads on saddles.