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Eddrith had gone down the central walkway. Zayid had gone through the wagons. The people, thanks to Eddrith, had moved, pressing against wagons and trade stalls. I took that route, faster, free of flesh-and-bone impediment. I wanted to kill Zayid. I did not wish to kill innocent people.

The ground was mostly dry on top, mud stiffening beneath the sun. But horses are heavy, and the stud, as he ran, dug up clumps. It slowed us. More fair-goers had walked here, digging hollows. The stud broke through into damper mud beneath. I could feel it in his gait: a heaviness in his hooves, occasional slippage.

Zayid broke out of the wagons well ahead of us. I swore as the stud stepped on the lead-rope. It didn’t foul his legs, it didn’t jerk his head down when he came to the end of it. He did not fall. But it slowed him nearly to a stop.

Swearing, I leaned forward, set my blade under the lead-rope as he moved, and tossed it toward the saddle. I took no time to tie it to the pommel; I grabbed it in my left hand and added it to my reins. Now we were free.

We had lost momentum, and Zayid was farther ahead of me. He glanced back once, saw me, quickly turned his mount back into the wagons. I did the same, hoping to catch up to him if he emerged again. I held the sword crosswise over the stud’s neck, keeping it out of the way, yet close enough to swing it back at need.

Three wagons ahead, Zayid once again took a sudden turn between two of them. I heard a crash of metal pots, bowls, mugs and couldn’t help but wonder, oh so briefly, if that wagon belonged to Eddrith’s uncle the tinsmith.

I rode one more wagon down, cut right, sent the stud down the main avenue again. Zayid crashed through wares for sale, but the stud had gained on him by a length. Across the walkway Zayid charged through stalls on the other side. He, too, held a sword in his right hand, guiding his horse one-handed as he dug into his mount’s ribs with his heels. Unlike me, he wore boots; kicking would have greater effect.

“Go on,” I told the stud. “Go on, boy. Let’s catch that son of a Salset goat.”

The stud responded. I reined him right, rode through two wagons, broke out on the other side. We’d gained a length. I saw the flash of Zayid’s face as he glanced back. He dug in heels again to gain more speed.

“He’s yours,” I told the stud, who had killed a man before. “All yours, old son.”

Zayid once again rode through the tight spaces between wagons, this time to the left. I did as well, swearing as the stud made a misstep and crashed through stacks of wooden fruit basket containers, all full. We were back on the main walkway. We cut the corner closely and my head collided with hanging windchimes; some came down while others rang crazily.

By that sound, Zayid knew where we were, knew how close. We had gained yet again, the stud and I. I lifted my sword, holding it up in the air.

The red-haired raider reined in sharply. He spun his mount toward me, lifting his sword as well.

Too close…too close to stop…

Zayid dropped off his horse. I knew what he meant to do. From below, he could take the stud by driving his sword up into the chest; going right through ribs to the heart; cutting viscera to pieces. The stud would collapse, and as I tried to save myself Zayid would have me. But he had to take the stud first, or his plan wouldn’t work.

I did not want the stud to stop. I kicked harder than ever, drove him on with words. I did not intend to avoid Zayid.

I shook my left foot free of stirrup. Clamped left hand on the pommel. Leaned down to the right, riding sideways, left leg a counter balance across part of the saddle’s seat. One hand held most of my weight, some in the right stirrup. It was a precarious position because of my size, but the chance was worth the risk. Suddenly, Zayid didn’t have the advantage of using his blade on the stud. I was in the way.

We thundered down upon him, my boy and I. I swung the sword like a scythe.

I took Zayid’s head.

Chapter 32

THE STUD RAN ON. I pulled myself up, settled back in the saddle properly. It was then I eased the stud toward a slower gait. When we hit it, I reined in, turned him. Down the walkway, running wild, was Del’s white gelding. Running with him, surprisingly, was Darrion on a gray horse.

Darrion?

“Ease off!” I shouted as they both ran right by me. And to Darrion: “Don’t chase him!”

And then I forgot all about Darrion and the gelding and thought only about Del. Either she was fine and the horse had been startled away—neither he nor the stud had been tied as we dismounted at Zayid’s tent—or she was in trouble.

Zayid’s body lay in the street. I spent no time examining it. I rode by it at a lope, not wishing to duplicate my mad rush down the middle of the walkway. Marketday folk in shock still pressed back against wagons and trade stalls. I caught the sound of a horse behind me, twisted in the saddle, saw Zayid’s loose mount coming up beside me. Loose horses all over, what with those Eddrith had run off after he cut their lead-ropes, and Zayid’s, and now Del’s. I wasn’t worried about any of them; horses are herd animals and, given a choice, will go to other horses once fear faded.

At Zayid’s big tent I heard the sound of swords clashing. While part of me wanted to drop down right in the middle of battle, I knew better. There was yet something to be done, someone Del protected.

I dismounted at the back of the tent. Zayid’s horse shied away, kept on going at a trot, reins dangling. A dead man lay there. I stepped over the body, yanked open the long slit Del had cut, and found Rashida immediately inside, pressed into a near corner as Del fought one of the raiders. Not a good place for a swordfight—too many things to foul a blade or your feet. But often you had no say in the matter.

“Rashida,” I said.

Terrified, she pressed herself harder against the corner. Brown hair, tinted with gold, was loose and tangled. Her clothing was torn. Neesha’s eyes, so large and melting, the color of cider, were fixed on me. “Rasha.” I gestured. “Come away. Let’s get you out of here. Del will deal with him.”

She hesitated a moment. While I wanted to shout at her to get out of the tent, I knew better. The last thing she needed was yet another stranger shouting at her. “Will she kill him?”

That caught me off-guard. “Probably.”

“Good,” she said fiercely. “What about the others?”

“Our plan is to kill all of them.”

And again, “Good.”

“Rasha. Your mother and father are with Sabir and Yahmina. They’re safe.”

I saw immense relief. Then recognition filled her eyes. “You’re the Sandtiger!”

“I am. Now, let’s go!”

This time she came. I sheathed my sword quickly, guided her hastily outside as blades rang, cut the rope at her wrists with my knife, then swung her up into the stud’s saddle.

“The reins,” she said, reaching. I grabbed the dangling reins and pushed them into her hands. I wanted her away from here as swiftly as possible. “Don’t forget to cut the lead-rope.”

She’d grown up on a horse farm; I figured she could handle him just fine. But I asked. “He’s a stallion. Will you be all right?”

She took offense. “I’ve ridden every stallion we’ve ever had at the farm!”

I had to laugh as I cut the rope. I should have known she wasn’t likely to be a fading flower. Not someone who matched wooden blades with her older brother. Knife put away, I unsheathed my sword again. “Go,” I said. “Doesn’t matter where. Just get away from here as quickly as possible. Go to the wagons.” A thought struck me. “I take that back…find the man with the beautiful fabrics and spices. Mahmood. He’ll hide you.” I gave her directions, then slapped a hand on the stud’s rump and sent him away.