“So,” I continued, “you can give the two-thirds share of the profits to Alric. He and Lena will be looking after Sula, and there are no students at the moment. They’ll need the coin.”
Fouad nodded, looking everywhere else save at me. “And if something should happen to you?”
Hah. I figured we’d get around to that. “There’s Del.”
“And to Del as well?—though the gods forbid it should be so.”
He seemed a little happier to assign death to me, rather than to Del. I glared at him. “Then there’s Neesha.”
“And what—”
I cut him off. “If the gods see fit to wipe out all three of us, there’s still Sula. She inherits.”
His face fell. He’d forgotten about her. Ten years before, when I’d first come to Julah, eventually making Fouad’s cantina sort of my headquarters, I’d been traveling solo. Now I had a family of four.
I grinned at him, then drank more aqivi. “Sorry, Fouad. One way or another, you’re stuck with us.”
Gloomily he said, “I suppose it could be worse.”
“Yes,” I agreed cheerfully. “I might have killed you instead of merely taking shares of the cantina.”
That set him to coughing into his aqivi. When he could breathe normally again, he noted nervously that it was time for him to see to his customers.
“I’m a customer,” I reminded him. The aqivi was having an effect. Hot sun, sword-dance, hours past breakfast, meaning a mostly empty belly. “I need food…and water. And a bed.” I usually stayed overnight when I went into town. But generally I didn’t drink so much aqivi. It had been a long time. If anyone challenged—or came at—me now, I would probably lose.
Fouad was startled. “A bed? It’s only afternoon.”
“Late afternoon,” I emphasized. “And since when is it disallowed for a man to take a nap? A man who just faced a much younger man in the circle? And won?”
He considered that a moment, couldn’t find an inoffensive response, and nodded. “I’ll fix a tray. The bed you can find yourself, since you’re in it often enough.” Fouad turned away, muttering in disgust, “The Sandtiger…drinking water. Going to bed in the daytime.”
Yes, the Sandtiger wanted water. And food. And a bed. A bed empty of wine-girls.
Hoolies, I was domesticated.
Rudely awakened by loud knocking at the door, I flung myself out of bed and grabbed my unsheathed sword, coming up ready to fight—until I realized it was unlikely that anyone who wanted to fight me would do me the favor of knocking first.
“It’s me,” said a male voice I recognized.
Not someone come to kill me. Swearing, I opened the door with the sword still in my hand. “What in hoolies are you doing here? And what time is it?”
“Sundown,” Neesha said, answering my last question first, “and I’m here to complain that you’ve treated me like a child.”
Now that my body realized it was not required to defend itself, my heart slowed. Skin prickled as knee-jerk preparedness and tension bled off. I scowled at him as he stood in the narrow corridor. “Couldn’t we have this discussion at home?”
He scowled back. “No.”
“Then how in hoolies have I treated you like a child?”
He did not moderate his tone or accusation. “You challenged that sword-dancer. After I told you not to. After I practically asked.”
Still bearing my sword—the gods knew when another sword-dancer would come for me—I stepped into the corridor, pulled the door closed. “If we’re going to discuss this, let’s take it into the common room. At least a man can get a drink as he explains the details to his son, who’s entirely incorrect.” I was still without burnous. Still in sandals—which I’d neglected to take off when I fell into bed; still in dhoti, harness, earrings, and scars.
Neesha let me pass and followed me out past the kitchen. “Fouad said you’d already had a fair amount of aqivi.”
“Yes, I have. Did. But a mug of ale would go down nicely right about now.” Neesha wore a belted burnous. I saw him consider taking his off as well, so he could show off his harness and well-conditioned body, but he decided against it.
“Get whatever you want,” I said, “and bring a mug over to me. I’ll find us a table.” At sundown, there were plenty of men scattered throughout the common room. No tables available, but I carried a sword and looked rather intimidating. As expected, two men got up from a corner table almost immediately and retired to one of the deep window sills. I liked it when they did that.
I hooked out a stool and sat down, putting my back to the angled walls. Fouad had lighted the table candle cups in preparation for nightfall. I balanced the sword across my lap beneath the table.
The wine-girls were out in force. They knew better than to approach me—they’d given up on that, thanks to Del—but Neesha was a different story. He politely declined two of them while waiting at the bar for Fouad’s attention; after that, disappointed, they left him alone and found other companions.
He came back with two mugs of ale, foam slopping over the rims. He’d never been much for aqivi. He thumped mine down in front of me, sloshing liquid to the table, and found himself a stool. “Fouad said you fought that sword-dancer.”
“Did Fouad also say I didn’t do the challenging?” Neesha’s brows ran up in surprise. “Ah, you didn’t bother to ask. You just decided.”
My son, delaying a response, drank down several gulps of ale. “Well…I thought that was why you left for town.”
I owed him the truth. “Yeah, sort of. Kind of. But mostly, really, it was for supplies. I just thought I’d deal with both.”
Puzzled, his observation was part question. “But you didn’t challenge him.”
“I did not.”
After a moment of consideration, he asked. “Why didn’t you?”
I smiled. “Because I decided you need to dance your own dances, and learn your own lessons. Such as being certain there’re no horse piss puddles in the circle. Or rain. Or spit. Or anything else wet. I thought I’d taught you that already. Did you forget?”
He had the grace to look abashed. “He annoyed me.”
“He made fun of you,” I translated. “I know, because he tried it with me, too.”
A corner of his mouth jerked wryly. “But you won your dance.”
I sucked down ale, wiped the foam from my upper lip. “You’ll win plenty. Hoolies, next time you come into town in harness—on a wagon—you might just prevail over the fool who annoys you.”
He shifted on the stool. “Well, at any rate, I have a suggestion for the school.”
Neesha was always full of suggestions. Some of them, occasionally, were even good ones. “Yes?” I asked warily.
“You need to offer a circle with piss puddles in it.”
I blinked, then laughed aloud. “Well…yes. So I do.”
Neesha’s smile faded. “Did you tell him? That sword-dancer?”
More ale slid down my throat. “Tell him what?”
“Who I am?”
“What, that you’re my son? No. He didn’t even know who I was, until he saw the bits and pieces and knitted them together. Scars. Missing fingers.” I shrugged. “You know. I was just a farmer in harness driving a wagon, aping sword-dancers.”
“That’s what he said about me,” Neesha observed gloomily.
“Yes, well, I don’t think Khalid is exactly original. But at any rate, he probably won’t make fun of anyone resembling us for a while.”
Tension flowed out of his body. “All right. Good. I’m glad you didn’t challenge him. It would have been hard to swallow.” His attention began to wander. Ale was no longer worth his concentration; neither, apparently, was his father.