"Well, I suppose they might kill you for sheer hard-headedness, but it ought to get you safely through."
He took the necklet, eyed it in distaste, then hooked it over his head. My elbow gave out and I thumped back to the ground. Shut my eyes. "Do it for Del," I said wearily, "not for me."
Against my lids his shadow shifted. Retreated. "I will try," he told me, "to make certain she doesn't die."
When I opened my eyes, the sun was down. And he was gone.
Wind blows. Sand shifts. It creeps upon the bones, begins to swallow them. Legs. Arms. The collapsed cage of ribs. The jewels that are spine. All that is left is skull. And the sword. "Find me," she says. Could the bones belong to Del? Could she be dead?
I awoke with a start. "Auuggh," I croaked. "Stop with the dreams, already!"
Sweat drenched me. It stank of sandtiger venom. I rolled to my right side, started to use my elbow, thought better of it as the wounds in my back protested. After a moment I made the attempt to sit upright without the assistance of arms. Aching abdominal muscles warned me it wasn't such a good idea, but I managed to stay there. Eventually the world settled back into place.
The dream faded. Reality was bad enough.
I turned my head and spat, disliking the aftertaste of fever and poison. Dry-mouthed, nothing was expelled. I found the bota, rinsed my mouth, tried again. Much better. Then I drank sparingly, recalling the boy's warning regarding how much water was left.
I looked across at the blanketed form. Del did not appear to have roused. I set down the bota, took a deep breath, and made my body move.
Well, such as it could. In the end I flopped down on my belly, head near Del's pallet, and hitched myself up on a forearm.
"Bascha?" I peeled back the blanket with my free hand. Del's face remained slightly blotched, a network of red overlaying extreme pallor. Her swollen lips had cracked and bled. I rested a hand on her abdomen, waited in frozen silence, then felt the slight rising and falling. She breathed.
With effort, I pulled myself upright. Found her bota, shook it, heard the diminished sloshing. I had no idea when Nayyib had been here, when he'd left, or when he might return. For all I knew it was a week after he'd gone. I thought it more likely a matter of hours, though possibly it was the next day.
I hooked my left hand under Del's head and lifted it, placing the bota at her lips. I squeezed and dribbled water into her mouth. This time she swallowed without choking. I settled her head once more again the bedding.
The cloth across her forehead was dry. I wet it yet again, replaced it, cleared away the trickles that threatened her eyes and ears. "I'm here," I told her. "A little the worse for wear, but still here, bascha."
I did not know when Nayyib had changed her bandages. A torn burnous sat in a pile on her bedding, but I didn't recognize it. The boy's, apparently; and the fabric matched that now wrapping Del's forearm, so he had done that much. I peeled back the cloth to bare the bite wound. I bent, sniffed; did not yet smell infection or putrefaction.
So far.
I searched for and found the bota of Vashni liquor. Once again I poured it into the wound.
And for the first time in—hoolies, I didn't know how many days it was since the attack!—Del opened her eyes. They were hazy and unfocused.
"Bascha?"
But almost immediately they closed again.
"Del?"
Her lips moved, but no sound issued from her mouth. Instead of water, this time I dribbled liquor into her mouth.
Below the edge of the cloth, the faintest of frowns twitched her brows. Her left hand stirred, rose. Fingers touched her mouth. Then the hand flopped down to her neck.
I'd forgotten about the cracked lips when I'd given her the liquor.
I swore, stole the damp cloth from her forehead, and pressed it again her mouth. "Sorry, bascha. I didn't think."
I didn't think a lot.
She did not stir again. I took up Nayyib's burnous, made more bandages, wrapped her forearm again. Vashni liquor, I decided, ought to burn the poison out of anything.
I felt then at my own stripes on the back of my shoulder, cutting across the scapula. It was a bad angle, and even twisting my head until my neck complained did not bring the claw wounds into sight, but fingers told the story. The twin stripes were crusted, no longer bleeding. Leaving them alone was the best medicine.
Weariness intruded, as did dizziness. But there was the horse to tend. I drank a little of the liquor, breathed fire for a moment, then stoppered the bota and put it aside. I crawled to the opening of the lean-to, peered blearily out at the world, and wanted very badly to turn around and collapse into sleep—or unconsciousness—once more.
A few paces away, tied to a scrubby tree, Del's horse stood with a black-smeared face. With the detached, exquisite clarity of fading fever, I wondered briefly what Nayyib had thought upon first sighting the paint and fringe.
The gelding saw me and nickered, ears flicked forward.
"Fine," I muttered, "I'm coming. It might take me a day, but I'll get there."
Nayyib had left a water bota and grain pouch by the lean-to. I grabbed both, gathered my legs under me, pressed both arms against the ground, and pushed.
In grabbing the shelter roof to steady myself, I nearly brought it down. I let go, took a step away, and almost fell flat on my face. I saved myself from doing so only because most of me would have landed in the fire ring, and that was not a particularly favored destination.
The gelding nickered again.
Sun stabbed into my eyes. A lurking headache flared into existence. Everything, from bones and muscle to skin, ached unremittingly. I drew in a breath, set my teeth, and began the horren-dously lengthy and perilous journey to the gelding, all of five paces away.
Upon reaching him I grabbed a hunk of mane to hold myself upright. "Hello," I said sociably, hoping he wouldn't move. "Nice weather we're having, isn't it?"
He blinked a white-lashed blue eye and nosed at the bota.
"Coming," I muttered, working at the stopper. Once free, I upended the waterskin and drained the contents into the canvas bucket. The gelding dipped his head and began to drink. I hung onto the curve of his withers, wondering if I could make it back to the lean-to. Possibly the gelding would have company tonight, right where he was.
Except Del was there. I'd make it back.
Done drinking, the gelding lifted his head. Clinging to him one-handed, I took the opportunity to relieve myself. The sharp tang of venom expelled with urine made the gelding shift uneasily.
"Not now," I suggested fervently, readjusting my dhoti. The gelding obliged. I thanked him with a pat, then opened the grain pouch and poured a handful into the empty water bucket. He needed good grazing, but there wasn't any. For now, this had to do.
I did not look forward to the journey back to the shelter. "One step an hour ought to get me there," I told the horse.
But he was no longer paying me any mind. He'd drawn himself up, head lifted, and pealed out a whinny of welcome. Steadying myself against his neck, I turned, expecting to see Nayyib. Relieved that I'd see Nayyib. He was bringing the healer.
And indeed, I saw Nayyib. Along with three other men on horseback. Nothing about them resembled healers. In fact, everything about them resembled sword-dancers.
Especially since I knew one of them.
He was highly amused. "Sandtiger." All his handsome white teeth were on display. "You look terrible."
I glared. It was all I could manage. "What do you want, Rafiq?"
"You."
Figured. I sighed, squinted at him, hung onto the gelding. "How about we skip the sword-fight and name you the winner," I suggested. "Right about now, as you can see, I'm not really up to a match. There'd be no challenge in it. As I recall, you like to tease an opponent for an hour or two before defeating him. Hoo-lies, I'd go down in the blink of an eye. No fun for you."