"We don't have a house to keep and you can't, well …" I realized belatedly that blurting out her inability to have children was not perhaps the most tactful thing. Del loved children. Enough to give her daughter to good people who could care for her when Del, consumed with vengeance, couldn't. "Sorry, bascha."
She shied away from it, not even acknowledging my apology. "I am not like most Southron women," she went on, "but more of them could be like me if they let themselves be free."
"Maybe they're happy the way they are."
"Or maybe they don't know any better because they are trained from birth to be blind to their own ambitions."
"Maybe their ambitions are to keep house and raise children. Lena seems to be happy."
"Lena is happy. But then, Alric is a Northerner; he expects her to be free to express herself. I have no objection to women keeping house and bearing children, Tiger, if that is what they truly wish in their hearts, and not because their men demand it of them. I only object when men won't allow the women who wish to be more to acheive it. To even imagine it."
I thought of Del, Northern born and raised, allowed to learn the sword even before she went to Staal-Ysta to become a sword-singer. I thought of my grandmother, the matriarch of a powerful family, conducting business with ruthless brilliance. I thought of my mother, who willingly left behind that wealth and power to go with the man she loved to a distant land known for its harshness and died because of it.
I sighed. "Maybe I was trainable because I'm actually Skandic, not a Southroner."
"Or maybe you have more flexibility of mind."
"Is that a good thing? If one's mind is too flexible, one never has an opinion of one's own."
"Tiger, you would never let anyone change your opinion until you were certain they were right."
"So, am I inflexibly flexible, or flexibly inflexible?"
She elbowed me in the ribs. "What you are is incorrigible."
"Is that a good thing?"
"Only when I'm in the mood."
I turned to her, wrapped her up in my arms. Lightly rested my chin on her head. "I'm a little too tired, bascha."
"Not that kind of mood."
I smiled into the darkness. "I know."
"He is attractive, Tiger, and not without charm and that sense of presence I mentioned before. But he is not you."
"Next best thing?"
"Well, I suppose if you got yourself killed in a sword-dance tomorrow, I might consider it."
"So as long as I'm alive, you're satisfied?"
"Unless you decided to revert to the Tiger I met in that dusty cantina four years ago. Then I'd have to kill you myself."
Considering she'd nearly done it once, I knew she was capable. "Then I'll be on my best behavior."
"Oh, no, be on your worst. Because then I can train that out of you."
I sighed deeply, rubbing my cheek against her hair. Stubble caught on it. "I want to live to be an old man, with you there beside me."
"So you will, and so I will be."
The truth was, either of us could die tomorrow. But we knew it. Accepted it. Were unafraid.
For ourselves, that is. I know we feared for one another.
THIRTY-ONE
AT DAWN, as the others lay sleeping, I carried the vertebra and rib bone out to where Del had found them. Nayyib had dug up all the visible pieces of wood; hollows and indentations were left to show where he had worked, but the first whisper of wind would cover those up, leaving no trace of the wagon. A few paces away Del had found the bones. I knelt, set the two fragments aside, used the edge of my right hand to ease away more fine sand. After some time I gave up the search; the rest of the bones could be anywhere, carried away in countless simooms over forty years. That any had been left for our discovery was miraculous.
I smiled wryly, remembering that supposedly I was the jhihadi. It was a ludicrous idea—and utterly untrue. I was just a man who seemed to fit pieces of the prophecy certain religious zealots had adopted, and I'd come up with a good idea in channeling water to the desert. But anyone could have come up with that idea. It just happened to be me.
I sat there on the sand, vertebra in one hand, rib in the other. It was very difficult to believe they were from my mother; that with flesh over them, and muscle, tendon, ligament, not to men-tion the vessels carrying blood, they had been part of a living woman.
A living woman who had somehow sent a message to me in my dreams.
But I wished I could have seen her as she had been, before the borjuni raid killed her. When she had been woman, not a scattering of bones across the sand, or a speaking skull telling me to find her, to take up the sword.
I leaned forward, dug a pocket in the sand, pressed the bones into it. Feathered sand over the top. The next storm would bury them more deeply, or strip away the covering so that the wind, in its exuberance, might carry them on a journey.
It crossed my mind that perhaps I should have them sent back to the metri on Skandi, so she might have a little something of her daughter to bury or burn, according to Skandic rites, and to mourn. But my grandmother didn't strike me as the type of woman who would do that. Or appreciate the thought.
Love for my father had brought my mother here. Best they remained together.
I pressed three sword-callused fingers over the slight upswell of sand, bid her goodbye, then left her.
Some time later we rode out of the Punja, onto the road—this time I had no problem heading south—and into Julah. I suggested we put up the horses at a different livery, which we did, then went to Fouad's by way of alleys and entered via the back door. It startled Fouad half to death as we snuck in, but when he saw who it was, he settled. His look at me was oddly assessing; I wondered what he saw. I was still tired from the magery I'd used first on the storm, then to read my mother's bones, and was looking forward to a night's sleep in a real bed. Especially since I'd missed it the last time we were here.
Then Fouad looked at Nayyib, narrowed his eyes as he sought to figure out who he was; his face cleared, and he nodded. He recalled the kid from when he'd come looking for a healer. Del shut and latched the door behind us.
"Food, no doubt, and drink," Fouad said. "Yes?"
"Yes to both," I agreed. "Del and the kid will eat in the front room; how about you send something back to me? I'd rather keep my head down, after what happened the last time.
Fouad's eyes flicked to Nayyib again, clearly questioning his presence. The kid had been taught his manners: He bowed slightly, smiling. "Neesha," he said. "I am privileged to be the Sandtiger's student."
Fouad's eyebrows ran up into his hair as he looked at me. "Student?"
I shrugged, deciding now was as good a time as any to announce my intentions. "I plan to restore Alimat and take up my shodo's role."
"Alimat! But it was destroyed years ago!" Fouad shook his head. "And I doubt the other sword-dancers will let you. Particularly Abbu Bensir."
"If they want to take it up with me, they're welcome to. That in itself would provide a valuable lesson for the students."
"Watching you die? I would say so!" He glanced at Del. "You're amenable?"
Del mimicked my shrug. "Why not? There will be two teachers: a Southron sword-dancer and a Northern sword-singer. What other school may claim that?"
"And one student already," Neesha added.
Fouad wagged his head back and forth thoughtfully. "Well, you will most certainly draw students—until someone kills you."
I scowled. "I appreciate the confidence. Now, how about that food and drink?"