Neesha glanced at the bandaged limb. “Well,” he muttered, “yes.”
I noted his red-rimmed eyes. “Didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?”
He twisted his mouth. “None.”
“That’s to be expected.” Even without a sword in my hands or a circle around my feet, I felt like a shodo. “This won’t be the first time, so you’d best get accustomed to it.”
“Or else become quicker? Better?”
I smiled. “That helps. In the meantime, have Del look at it again, rebandage it. She’s got some salve that will help the swelling.” I paused, then asked the question he’d been waiting for. I kept my tone even, putting no emotion into it. “Why did you lose?”
He very nearly flinched. But he did not avoid the question, nor the lesson I was teaching. “I slipped.”
“Barefoot?”
“Of course.” Sandals could turn on a foot, interfere with motion. Before a dance, they were always removed, as was the harness. We danced nearly naked, clad only in a dhoti.
“Footing?”
“Dirt.”
“Where?”
“In front of the cantina. Your cantina.”
“Why did you slip?”
It took him a moment to answer. Color crept into his face. But he did not avoid my eyes. “A puddle,” he said, “of horse piss.”
A puddle of horse piss. It appeared both of my children had an affinity for such puddles. “Why on earth was there a puddle of horse piss inside the circle?”
Neesha sighed. “I let him draw the circle.”
“So he knew where it was, how to avoid it, and how to force you into it.”
He nodded.
“Well,” I said, “you’ve learned to always be certain of the footing before the dance commences.”
His tone was grim. “I have.”
I nodded. “This happens, Neesha. It’s all part of being a sword-dancer. You’ll get cut. Even stabbed, sometimes. And you will lose.”
He nodded, not meeting my eyes. Then, realizing that I might infer from it something he didn’t want inferred, he raised his head and looked me square in the eye. “I’ll see Del.”
“It won’t interfere once it’s healed,” I told him. “It’s flesh, not muscle.”
His tone was dry. “I guess you would know.”
I smiled crookedly. “Oh, yes.”
With a lifted chin, he indicated the sword hilt showing above my shoulder. “You’re in harness.”
“I’m often in harness when I go into town.”
He couldn’t argue with that, much as he wanted to; it was true. His eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”
One might observe that made no sense, except I knew exactly what that single word meant. It was less an instruction than a request. Maybe even a wish. “I’m going for supplies and to talk to Fouad. I don’t want him robbing us blind while we’re off on our adventure.”
He wanted to say more. He did not.
“Go see Del,” I reminded him. “Have some breakfast while you’re at it. Healing wants fuel.” And before he could reply, I turned on my heel and left him.
Of course I wanted revenge. What father wouldn’t? But I knew very well I should not seek it out. Neesha needed to learn to defend himself, which he had not, in this instance, done very well, unfortunately. But only a fool believes he will remain undefeated. I’m no fool, and I’ve been defeated.
Though not often.
I’d left the canyon behind. Now the sun burned, unhindered by high walls. It was never cool in the South except for nights. In what we called winter, a desert could be downright cold once the sun went down. But whenever I was moved to complain of the chill of some nights, I kept my mouth shut. I’d been to the North. That was cold. Winter there was full of snow and ice.
Though it was early morning, the rattle of the wagon upon the rough track and the jingling of horse harnesses lulled me into a desire for more sleep. Maybe what I should do, once I reached Julah and the cantina, was appropriate one of the rooms in back for a nap. The girls wouldn’t be needing the rooms till evening.
Del was not happy about the “cantina girls”—women who spent nights with men for coin. She’d argued about it in her firm, deliberate, logical way, saying it was not necessary to make coin from women. But she was outvoted by Fouad and I. We explained that this was how cantina girls supported themselves, and they’d just go to other cantinas if we turned them out. At least in our establishment the girls were not beaten or required to work when they didn’t wish to, and though the cantina took a cut of their earnings, it was a lesser cut than elsewhere.
Not entirely convinced—she said we were men and thus were biased in favor of slaking our desires (I’d never heard it put that way, but decided it was accurate)—she took the girls aside and discussed the matter with them. I don’t know what was said, but though Del still disapproved, she said no more about it. I guess she’d been reminded that women in the South had few choices, and this choice was theirs.
Over the past two years, the route to and from Julah and the canyon was used more frequently and was therefore more passable. Mehmet and his aketni—his religious sect—went into Julah regularly, as did Alric and his family, as did Del and I as well as our students; traders happened by now and again. Because of the improved footing, it was now a matter of half a day’s drive in a wagon. Less, if you rode a horse.
I reached the old lean-to, still in use by others now and again—I couldn’t help but smile wryly. Much had happened here. Del had been attacked by a sandtiger, nearly losing her life; that she hadn’t was more thanks to Neesha’s care than to my own, though at the time neither Del nor I had a clue he was my son. Like me, she still bore claw marks as souvenirs. And I’d been kidnapped by Rafiq, back when Umir the Ruthless had placed a bounty on my head. Since I was no longer considered a true sword-dancer and thus worthy of the honor of the circle—I’d sworn elaii-ali-ma, breaking all of the oaths sworn at Alimat, where I had learned my trade—I was merely a valuable captive to whomever managed to catch me and haul me off to Umir’s place.
I’d been hauled, all right; dirty, sunburned, sick from my own share of sandtiger venom, leather tied around wrists and throat, and delivered to fastidious Umir for what was and what wasn’t a sword-dance. Umir didn’t care about Alimat or honor codes; he just cared about hiring the best and figured one way to find the best was to hold a tournament of sorts, sword-dancer against sword-dancer. Whoever won would face me—to kill me, of course, to kill the man believed by many to be the best sword-dancer the South had ever known. (Though, as might be expected, some disagreed with that.) Nonetheless, plenty had wanted to kill me just to do it, and a fair number because of the codes and oaths I’d broken. The problem was, none had succeeded. I’d won the dance. And departed with all alacrity, Alric riding with me.
Now here I was—here we were—living less than a day’s ride from Julah. It had been a peaceful two years, as these things go, with much to be taught and learned: a daughter taught to walk, a son to dance, a man to be a father, and a woman a mother.
But still.
I looked at the lean-to, let the memories flow and wondered, then, whether the man in Julah who’d challenged Neesha had done it because Neesha was my son or just because he believed it would provide entertainment. There were sword-dancers who were bullies, who might well think it amusing to challenge a young man who wore a harness and sword but rode into town on a supply wagon.