Which was precisely why I wore a harness and sword but rode into town on a supply wagon.
Chapter 3
IN MY YEARS, in my myriad travels, I’d seen numerous towns and settlements established throughout the South. The guiding force was not geography so much as it was water. The deadly Punja desert was pocked by oases and domains claimed by various tanzeers, yet welcome settlements sprang up on the edges of the Punja, surcease from the remorseless sun and crystal sands. First water was always welcome; after crossing the Punja many were afraid to stray far from water ever again, and so towns slowly appeared as people remained. Wells were dug. Fields were claimed out of scrubby brush and tough desert grasses. Seed was planted. Streets were not so much built as shaped by frequent use, pathways carved out of dirt. Julah was an old town, well-settled. Trade caravans, guided strings of wagons carrying people on their way elsewhere, came through as well as lone travelers. Occasionally people stayed on, adding to the population.
Julah now boasted more than one road as entry and exit. But the ruts mingled with the hoof prints laid down by occasional wagons traveling to and from the canyon and Beit al’Shahar—my version of a training school similar to Alimat, where I had learned—made the track difficult to see unless you were familiar with it. Now and then travelers turned the wrong way and ended up at the dwellings of Mehmet’s aketni. They watered their mounts and teams, sometimes spent the night, but departed the next morning with Mehmet’s directions to Julah. No one new, it seemed, wished to listen to Mehmet preach. Those who had accompanied him across the Punja, however, were devoted to him, their unwavering faith bound to his conviction that I was a kind of messiah. Had I not turned the sand to grass?
Well, no. Magic had done that, when it brought the high, circular tower of stone tumbling down and split the earth asunder, forming a canyon. With grass.
With me.
But nothing was ever said of our canyon, the hidden extension of Mehmet’s, except when young men arrived who wished to learn or to refine the sword-dance. Mehmet and his people had come to recognize and welcome them. To them, Mehmet and his aketni provided directions: Follow the wide stream to the stone shoulder on the right, where it tilts down from the canyon’s rim, and enter a second canyon. Smaller, steeper, surrounded by high walls, save for the narrow entrance. And so they came upon us, looking for learning. Looking for me.
For some time, I drove up and down the narrow byways of Julah: Street of Weavers, Street of Dyers, Tinsmiths, Apothecaries, Renderers, many others, and of course plenty of cantinas. Now and again I stopped, inspected items, bought bags of flour, beans, onions, tubers, sugar, salt, and other foodstuffs. I bought medicaments and herbs, canvas and twine, colorful nubby silk and thread, new-made botas for water, leather saddle pouches, dried meats. I even threw in sweets for Sula.
By the time I was done, I’d been noted by several young men wearing harness and sword. All but one watched me incuriously; they lounged outside cantinas, filled benches, drank spirits, talked among themselves, challenged one another just to pass the time, wagered on the outcomes. When I pulled up in front of Fouad’s, wagon rattling, bits and chains chiming, I became an object of attention. A few horses were tied to the hitching post Fouad had built, but no other wagons. Mine was the only one.
I jumped down, ground-tied the team with a weighted length of leather thong, headed toward the door. There, I paused a moment as if undecided about whether I should go in. A simple matter of delay, allowing bored sword-dancers to see the sword rising from my shoulder. The set of the blade told its own story: a man, though in harness, was buying supplies as if he were a farmer. No self-respecting sword-dancer did such a thing. It made no sense. Perhaps it was arrogance, a farmer attempting to make more of himself than he was. Perhaps he deserved to be taught a lesson.
Young men, all. I heard the snickers, the muttered comments, a few scattered jests, the disdain of healthy, physically gifted young men who fancied themselves above the common man. They could dance. They served tanzeers, hired on as outriders with caravans, challenged one another to keep fit and fast and judge each other’s skills. They did not drive wagons.
Fouad’s was the first stop. It would be most convenient if Neesha’s challenger were here; otherwise I’d be going into every cantina in Julah to down at least one drink. And if I were challenged at the last cantina, it would be a half-drunk Sandtiger he’d face.
But only half.
Fouad was in the midst of serving customers a light midday meal. Most didn’t order food; they were there to drink. But Fouad felt it a courtesy—and a source of income—to make food available, and Del and I, now having the majority say in such things, concurred. Besides, before Del entered my life I’d spent many a day in Fouad’s drinking aqivi, passing the time with cantina girls, and eating his food.
He saw me come in and opened his mouth to speak, but shut it when I gave him the tiniest shake of my head. He went back to serving men at tables, but he was clearly curious about why I did not wish my name spoken in front of the others. As for the wine-girls, there was no need for any of them to address me by name; besides, if they took their attention from the men with whom they shared drink and food, they might well make the men jealous enough to dismiss them.
Eight tables. And a plank bar. Walls built of mud, a slurry of mortar, and tough desert grasses were six feet thick to beat back the sun. Window sills were deep enough that one might sit in them, and often the girls did if between men. Sometimes men did. I had. Shutters were folded open, as no simoom or rain threatened. A small beehive-shaped fireplace built into one corner warmed winter evenings, though it was empty of wood now. Behind the plank bar was a thin lath wall, hiding the oven; a narrow hallway led from the common room through the kitchen and to the small back rooms barely large enough to contain a bed and a clothing trunk. Fouad had kindly knocked out the wall separating the last two rooms so that Del and I, when in town overnight, had more space. He kept himself to one of the small rooms, which left five for the girls.
I slouched up to the bar and leaned there on one crooked elbow waiting for Fouad to return. He did so, dropping the tray onto the divoted wood. His rising eyebrows asked the question. “Aqivi,” I said. Then, as he poured a quarter mug as I indicated, I very quietly asked if Neesha had been in the day before.
As quietly, Fouad said, “He was, yes.”
“And you know he was challenged.”
Fouad put the pitcher away, mouth crimping at one end. “Yes.”
“Here?”
“Yes. But the man isn’t here now, if you’ve come to kill him.”
“I did not come to—” But broke off as my voice rose. I tamped it, muttered between my teeth, “I didn’t come to kill anybody. Hoolies, Fouad, you know better than that.”
He narrowed dark eyes at me, drawing himself up. “I know nothing of the sort. You have done so before. How am I to know what mood you may be in?”
Well, it was true. I had indeed killed in Julah; hoolies, I’d eviscerated a man. Hadn’t been planned, but circumstances demanded it. Now and again, you couldn’t escape that. At least, I couldn’t. “I’m not in a mood.” I filled my mouth with aqivi, felt its familiar bite, swallowed. In fact, I felt it all the way down; it had been a while since I’d had any, and my innards knew it. I cleared my throat. “And I didn’t come to town to kill anyone. I came for supplies.”