Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 by Jennifer Roberson Read Free Book Online Page B

discounting to winch up buckets. We filled the horse troughs, permitted our mounts to
    drink, then quenched our own thirst and refilled botas. It was early enough in the season that the heat
    wasn't unbearable; but then, we hadn't reached the Punja yet. There was only one season in the Punja:
    hot.
    Del dampened the hem of her burnous and wiped dust from her face. "Tonight I get the bath." Then,
    "How many sword-dancers are likely to be here?"
    I backhanded water from my chin, realizing I needed to shave before we hit the Punja. "Oh, a few."
    "Then we shouldn't stay longer than is necessary."
    "We'll head out first thing tomorrow. In the meantime, except for a visit to Fouad's cantina, we'll
    keep our heads down."
    "Walking into Fouad's, where at any time there may be half a dozen sword-dancers drinking his
    spirits, strikes me as keeping our heads up."
    "Maybe. But we knew we'd face this coming back here."
    Del said nothing. She had not argued when I said I wanted to return home—we had established that
    Skandi, for all my parents had come from the island, did not qualify—but she had quietly pointed out that
    to do so was sheer folly for a man sentenced to death by the very honor codes he'd repudiated. But the
    mere fact that she hadn't argued struck me as significant; I suspected Del was recalling that she was
    exiled from her own homeland and understood how much I needed to go back to mine. Unlike Del, I
    wasn't truly exiled. I wasn't under pain of death if I went back South. Oh, men would try to kill me, but
    that had nothing to do with exile. Just with broken oaths.
    At my behest, we waited until sundown before entering Fouad's cantina. We had in the meantime
    secured lodging in an only slightly disreputable inn with a tiny stable out behind in an alley and had eaten
    at a street vendor's stall. The odors and flavors of spiced, if tough, mutton, sizzling peppers, and pungent
    goat cheese had immediately snatched me back to the days before we left for Skandi. I'm not sure Del
    appreciated that so much, having a more delicate palate—or so she claimed—but it felt like home to me.
    Then I led Del to Fouad's cantina, which was only fitfully lighted by smoking tallow candles on each small
    knife- and sword-hacked wooden table. I selected one back in the farthest corner from the door, a
    windowless nook veiled with smoke from a dying torch stuck in an iron wall sconce, dripping tallow. As
    we found stools to perch our rumps upon, I leaned forward and blew out our candle. Dimness
    descended.
    "Oh, good," Del commented, brushing bread crumbs off the table. "Makes it so easy to see whom
    I'm to stick my sword into."
    "We're not going to stick swords into anyone, bascha."
    "Not even Fouad?" Del really seemed focused on the fact that my friend had betrayed us.
    "Not immediately," I told her. "Maybe for the after-dinner entertainment."
    Fouad, proprietor of my favorite cantina, was a small, neat, quick man of ready smile and welcome.
    Though he had wine-girls aplenty—Silk was working our corner, though clearly she hadn't yet
    recognized me—he enjoyed greeting newcomers personally. He approached the table calling out a
    robust greeting in Southron and offering us the best his cantina had to offer.
    In bad light, wreathed in smoke, shorn of most of my hair, with double silver rings hanging in my ears
    and a tracery of blue tattooing along my hairline, I was no doubt a stranger to him at first glance, as I'd
    hoped. But Del, as always, was Del, and no man alive, having seen her even once, forgot what or who
    she was.
    Or whom she traveled with.
    Fouad stopped dead in his rush to greet new custom. He stared. He very nearly gaped.
    He had, helpfully, placed himself within my reach. I rose, kicking back my stool, and leaned close,
    slapping one big hand down upon his shoulder in a friendly fashion. "Fouad!" I shut the hand, gripping
    him so firmly a wince of pain replaced his shocked expression. "Join us, won't you? It's been a