Sword Born

TWENTY

Winehouses the world over, whatever they may be called, bear a striking resemblance to one another. There are almost never any windows, no source of natural light; illumination is left to lamps, lanterns, candles fueled by bad oil, worse tallow, and cheap wicks. Each winehouse smells the same, too: of whatever liquor is served, of oil, smoke, grease, the tang of unwashed bodies, cheap perfume, and bad food, be it on the table, in the body, or issuing therefrom at either end.

As Del had predicted, this portion of the city was indeed pretty much comprised of winehouses every other building. The molah-man deposited us at the end of a beaten, stony pathway that wound its way through the moon-washed buildings, possibly even leading into alleys full of horse piss. From there we walked.

"Pick a place, any place," I muttered.

Del obliged. "This one."

In we went. And to a man — and even to the women — everyone stared.

In the South, in the Desert, it would have been me they stared at. But here in Skandi I looked very much like everyone else. It was Del they stared at.

But then, everyone stares at Del every chance they get.

"Hawks," I muttered, "weighing out the flesh."

I felt Del’s amusement. "Enough flesh on this rabbit."

"But tough," I said disparagingly.

She grinned. "Do you see him?"

"No. But let’s ask around." I eyed the crowd and raised my voice. I knew next to nothing of Skandic, save three important words. "Herakleio," I announced. "Stessa. Metri."

Nothing. Except for stares. Only eventually did the discussions began, low-voiced, curious and suspicious. But none of them was addressed to us, and no answers were forthcoming.

"Next?" Del murmured.

Next indeed. And the next after that, and the next after that.

"Why," I complained as we headed to Winehouse Number Five, "did we not bring Simonides with us? He speaks the lingo."

"Or the captain."

"Or even the metri."

Del laughed. "I doubt she would have come!"

"Maybe what she needs is a night out on the town."

"You’re talking about the woman who may well be your grandmother, Tiger."

"Well, who says she wouldn’t enjoy it? Especially if she’s my grandmother."

"Here." She gestured to another deep-set door. "Shall we ask —"

Del never got to finish her question because a body came flying out of the winehouse.

"This could be the place," I murmured, as the body picked itself up off the ground. Since it was right there, convenient to queries, I took advantage of the moment. "Herakleio," I said, "Stessa metri."

The body staggered, stared at me blearily, wobbled its way back into the winehouse. Sounds of renewed fighting issued from the place.

"Could be," I muttered, and stepped up close to the open doorway.

Del cleverly used me as a shield against anything else the doorway might disgorge. "Do you see him?"

"Not yet. He could be in the middle of it, or else not here at all."

"Do you want to go in?"

"Not until the bodies and furniture stop flying around."

They did, and it did, and eventually I poked my head in warily.

"Well?" Del asked.

"Not that I can tell. Just the usual mess." I withdrew my head. "I don’t know that he’d be here in the dregs of the town, anyway."

"The molah-man was told to bring us to the places Herakleio habituates."

"Well, it could be that he likes to rub rump and shoulders with the scum of the world —" I stepped back quickly as someone punctuated the end of the fight by hurling a broken piece of chair in my direction. Or possibly part of a table. "— or not," I finished hastily, picking splinters out of my hair. "Let’s move on. I don’t see him in here."

A little later as we walked the circuitous tracks throughout the city, poking our heads inside various winehouse doors, Del made the observation that perhaps I was not feeling myself. After assuring her I did indeed feel very much myself, I inquired as to what prompted that observation.

"Because you’re not drinking in any of these wine-houses."

"Possibly because I don’t know enough of the language to ask for a drink."

"Oh, surely not," Del retorted. "No man I ever knew needed to speak the language to ask for liquor."

"And how many men is that?"

"No man I ever saw," she amended.

"It takes less time to look and ask if I don’t drink."

"That is true — but truth never stopped you before." She picked her way around a pile of broken pottery. "Could it be that you’re taking your task seriously?"

"Which task is that?"

"To teach Herakleio."

I ruminated over that a moment. "I don’t really care about Herakleio. But the metri… well, I do owe her a debt."

"Especially if she is your grandmother."

"Of course I could argue that you owe her the coin."

"Why?"

"It was you her coin bought free."

"I thought it was you her coin bought free."

"She could have refused to pay Captain Rhannet and her first mate anything. I’d have still been a guest in the household — or perhaps a despicable interloper sent swiftly on my way — but you would have remained a prisoner on the boat."

"Ship. And since the captain asked me to join her crew, I’m not so certain I’d have continued being a prisoner."

"You? A pirate?"

"Certain of my skills appear to be better suited for such a role than, say, a wife."

"Stealing from innocent people?"

"They stole from us," Del observed. "Coin, swords, the wherewithal to earn and buy more. There are those in this world who would claim we lost our innocence many years ago."

I would not debate that. "But you don’t steal, Del."

"There are those in this world who would claim I steal lives from others."

"You don’t steal anything but men’s peace of mind."

"I refuse to accept responsibility for what you say I do to men’s minds," she declared testily. "And if men thought with their minds more often than that —"

"— which dangles between our legs," I finished for her. "But I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about how you challenge entrenched customs, ways of thinking. I was perfectly content to go on about my business as a Southron man before you came along."

"And now?"

"Now I can’t help but think about how unfair a lot of Southron men are where women are concerned."

"Oh, truly you are ruined," she mourned dolefully.

"Surely the men of the South will exile you from the ranks of manhood for thinking fair and decent thoughts about women."

"Surely they will," I agreed gloomily. "It’s hard to be good when everyone else is bad."

"Good is relative," she returned. "But you are better."

"And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"You don’t often have anything good to say about men in general, or me specifically."

"There could be a reason for that."

"See? That’s what I’m talking about."

She considered it. "You may be right," she said at last, if grudgingly. "It’s very easy to say things about men."

"Unfair things," I specified. "And you do."

"I suppose that yes, it could be said I am occasionally unfair. Occasionally."

"Does that make unfairness fair?"

"When the tally-sticks are counted, it’s obvious who wins the unfairness competition. By a very large margin."

"Does that make it right?"

Del cast me a sidelong scowl, mouth sealed shut.

"Point made," I announced cheerfully; another notch in my favor for the tally-stick. Then, "Would you really consider being a renegada?"

"When one has no coin, and no obvious means to make any, one considers many opportunities."

"Ah-hah!" I stopped so short Del had to step back to avoid running into me. "That’s the first sign of sense you’ve shown, bascha."

"It is?"

"You always were so hoolies-bent on doing things your way no matter what that you never stopped to consider the reason a lot of people do things in this world is because they have no other choice."

"What are you talking about, Tiger?"

"I’m talking about how often you suggest my plans and ideas are not the best alternatives to the plans and ideas you believe are best."

"Because mine are."

"Sometimes."

"Usually."

"Occasionally."

"Frequently."

"You are a mere child," I explained with pronounced precision, "when it comes to judging opportunities and alternatives."

"I am?"

"You are."

"Why is that?"

"You’re twenty-two, bascha —"

"Twenty-three."

"— and for most of those twenty-three years you never had to think even once about how best to win a sword-dance, or beat off a Punja beast, survive simooms, droughts, assassins —"

"Kill a man?"

"— kill a man, and so forth." I shrugged. "Whereas I, on the other hand, have pretty much done everything in this world there is to do."

"But that’s not because you’re better, Tiger."

"No?"

"It’s because you’re old."

Even as I turned to face her, to explain in eloquent terms that being older was not necessarily old, a body came flying out of the nearest winehouse door. It collided with me, carried me into the track, flattened me there. With effort I heaved the sprawled body off me and sat up, spitting grit from my mouth even as I became aware that most of my clothes were now soaked. Even my face was damp; I wiped it off, grimacing, then caught a good whiff of the offending substance.

"Horse piss?" Del inquired, noting my expression.

No. Molah. I got up from the puddle, grabbed hold of the body that had knocked me into it, preceded to introduce his face to the puddle.

Of course, he wasn’t conscious, so he didn’t notice.

"Oh, hello," Del said brightly. "We were looking for you."

I turned then, straightened, saw him standing there in the doorway, looking big, young, strong, insufferably arrogant, and only the tiniest bit wrinkled.

"Ah," I said. "About time. Come along home, Herakleio, like a good little boy."

The good little boy displayed an impressive array of teeth. "Make me," he invited.

"Uh-oh," Del murmured, and moved.

"Feeble," I retorted.

Herakleio raised eyebrows. "Yes. You are."

"Oh, my." Del again.

"No," I said. "Your attempt at banter. And unoriginal to boot."

"Unoriginal?"

"It’s my line."

"Well? Are you even going to try?"

"I never try, Herakleio."

"No?"

"I only do."

He laughed. "Then let’s see you do it."

So I waded into the middle of him.

Oh, yes: big, young, strong. But completely unversed in the ultimate truth of a street fight.

Survival. No matter the means.

He expected to punch. He did punch. One or two blows even landed — I think — but after that it was all me swarming him, using the tricks I knew. I caught him in the doorway, trapped him, lifted him, upended him over a shoulder using all the leverage I had, and dumped him on top of the body in the puddle.

The body meanwhile was attempting to get up and wasn’t completely prepared for the addition of two hundred pounds-plus. Both of them went sprawling.

"Well," Del commented as, fight over, I nursed a strained thumb.

Herakleio was not unconscious, though I wasn’t sure the same could be said of the body beneath him. He was, however, now somewhat more wrinkled — and furious.

"Shall we go?" I asked. "The molah-man awaits."

He stopped swearing. The sound issuing from his mouth went from growl to roar. He lunged to his feet and hurled himself at me. All two hundred pounds-plus of him.

I expected to collide with the wall even as he smashed into me. But either Herakleio was a smarter fighter than I’d given him credit for, or he was lucky. Whatever the answer, I missed the wall entirely, which would have provided some measure of support, and flew backward into the deep-set doorway.

The door was open. Thus unimpeded, Herakleio carried me on through and into the winehouse. Somewhere along the line we made close acquaintanceship with a table, which collapsed beneath our combined weights, and landed on beaten earth hard as stone.

From there it devolved into mass confusion, as cantina battles usually do. I was no longer concerned with making Herakleio accompany us back to Akritara and the metri, but with keeping breath in my lungs, teeth in my mouth, eyes in their sockets, brains in my skull, and dinner in my belly.

Out in the street it had been just me and Herakleio. Inside the winehouse it was me and Herakleio — and all of Herakleio’s friends.

Like I said, smarter than I’d given him credit for.

From inside a fight, it’s difficult to describe it. I can sing songs of ritualized sword-dances — or would, if I had the taste for such things and could carry a tune — but explaining the physical responsibilities and responses of a body in the midst of a winehouse altercation is impossible. The best you can do is say it hurt. Which it did.

I was vaguely aware of the usual sorts of bodily insults — fists bashing, fingers gouging, feet kicking, knees thrusting, teeth biting, heads banging — and the additional less circumspect tactics, such as tables being upended, and chairs, stools, and winejars being pitched in my direction. Some of them made contact. Some of them did not.

The same could be said of my tactics, come to think of it.

From time to time Herakleio and I actually got near one another, though usually something interfered, be it a bench, bottle, or body. By now I was not the sole target: a good cantina fight requires multiple participants, or it’s downright boring. I doubt many of the men even realized I was Herakleio’s target. They just started swinging. Whoever was closest got hit. Some of them went down. Others of them did not and returned the favor.

At some point, however, a pocket of Herakleio’s friends did put together a united front, and I realized it was only a matter of time before I lost the fight. I’m big, quick, strong, well-versed in street tactics, but I am only one man. And here in Skandi pretty much everyone is my size and weight, give or take a couple of inches and ten or twenty pounds.

It was about this time, I was given to understand later, that Del decided to end it. Or rescue me, whichever method worked. All I saw, in between hostilities, was a pale smear of woman-shaped linen coming in through the doorway — head, shoulders, and breasts shrouded with fair hair.

My subconscious registered that it must be Del, but the forefront of my brain, occupied with survival, remarked with some amazement that walking into the midst of a winehouse fight was a pretty stupid move for a woman.

Then, of course, that woman, after observing the activities, took up a guttering lamp from an incised window beside the door, selected her target, blew out the dancing flame, and smashed said lamp over said target’s head.

The target snarled something in response, no doubt thinking it was yet another tactic undertaken by an enemy. But he did glance back, smearing hair out of his face, and stopped what he was doing to stare in astonishment.

Del picked up a second lamp, its flame strong and bright, and simply held it out at the end of her arm.

The target, soaked in lamp oil, lunged away from her with a shriek. The move took the legs out from under another man, who fell over and atop him.

Now two men were soaked with lamp oil. And two men were less than enamored of the idea of seeing the woman toss a lighted lamp into the middle of the wine-house.

Fights don’t end at once. But when enough men — those who are still among the conscious — realize everyone else has frozen into utter stillness lest even a breath cause the woman with the flame to lose control, fights die a natural death.

As this one did.

Being intimately acquainted with Del’s control, I sat up. It required me to kick a shattered bench out of the way and jerk a miraculously unbroken winecup from under my butt, but I managed. And sat there, knees bent, arms draped over them. Watching the woman.

"Herakleio," she said in her cool Northern voice.

Curious, I looked around. I had no idea where Herakleio might be. The body closest to me, groaning piteously into the floor, was not his.

Someone obligingly found him for Del. He was in a corner trying to get up from the floor. I didn’t think I’d done the damage; I hadn’t seen him for quite a while. At some point the man with friends had simply become another target of opportunity.

Herakleio sat up at last, slumping against the wall. One side of his face was marred by a streak of blood; wine-soaked hair adhered stickily to the other cheek. He peeled it off gingerly, as if afraid skin might accompany it. His eyes found me, glowered angrily. I acknowledged him with a friendly wave. He spat blood from a cut lip, then managed to notice Del standing inside the winehouse door with the lamp in her hand.

That got him off the floor. He rose, stood against the wall, stared at her uncomprehendingly.

He must have missed her entrance. And the smashing of the first lamp over the man’s head. Now he saw her standing straight and tall in the midst of chaos, pure and pristine against the backdrop of unlighted night. Lamp-glow feasted on her hair, the bleached linen tunic, pale arms, glinted off brass rings adorning the sash that belted her waist. It painted her face into the hard and splendid serenity of a woman unafraid to walk the edge of the blade, to step inside the fire.

Ah, well, she has that effect on me, too.

"Herakleio," she said again.

He seemed oddly dazed. "Yes?"

"You are to come home."

There was no man alive in that winehouse who would not have answered that cool command, could he understand it; nor any who blamed Herakleio for answering. They were silent as he picked his way across the debris, paused before her briefly, then walked out of the wine-house. I had no doubt we would find him waiting in the molah-cart once we got there.

I stood up, shook out my clothing, brushed off my hands, followed Herakleio outside. What Del did with the lamp I couldn’t say, but when she came out the light remained behind.

Except for the wash of it still caught in silken hair.