Sword Bound

Chapter 11

AT A LARGE OASIS SUCH AS THIS ONE, it is always possible to buy food from someone if one is tired of travel rations. All three of us decided fresh meat, bread, dates, and cheese would taste much better than what we’d tucked away in our saddle pouches. I cleared dead coals out of the fire ring and built a modest pyramid of sticks, Neesha went looking for food, and Del took our empty coal pot and went to a near neighbor to beg for fresh chunks burning hot. Once she returned I carefully spilled the coals into the fire ring and used a stick to arrange them amidst the kindling. The fire burned warmly by the time Neesha came back with our dinner. In one hand he carried chunks of meat speared on three slender sharpened stakes, two loaves of fresh bread, a hunk of goat cheese to go with the mutton, and a handful of dates. A feast.

As we ate, the sun slid down the sky, dousing itself in a panoply of red, gold, and orange. Bluish twilight settled. The air was redolent with roasting meat, heavily spiced. Around glowing fire rings, people laughed and talked; others sang, played wooden flutes; and some just ate, like the three of us. Neesha and I washed the meal down with aqivi while Del kept to water, after reminding us the aqivi wasn’t meant to be drunk, but to aid in disinfecting wounds. Her protest was unconvincing, and Neesha and I merely smiled at her cheerfully as we passed the bota back and forth.

It was as we finished dinner that the man arrived. He wore a burnous of superior silk dyed deep green with copper-colored embroidery along the sleeve hems, a wide, copper-studded leather belt. Matching cuff bracelets glowed in our firelight. Under a green turban with a glinting amber brooch pinned to it, his features and coloring were Southron, but when he glanced at Del he did not assume the pained or outraged expression of a man who wished not to speak in a woman’s company. Neither was there curiosity or disbelief; he simply glanced at her briefly, took a deep breath as if to convince himself he should make no comment, then looked down at me where I sat on my blankets.

He spoke Desert with a liquid flexibility. “I am Mahmood. I am a merchant. Others told me how to recognize you because of the scars on your face, and the Northern woman who rides with you. You’re the Sandtiger.”

I raised my brows to ask a mute question as I finished chewing the last bite of mutton and tossed the bota to Neesha.

He appeared to understand what I meant, and answered me. “They said you hire on to protect caravans.”

I swallowed the chunk of meat. “Who’s ‘they’?”

Mahmood waved a hand apparently intended to encompass the world. “They. People. Just—people.”

I nodded at him as I drank a squirt of aqivi. “Yes, we’ve guarded caravans.”

“We’re going to the North with spices and silk,” he explained. “Saffron and cinnamon, both very costly, and silk threaded with silver. They would be most interested in my goods.”

Borjuni—raiders—would be interested in his goods. Del was nodding.

“I hired two men as outriders. I lost one to a viper,” he continued, “and another refused to finish the journey when he met a woman in a small village. I am left with no guards. If you and the woman come with us, I would pay you well.”

At least he understood that if he hired me, he would also have to hire Del. That was a nice change.

“What about me?” Neesha asked, aggrieved. “We’d be three. Better odds, don’t you think?”

Mahmood stared at him, sizing him up, then looked back at me as if asking if Neesha was worth the coin. I smiled at him. “Yes, we are three, and the odds indeed would be better.”

He bobbed his head and offered a small, soft leather bag. “In advance,” he said, leaning down to put it into my hand. “More when we reach our destination.”

“Where in the North are you going?” Del asked.

“Istamir. Not far across the border.”

She nodded. “Those folk will pay well for your goods.”

“Provided we can get them there,” he said somewhat gloomily. “I’m told the borjuni are bad this season.”

Borjuni were bad any season along the border. The problem was, you never knew exactly where they’d be on any given day. There might be none in your vicinity. There might be many. Mahmood was wise to replace his missing outriders. Mahmood was wise to hire all three of us.

“Four wagons,” he said. “Not so many. One driver each, all experienced.”

“Do you drive?” I asked.

A nod of the turban. “Lead wagon. I know the way.”

Del observed, “So do I.” She smiled faintly at Mahmood. “So if raiders kill you, we could still get your goods to Istamir.”

He was not exactly sure how he should react to that, coming from a woman. It suggested the possibility of an attack, which would be very bad fortune, and he wasn’t certain what Del could offer as an outrider.

“Istamir is a day’s ride to my family’s place,” Neesha said. “We’d just have to drop back down a bit.”

“And from here to Istamir, three days.” Del nodded at Mahmood. “We will get you there safely.”

Faintly, Mahmood thanked her, then looked at me. He was more comfortable looking at me. While he accorded Del more acceptance than he would other women—she was a Northerner, and the Sandtiger’s partner—he just didn’t know how to treat her. But I gave him credit for trying.

“First things first,” I said. “Change out of that expensive burnous and put on your plainest. Leave off the wrist cuffs. Wear a belt with no ornamentation. Take that brooch off your turban.”

He was plainly shocked. “But I am successful! No one will know it if I dress like a peasant. They will believe they can haggle me down from my prices!”

Dryly, I said, “Do you want raiders to know you’re so successful? And they won’t haggle anyway. They’ll just kill you and ride away with your costly spices and fabric.”

He struggled with it. I was willing to bet it had taken a lot of years and as much effort to reach his current affluence.

After a moment he looked at me worriedly. “I can leave off the ornaments, but I have no plain burnouses.”

I shrugged. “Not difficult to fix. Just bring me one. I’ll get it wet, then drag it in the dirt.”

He wasn’t sure if I was joking or not. His voice was weak. “In the dirt?”

“In the dirt. And if the one you pick has sleeve embroidery, smear mud over it.”

More weakly still, “Mud?”

“We’ll hide your some of your silks under the floorboards, and stuff some into our saddle pouches. The three of us will also carry as many of your spices as we can.”

“The dust!” he cried, horrified. “And stuffing them into your saddle pouches? It will ruin the silks, even wrapped as they are!”

“Not unless we splash through puddles, which is unlikely here in the Punja. And if borjuni should appear, they won’t assume silk is in our pouches. Better to keep some than lose it all.”

“And the spices…on your horses, too?”

“Spices smell. They will smell less if they’re packed in our saddle pouches.” Still seated, I dangled the bag of coins in front of me, offering it. “You don’t have to hire us if my requests are too onerous.”

Stiffly, he said, “They are demands, not requests.”

I displayed my teeth in something akin to a grin but wasn’t, quite. “You don’t have to hire us if my demands are too onerous.”

He looked at Del, at her harness and sword lying next to her on her blanket. He looked at Neesha and his sword and harness. Finally he looked back at me. “But you’re the Sandtiger.”

“Then give me credit for knowing about guarding caravans and fighting borjuni. Don’t make yourself an obvious target.” His caravan would be a target regardless, but no need to advertise just how much Mahmood transported. “Make your last wagon the lightest. Some silks, some spices, yes. If any raiders appear, they’re more likely to cut out the last wagon. You’d lose less.”

He was horrified. “Cut out the wagon? But I’m hiring you to guard all four wagons!”

“And we will,” Del said matter-of-factly. “But sometimes you must throw a dog a bone so he doesn’t steal the meat.”

“He’s the Sandtiger,” Neesha put in with a dramatic note of wonder. “A living legend would guard your caravan!”

I slanted him a glance and saw that he was trying very hard not to laugh. But it was enough for Mahmood.

“Yes,” he said, with a trace of annoyance in his tone. “It will be as you say. But I will get the burnous wet and I will drag it through the dirt.”

Which meant it wouldn’t be as worn-looking as I wanted, but I had to give him something for his pride. “Come get us tomorrow morning.”

He nodded stiffly and walked away.

Neesha had the grace to wait until Mahmood was out of earshot before he began to laugh.

“That’s rude,” Del noted acerbically.

Neesha forced words out between blurts of laughter. “But the look on his face! Silks in our saddle pouches? Spices in our saddle pouches? The horror of such a thing!”

Del picked up her water bota and squirted him.

“Children,” I sighed, and tucked away the little bag of coin. In a saddle pouch.

Del, Neesha, and I were up, packed, and ready to go when Mahmood arrived not long after dawn. His expression was one of a rather morose stubbornness. He had indeed sullied his burnous but not by much. It was yellow made somewhat dull with dust, but there was no mud, even on the sleeve embroidery. No cuff bracelets, though, or copper-ornamented belt, and no brooch on his green turban.

“I picked off every stud from this belt,” he announced grimly, “and it took a long time. Do you know what this cost me to buy?”

“No,” I answered, “but your being a merchant, I suspect you traded for it and no coin changed hands. Now, let’s go to your wagons and portion out the silks and spices.”

“You’ll ruin the worth of the fabric,” he moaned.

“Wrinkles,” Del said, “can be pressed out.”

She was in harness now, wearing an indigo burnous that set off the blue of her eyes. She didn’t need embroideries, cuff bracelets, a belt weighted with worked metal or gems to impress or to raise her stature. She needed only herself. And Mahmood, seeing her in the full light of day, realized it. Many Southroners considered her too blonde, too pale, too tall. Too much of everything, especially self-confidence, self-governance, and a dedication to plain speech. Mahmood was not one of those men. His brows slid up, his mouth loosened, and he stared.

Neesha, leading his horse up by Del, snickered. Del herself made a shooing gesture at Mahmood. “Go.”

Apparently it was enough. Mahmood managed to stop staring and led the way to the easternmost edge of the oasis as we led the horses over. Four wagons, as he’d said, and three with drivers on the ground holding the teams. Despite his dress, the canvas-topped wagons were sturdy but unprepossessing; at least he knew to do that much. Nothing of them attracted interest—unless, of course, you just wanted to steal whatever the wagons might carry and discover later if the goods were worth coin or not. Like any self-respecting borjuni.

“All right,” I said. “Find the richest fabric you have.”

With great reluctance, Mahmood let down the tailgate of the lead wagon, climbed in, brought out a muslin-wrapped bundle. Del unwrapped it to view the costly silk, and indeed it was impressive. All colors, with silver threading worked into the weave. Even Neesha and I, not particularly interested in cloth unless it was worn by a beautiful woman, understood why Mahmood was so worried about losing it. Del ran an appreciative hand over the rich blue length on top, feeling the weave, the nubby richness as Mahmood looked on in worry. She tore up the muslin so the individual bundles would be somewhat protected, then she folded the silk and muslin in half and began to roll it tightly. Mahmood let out a strangled protest but was wise enough not to complain outright.

Del handed out tight silk rolls to Neesha and I. “Here. Our pouches won’t hold much, but better than losing it all if raiders find us.”

“The cloth will reek of spice,” Mahmood said unhappily.

Del looked at him levelly. “Better than reeking of blood. And we’re not stupid. We’ll put the spice in one pouch and the silk in another.”

I felt stupid. That had not crossed my mind.

“Perhaps it will add value,” Del observed. “Scented silk.”

Mahmood clearly hadn’t thought of that. Apparently both of us were stupid.

The merchant considered it, his face taking on a thoughtful expression. “Perhaps so.”

Del had now established that she was not stupid. Neesha and I stuffed rolls into our pouches while the drivers watched in interest. For a wonder, Mahmood no longer looked so pained. Del had given his merchant’s brain something new to think about.

We parceled out the rolls and spice bags, filling our pouches. With the drawstrings pulled tight, the pouches appeared fairly innocuous. The rest we divided up evenly and found hiding places except for the last wagon, in which we hid nothing. Silk and spices were obvious. Some visible in the other wagons, as well. Altogether, half of the goods were tucked away.

I clapped Mahmood’s shoulder. “If luck is with us, all of this preparation will be unnecessary.”

His tone was doleful. “If luck is with us, no spices will be spilled, no silk will be soiled.”

“Well, yes,” I agreed. Or perhaps ‘no’ was a better response. “Let’s go.”

Mahmood sighed and looked at his drivers. “We go.”

They climbed up on the wagons. Del, Neesha, and I climbed up on our horses. I looked at Mahmood aboard the first wagon. “We’ll hope this is a boring journey.”

The merchant’s tone was glum. “I’ll pray this is a boring journey.