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else. "I suppose I should ask you what it was I did. Just to understand. I don't remember much after the second borjuni." "You killed them," Del said simply. "And then you tried to kill me." "Tried? Or merely appeared --" I let the irony go. The shield fashioned of bluster and sarcasm was not required. The imagery was too lurid; the truth too painful. "Bascha--" "I am sure," she forestalled. "I know it wasn't you, not really you--but does that matter? Chosa Dei wants me. Chosa Dei wants you... and for a time today, he had you." Del picked violently at her blanket, shredding a fraying corner. "The song you sang was--not right. It wasn't a song of your making. It was a song of his --" The first stirrings of comprehension made me itchy, shifting on the blanket. It was easier to dismiss her fears than consider them. "I can control him, Del. It's just a matter of being stronger." "He is growing stronger. Tiger, don't you see? If you give in to violence, it lends the power to him. Once he collects enough, he will use the sword as a bridge to you, then use you for his body." Distaste briefly warped her expression. "I saw it today, Tiger. I saw him today, as I saw him inside the dragon." Denial was swift. Was easy. "I don't think--" She didn't let me finish. "Chosa Dei looked out of your eyes. Chosa Dei was in your soul." The tiniest flicker of fear lighted itself in my belly. "I beat him," I blurted urgently. "Last night, and again today. I'll go on beating him." The setting sun was gone. Firelight overlay her face. "Until he grows too strong." Desperation combined with impotent anger. The explosion was potent. "What do you expect? I can't get rid of this sword the way any sane man would--you said it's too dangerous to sell, give away, or cast off, because then he'd have his body. And I can't destroy the sword--you said it would free his spirit. So what does that leave me? What in hoolies am I to do?" Del's voice was steady. "Two choices," she said quietly. "One you already know: find a way to discharge the sword. The other is harder yet." I swore creatively. "What in hoolies is harder than tracking down a sorcerer out of legend-- Chosa's brother, no less!--who may not even exist?" "Dying," she answered softly. It was a punch in the gut, but I didn't let her see it. "Dying's easy," I retorted. "Look at what I do for a living." Del didn't answer. "And besides, Chosa--in this sword--already tried to kill me once. Remember? So how would dying serve any purpose?" Her mouth twisted. "I doubt he wanted to kill you. More like he wanted to wound you; seriously, yes, because then you would be weakened. Then he could swallow the sword... and eventually swallow you. But if you were to die ..." She let it trail off. No more was necessary. Trying not to jar my knee, I flopped spine-down on my blanket and stared up at the darkening sky. As always in the desert, the air at night was cool, counterpoint to the heat of day. "So, as I Page 43 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html understand it--" I frowned "--all I have to do is stay alive--and in one piece--long enough to find Shaka Obre, who can help me discharge this thrice-cursed sword ... or avoid all kinds of violence so as not to give him power ... or not turn my back on you." It startled her. "On me!" I rolled my head to look at her. "Sure. So you won't start thinking of ways to defeat Chosa-- through me--without benefit of discharging." Stunned, Del gaped. It was almost comical. I managed a halfhearted grin. "That's a joke, bascha. But then I keep forgetting: you don't have a sense of humor." "I would not--I could not--I would never..." She broke it off angrily, giving up on coherency. "I said it was a joke!" I rolled over onto a hip, easing my sore knee, and leaned upon an elbow. "See what I mean about no sense of humor?" "There is nothing amusing about loss of honor, of self-- " Abruptly very tired, I smeared a palm across my face. "Forget it. Forget I said anything. Forget I'm even here." "I can't. You are here... and so is that sword." "That sword," again. I sighed heavily, aware of a weary depression, and lay down again on my blanket. "Go to sleep," I suggested. "It'll be better in the morning. Everything's better in the morning--it's why they invented it." "Who?" "The gods, I guess." I shrugged. "How in hoolies should I know? I'm only a jhihadi." Del didn't lie down. She sat there on her blanket, staring pensively at me. "Go to sleep," I said. A dismissive shrug. "I will sit up for a while. To guard." I also shrugged, accepting it readily enough; it was a common enough occurrence. I snugged down carefully beneath a blanket, swearing softly at the taut bindings that made it hard to settle my knee comfortably, then stopped moving entirely. Something new occurred. Something I didn't like, but knew was possible. More likely probable. "Guarding, are you?" I growled. "Guarding me against danger--or guarding against me?" Del's voice was even. "Whatever is necessary." Eleven I woke up surly, which I do sometimes. Not very often, on the whole; like I've said before, I'm generally a good-natured soul. But occasionally, it catches up to the best of us. Usually it's after a night of too much aqivi (and, once upon a time, too many women, but it seems like everything changes as you get older); in this case, it was after a night of too-active sleep, and a sore knee less than pleased about having to move. Del, one of those perfectly disgusting people who wakens with relative ease and no Page 44 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html disgruntlement that the sun has reappeared, watched me untangle the blanket, muttering beneath my breath as I did so, and then, equally silently, watched me try to lever myself up. Sitting was easy enough. Standing was not. Walking was worse. I hobbled off, tended my business, hobbled back. I was stiff, itchy from healing sand scrapes, smelly from lack of bath, stubbled on cheeks and chin. My knee hurt like hoolies. So did a few other things: namely, my pride. "You talked," Del mentioned, neatly folding her blanket aside. It was, I thought, basically inconsequential. But since she'd brought it up ... "Talked?" "Last night. In your sleep." Kneeling, she set about stirring life into the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |