Read Online Sword Breaker-Sword Dancer 4 by Jennifer Roberson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer Roberson
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morning?"
"Happy?" Pale brows arched. "Happy enough; what more is there to be with assassins on our trail?"
I glanced northerly. "Speaking of which, we really ought to be moving."
"Don't you want a keepsake?"
"Of that? No. Why would I? It's just glass, bascha!"
Del shrugged almost defensively. "In the sunrise, it's very pretty. All the creams and pinks and silvers. Almost like thousands of jewels."
I grunted, turning. "Come on, Delilah. No sense in burning daylight."
She glared after me as I shuffled through sand and soil toward the waiting stud. "You have no imagination at all."
I gathered hanging reins. "Last time I looked, neither did you."
"Me!" Outraged, Del followed.
"Hoolies, woman, all you ever thought about for six whole years of your life was revenging yourself on Ajani. That sort of obsession doesn't require imagination. What it requires is a lack of it." I snugged a sandaled foot into the stirrup and pulled myself aboard. "I'm not taking you to task for it, mind--you did what you set out to do. The son of a goat is dead--but now there's us."
Del waited for me to kick free of the stirrup so she could put it to use. "Us?"
"Lots of other people with no imagination are coming after us. Do you really think we have time to gather up bits of pretty glass?"
Del gritted her teeth and mounted. "I only meant you might want a keepsake of the magic you worked last night. I'm sorry I said anything."
I leaned into the right stirrup to counteract her weight, keeping the saddle steady. I waited until she was settled, arranging legs, pouches, and harness, then turned the stud southward. "That's the trouble with women. Too sentimental."
"Imaginative," she muttered. "And a lot of other things."
"I'll drink to that." I shook out the reins and kneed him forward. "Let's go, old son...
we've got a ways to travel."
The "ways to travel" turned out to be farther than anticipated. And in a different direction. But first things first.
Like--swearing.
It was now late midday. Not hot, but hardly cool; not even close to cold. It lingered somewhere in between, except the farther south we rode, the hotter it would become.
And anticipation always makes it seem worse, even when it's not.
For now, it was warm enough. Beneath burnous and underrobe, sweat stippled my flesh.
It stung in the scratchy patches of powder-scoured scrapes.
Del brushed a damp upper lip with the edge of her hand. Fair braid hung listlessly, flopping across one shoulder. "It was cooler back home."
I didn't bother to answer such an inane, if true, comment; Del generally knows better, but I suppose everyone can have lapses. I could have pointed out that "home" wasn't home to me, because I, after all, was Southron; then again, "home" wasn't home to her anymore, either, since she'd been formally exiled from it. Which she knew as well as I, but wasn't thinking about; probably because she was hot, and the truth hadn't quite sunk in all the way yet.
I wasn't about to remind her. Instead, what I did was swear. Which probably wasn't of any more use than Del's unnecessary comment, but made me feel better.
Briefly.
But only a little.
I stood beside the marker: a mortared pile of nine mottled, gray-green stones chipped to fit snuggly together. The top stone was graven with arrows pointing out directions, and the familiar blessing (or blessed, depending on your botas) sign for water: a crude teardrop shape often corroded by wind and sand and time, but eloquent nonetheless.
Cairns such as this one dotted much of the South to indicate water.
In this case, the marker lied.
"Well?" Del asked.
I blew out a noisy breath of weary, dusty disgust. "The Punja's been here."
She waited a moment. "Meaning?"
"Meaning it's filled in the well. See how flat it is here? How settled?" I scraped a sandal across a hard-packed platform of fine, bone-colored sand, dislodging a feathering of dust, but nothing of any substance. "It's fairly well packed, which means the simoom came
"Happy?" Pale brows arched. "Happy enough; what more is there to be with assassins on our trail?"
I glanced northerly. "Speaking of which, we really ought to be moving."
"Don't you want a keepsake?"
"Of that? No. Why would I? It's just glass, bascha!"
Del shrugged almost defensively. "In the sunrise, it's very pretty. All the creams and pinks and silvers. Almost like thousands of jewels."
I grunted, turning. "Come on, Delilah. No sense in burning daylight."
She glared after me as I shuffled through sand and soil toward the waiting stud. "You have no imagination at all."
I gathered hanging reins. "Last time I looked, neither did you."
"Me!" Outraged, Del followed.
"Hoolies, woman, all you ever thought about for six whole years of your life was revenging yourself on Ajani. That sort of obsession doesn't require imagination. What it requires is a lack of it." I snugged a sandaled foot into the stirrup and pulled myself aboard. "I'm not taking you to task for it, mind--you did what you set out to do. The son of a goat is dead--but now there's us."
Del waited for me to kick free of the stirrup so she could put it to use. "Us?"
"Lots of other people with no imagination are coming after us. Do you really think we have time to gather up bits of pretty glass?"
Del gritted her teeth and mounted. "I only meant you might want a keepsake of the magic you worked last night. I'm sorry I said anything."
I leaned into the right stirrup to counteract her weight, keeping the saddle steady. I waited until she was settled, arranging legs, pouches, and harness, then turned the stud southward. "That's the trouble with women. Too sentimental."
"Imaginative," she muttered. "And a lot of other things."
"I'll drink to that." I shook out the reins and kneed him forward. "Let's go, old son...
we've got a ways to travel."
The "ways to travel" turned out to be farther than anticipated. And in a different direction. But first things first.
Like--swearing.
It was now late midday. Not hot, but hardly cool; not even close to cold. It lingered somewhere in between, except the farther south we rode, the hotter it would become.
And anticipation always makes it seem worse, even when it's not.
For now, it was warm enough. Beneath burnous and underrobe, sweat stippled my flesh.
It stung in the scratchy patches of powder-scoured scrapes.
Del brushed a damp upper lip with the edge of her hand. Fair braid hung listlessly, flopping across one shoulder. "It was cooler back home."
I didn't bother to answer such an inane, if true, comment; Del generally knows better, but I suppose everyone can have lapses. I could have pointed out that "home" wasn't home to me, because I, after all, was Southron; then again, "home" wasn't home to her anymore, either, since she'd been formally exiled from it. Which she knew as well as I, but wasn't thinking about; probably because she was hot, and the truth hadn't quite sunk in all the way yet.
I wasn't about to remind her. Instead, what I did was swear. Which probably wasn't of any more use than Del's unnecessary comment, but made me feel better.
Briefly.
But only a little.
I stood beside the marker: a mortared pile of nine mottled, gray-green stones chipped to fit snuggly together. The top stone was graven with arrows pointing out directions, and the familiar blessing (or blessed, depending on your botas) sign for water: a crude teardrop shape often corroded by wind and sand and time, but eloquent nonetheless.
Cairns such as this one dotted much of the South to indicate water.
In this case, the marker lied.
"Well?" Del asked.
I blew out a noisy breath of weary, dusty disgust. "The Punja's been here."
She waited a moment. "Meaning?"
"Meaning it's filled in the well. See how flat it is here? How settled?" I scraped a sandal across a hard-packed platform of fine, bone-colored sand, dislodging a feathering of dust, but nothing of any substance. "It's fairly well packed, which means the simoom came
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