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every Northerner, but not so dark as a
Southroner.
Your eyes are green, not blue or brown, or even the occasional gray. And you
are brown-haired, not black-;
not fair, either." She sighed. "Is this enough for you?"
"No."
She muttered in uplander. "Your nose, then."
"My nose?"
"It curves upside down."
"My nose is upside down?"
Expressions warred in her face as she fought for the best explanation. Finally
she settled for example. "You have seen Abbu's nose."
"Abbu's has a notch in it. Abbu's was broken. Mine never was."
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"But you can see what it was, Abbu's nose. And many others. All shaped like
this." She hooked a finger downward, bowing the knuckle out.
I tested mine. "I don't have a hook."
"No. Yours is much straighter, though not as straight as some tribes I have
seen. Yours is more like Northerner's. And your cheeks are not so sharp, so
arched." Del studied me. "We have a discussed this before. You are both, and
neither. There are things of the South in you, and also things of the North.
Like a Borderer."
I nodded impatiently. "Do I look real to you?"
"Real!" She frowned. "You asked that before."
"Just--do I look real?"
Pale brows arched. "Do you mean to ask, are you the man of my dreams?"
"No!"
I glared. "Can't you be serious?"
"Not at the moment," she murmured, and burst out laughing.
Which only goes to prove you can't talk to a woman.
Camp, such as it was, was established with little fanfare: two blankets spread
on the ground, wadded--in her case, folded--burnouses for pillows. Nothing at
all for a fire: we lay on our blankets and chewed steadily at dried cumfa.
Staring up at the stars.
"You meant it," she murmured.
"Sometimes." I lay very still. It was better not to move.
"Earlier. About seeming real."
"Just wondered."
"If you were real?"
I thought about it deeply, eventually dredging up an answer. "You wouldn't
understand."
"I promise not to laugh."
"Oh, I don't know ... I enjoy hearing you laugh."
"So long as it's not at you." Del smiled at the sky. "Sometimes, there is
cause." She rolled toward me, settling her head into a spread hand on the end
of a braced arm. "Do you not feel real?"
"My kidneys convince me I am."
"Then you have proof. Pain means you are real."
"But--" I frowned, chewing violently on the last bite of cumfa. "I don't know
anything about me. I
have no past."
The amusement died in her eyes. "You have too much of a past."
"I don't mean that. I mean I have no history. Only an upside down nose, and
color like a brown burnous left too many years in the sun."
"So do most Borderers. Look at Rhashad: he has red hair."
"I don't look anything like Rhashad."
"Most Borderers do not look like one another. The dye lots are always mixed."
Del smiled. "I
don't mean to tease. But you do not strike me as the kind of man to need a
past. You make your own of the future."
That cut too close to bone. "They said the jhihadi was-- --a man of many
parts."
is
Del's gaze sharpened. She stopped chewing cumfa.
I scratched a patch of bruise. "Nobody knows much about Iskandar, either."
"He died."
I counted. "It's been eight days."
"Since?--oh." Del shrugged. "I think you will outlive Iskandar's ten days."
"Not if Sabra has anything to say about it. Or maybe Umir. The Ruthless."
"They must catch you, first."
"Umir caught me."
"And you got free." Del's brow wrinkled.
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"How did you get free? You have told me nothing."
I shrugged. "Nothing to tell."
"But they beat you, and you got free."
"I wouldn't have, if I hadn't used--" I stopped.
Del waited. And then realization sharpened her gaze. She pushed herself
upright. "Magic," she finished.
I heaved a heavy sigh. "The sorriest day of my life was getting involved with
magic."
"But it got you free of Umir. You just said so."
"It's also got me lugging around an infested sword. One I didn't want in the
first place, but now
..." I sighed again, very tired, letting it go. "Hoolies, it's not important."
Del lay down again. "You humiliated him."
"Who? Oh. Him." I sucked a tooth. "Nezbet got what he deserved."
"You might have beaten him fairly."
"I
did beat him fairly! I gave him a chance to quit before we started, and two
chances to give up.
What did you want me to do--cut off his head, like you did Ajani's?"
Her tone was flat. "No. But--"
"But? Did you want me to kill him?"
Del said nothing.
"Did you?" I persisted.
She sighed. "It seems to me you left him injured and angry and humiliated.
Some people, with nothing but that to think on, come to trouble you later.
They make bad enemies."
"Nezbet?"
"You don't know he wouldn't."
I snickered. "With enemies like Nezbet, I'll live forever."
"I heard them. What they said. A borjuni. Why?"
"Why did I make him one? Or how did it come to be?"
"Both."
"I didn't make him one. It was his choice. And he made that choice by
relinquishing his honor, according to the codes." I dug a cumfa string from
between two teeth. "You know about codes.
You know about honor."
"Yes."
"When a shodo-trained sword-dancer knowingly relinquishes honor merely to win,
or kill, he relinquishes himself. He exiles himself from the circle." I
shrugged. "He doesn't have to become a borjuni. But I don't know of a single
sword-dancer who would be content to raise goats, or scratch a crop from the
Southron desert."
"There are other things."
"Caravan guard, yes. But caravan-serais prefer to hire the real thing, not a
dishonored man. They can't be certain of his allegiance--what if he was a
borjuni, and leading them into a trap?" I
shook my head. "There is no greater, truer freedom than being a sword-dancer.
And no greater dishonor than breaking the codes. It follows you for life,
mocking you every day. Until all you can think to do is become a borjuni,
because none of them care. They just want you to be like them:
to kill quickly and effortlessly."
"And you made Nezbet one."
"Nezbet is young. Nezbet came from somewhere. He could petition to
reapprentice, starting all over again--but if he's smart, he'll go back where
he came from and forget about the circle. He
wasn't suited for it."
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"Is that why you broke his wrist?"
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