The Outworlder Read online

  She left the range and headed down the stairs. As she reached the turn, voices floated up the staircase, and she slowed her pace to listen before she realized that she probably should mind her own business.

  “You’ve had no word from our suppliers?” asked a man’s voice.

  “Why do you keep asking me that?”

  It was Arnauld. Sahara crept down a few more stairs and edged toward the bannister. She could just glimpse Arnauld, standing a flight below her, with a tall, heavyset man she didn’t recognize.

  “My men are running low on ammo. I’ve capped them at fifteen rounds for practice. We can’t afford more than that…and even that’s probably too much. We need supplies, Arnauld. We can’t fight off the Dragon-Lords with swords…not when they have long-range weapons.”

  “They have a damn dragon, Armon,” Arnauld snapped. “What the hell kind of weapon do you think we can use against that anyway? I don’t have any supplies, and we have no suppliers. We haven’t for years. And yet, every month, here you are. Asking me the same questions, over and over again.”

  Sahara heard Arnauld’s boots echo on the stone steps, and then they stopped.

  “You better just get it through your head, Armon,” he said. “No help is coming. We’re on our own.”

  A moment later, Armon stomped up the stairs and pushed past her, muttering something under his breath. Sahara watched him go, weighing whether she should run after him and tell him that his soldiers were wasting what ammo he did have. She hesitated, then decided that he wasn’t in the mood to hear it.

  I’ll tell Jared instead, she thought. He knows these people and the politics here. He’ll know what to do.

  Three days later, she had her chance. She stopped by the firing range again and watched Jared and a troop of ten other men fire their fifteen rounds of ammunition at the targets, then wrap and carefully pack away the weapons. While Jared’s shots were clean, only two of the others could boast any kind of accuracy.

  “Why aren’t those out in the guard rooms?” she asked as they headed down the stairs for the evening meal. “They don’t do anyone any good locked in safes like that. And why doesn’t anyone teach these men how to shoot with accuracy?”

  “We train with them so we can stay sharp,” he said. “But they aren’t for routine use.” He glanced at her. “What do you mean, accuracy?”

  “You didn’t notice that most of the men don’t even hit their targets?”

  Jared frowned. “No…I was focused on my own target.”

  “These men are just wasting ammunition, Jared. If you’re going to practice, then they should be practicing how to actually kill something if they needed to.”

  “I’m not in charge of the training, Sahara. That’s not my call.”

  Sahara stopped and caught his arm. “Jared. You have to say something to someone. I would do it, but…well, people don’t like me.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Whatever. They don’t trust me, and they won’t listen to me. But they’ll listen to you. You have to say something.”

  “I’ll bring it up with Armon next time I see him at the council meeting.” Jared started down the steps again. “And listen, maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time hanging around the range. Some of the men are complaining.”

  Sahara snorted. “Why? Because I told them they couldn’t shoot?”

  Jared grinned at her. “That probably didn’t help. But I’ve arranged for you to help the Lady Aliya in the Halls of Healing. It’ll give you a nice change of pace.”

  Sahara jogged down the steps to catch up with him “I’m not a healer, Jared,” she said. “I’m a warrior. Let me help you!”

  “They won’t accept your help,” Jared said. “I’m sorry, Sahara. It’s just not the right time. Not yet.”

  Sahara sighed. I just hope the right time isn’t too late, she thought.

  Chapter 7

  Since Jared had warned her away from the training facilities, Sahara had taken to exploring the city when she wasn’t helping Aliya in the Halls of Healing. To her surprise, she’d discovered places within Albadir’s walls that made her feel a peace she had not known in years. One was the orchard, with its scent of ripe fruit and ribbon of gushing water. It was something like her favorite haunt on her own homeworld, and it brought back memories that she both feared and cherished.

  Then, on one of her longer rambles, she’d discovered the apiary, with its dozens of beehives clustered on the north end of the orchard. She had struck up a sort of friendship with the wizened old beekeeper, and now he let her help him tend the bees and harvest the honey. And there were the pastures, rolling away to the east of the city, where the cows and sheep made their homes.

  Tonight, she had stopped by the fields on the way to the tavern, where she’d arranged to meet Jared for a drink. She leaned on the fence, watching the cows lumber slowly through the fields, and a great longing for the majestic and free-spirited horses of her own world rose in her heart.

  “You have no horses,” she remarked to Jared when she joined him. “Why is that?”

  Jared gave her a blank stare. “Horses?”

  Sahara set down her tankard and regarded him in surprise. “You mean you’ve never seen a horse?”

  “Nor heard the word,” he answered. “They’re a part of your homeworld?”

  Sahara sighed and twirled her mug on the table. “They were, yes.”

  “They don’t exist any longer?”

  Sahara laughed scornfully. “Nothing good and beautiful exists any longer on my homeworld.”

  Jared looked at her swiftly. “Oh, yes?”

  Sahara met his eyes, feeling a sudden sense of caution. “Don’t you ever get bored?” she asked instead, hoping to turn his mind to another subject. “I mean, is this it?”

  “Is this what?”

  “Is this all you do for fun?”

  “It’s a bit sleepy,” Jared admitted, “but yes, this is it.”

  Sleepy didn’t even begin to describe the place. The lighting was low and giant vats of ales slumbered in dark casks along the western wall. Only twenty or so other people were gathered in the long room, most of them young men with quiet voices and fiercely intense faces. They clustered around tall tables in knots of four and five, carrying on hushed conversations.

  Three young women lingered at the bar, which was by far the most cheerful part of the place. Its towering shelves of exotic liquors were lit by strangely incandescent stones of red and blue and green, and it spanned almost the entire expanse of the north wall.

  Sahara sighed and glanced toward the corner opposite their table, where two rough and burly men were engaged in a somewhat serious dagger throwing game.

  Sahara studied them, her interest piqued at last. She recognized one of the men as Armon, the captain responsible for training the men at the firing range.

  He’s hardly better with a knife, she thought, watching him throw a dagger into a target. And when the other man’s throw went even wider off the mark, she shook her head. As the men laughed and money changed hands, she turned to Jared.

  “I could beat them.”

  Jared surveyed them over his shoulder for a moment. “You don’t even know how to play.”

  “Yes, I do. I’ve been watching them. You get three throws. And the one who comes closest to the center of the target wins.”

  “There’s betting involved, you understand.”

  “Sure.” She wiped her hands on her white skirt and flexed her fingers. Then she grinned at him. “That’s what makes it interesting.”

  “Sahara…” Jared began, but she had already slipped out of the booth. He called after her, “What are you going to bet?”

  She paused and turned back to him for a moment. “I’ll bet a round of ale for the whole place that I can win.”

  “You don’t have any money!”

  “No,” she said, flashing him another smile, “but you do.”

  She twirled around and started to make her way through the t
ables, hearing Jared sigh and slide out of the booth to follow her. She shrugged it off. Jared seemed to think she needed almost constant supervision when she was around other people. Sometimes things didn’t go well, she had to admit. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t handle herself.

  She reached the men and stood there for a moment, waiting for them to notice her. When they ignored her, she cleared her throat.

  “I want in,” she said. “Let me play.”

  The men turned to face her finally, and Armon looked her up and down and guffawed. Out of the corner of her eye, Sahara saw Jared settle himself at the table beside her.

  “Look, girlie,” the other man said, “no offense, but the ladies are at the bar. This is a man’s game. These knives are sharp.” He drew a calloused thumb along the edge. “You might cut your pretty fingers.”

  Sahara planted her hands on her hips. “If it’s a man’s game, then you have nothing to worry about, do you?” she asked. “But if I win, then everybody wins. Jared there—” she jerked her head in his direction—“will buy a round for the whole tavern.”

  “Not much incentive for us to beat you, then, is there?” the man said, his eyes flickering at Jared.

  “No, I guess not. Just the shame of losing at daggers to a woman.” She shrugged. “So am I in or what?”

  “What d’you think, Armon? Should we let her play?”

  Armon looked her up and down again, rubbing the jagged scar on his jaw thoughtfully.

  Sahara kicked off her thin black sandals, the tiny amethyst anklet Jared had given her all those months ago catching the uncertain light.

  “If you’re done looking,” she said, “I might be able to teach you something about hitting a target. And then you can pass it on to your troops at the firing range.”

  Armon’s eyes flickered up to rest on her own. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Didn’t Jared talk to you?” She glanced at Jared, then back at Armon. “He was supposed to tell you. Your men can’t hit a target to save their lives.”

  “Stay out of my business, girlie,” Armon warned. “Unless you’ve got something to back up those words, I’m done talking. Where’s your weapon?”

  Sahara heard Jared cough to cover a chuckle.

  “Right here,” she said, drawing her dagger from the sheath at the small of her back. “Let’s go!”

  The game was over quickly. Sahara’s first throw was right on the mark, and in the six throws that followed, neither of the men could dislodge her dagger.

  Armon turned around, his last throw spent, his jaw working in frustration. Sahara watched him from where she sat perched on the edge of Jared’s table, swinging her legs.

  “Do you yield?” she asked.

  “No,” Armon snapped.

  Sahara’s legs stopped swinging and a frown gathered between her brows. “What do you mean, no? I won fairly. It’s not my fault you can’t throw a dagger worth a damn.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Armon cautioned, his voice a throaty growl. “No one talks to me that way.”

  “Oh, and that’s supposed to scare me, I suppose?” Sahara sneered, slipping off the table.

  “It might if you knew what was good for you.”

  “Come on, Armon, let it be,” the other man said. “It’s not worth it!”

  “Stay out of this, Hrethel,” Armon snapped.

  “She’s just a girl! No one will ever believe that she won anyway. For all people know, we just let her win.”

  Sahara turned on Hrethel. “You did not just let me win! I beat you with no handicap, and on my first throw too!”

  Jared moved to stand next to the bristling Sahara. “Come on,” he said. “If these louts don’t want a drink, then let’s go.”

  “What business is this of yours, Jared?” Armon said. “Is this your girl?”

  “I’m nobody’s girl,” Sahara retorted.

  “That explains a lot.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”

  Armon grinned at her suddenly, a wolfish expression in his eyes. “You need a man who can handle those high spirits of yours.”

  Jared took a breath to speak, but Sahara laughed in Armon’s face. “And I suppose you think that should be you, right?” she asked. When he didn’t answer, she laughed even harder. “You can’t even handle your dagger well enough to strike a target at ten feet, even with three throws!”

  Jared took Sahara by the arm. “Let’s go,” he murmured in her ear. “Before—”

  She yanked her arm out of his grasp. “You know,” she continued, the heat rising in her voice, “you sit around here in your lousy little bar and play your lousy little dagger game and you dream you’re man enough to handle any woman who walks through that door. Well, maybe you are man enough for women like them!” She jabbed her finger at the three women at the bar, who were now goggling at Sahara. “Well, I’ve got news for you. I’m not like them!”

  “Let’s go!” Jared said, making another attempt at her arm.

  “No!” She jerked away from him again and gave Armon a shove. As he reeled back a step or two, she got right in his face. “What do you think now? You still want to take me on?”

  Armon turned to Hrethel with a short laugh. “Is she for real?”

  “Yes, she’s for real,” said Jared, his voice resigned. “And I’d be careful, if I were you.”

  “You want to know something else?” Sahara climbed up on Jared’s chair and addressed everyone in the tavern. “You’re all a bunch of cowards! Every one of you! You sit in this hell-hole and drink, and you let your fear of a power you don’t ever see drive your whole lives! Am I right? Am I? You think I don’t know what’s going on here?”

  “Sahara!” Jared hissed. “Get down and let’s go!”

  “Is she drunk?” Armon asked Jared, wonder in his voice.

  “No. I wish to God she were, but she’s not.”

  Sahara raised her voice. “You’re scared to death of the Dragon-Lords, aren’t you?”

  At the mention of that name, everyone in the tavern began murmuring, looking at each other with uneasy eyes and at her with something between awe and anger. Even Armon drew away from her.

  “Why are you afraid?” she asked. “You have a chance to take back everything that was once yours! Why don’t you use it?”

  “What chance is that?” Hrethel called.

  Sahara jumped down from the table and faced the two men again. “This chance. Me. I can show you how to fight them. And I can show you how to win.”

  “You know,” Armon said slowly, rage rumbling in his chest, “you really had me there for a minute. You and your cute little self, all mad over losing a game.”

  “I didn’t lose, you lying, cheating son of a—”

  “You better get something straight right now, little woman,” Armon interrupted. “We live the best life we can here. So why don’t you just go back to wherever the hell you’re from and mind your own business?”

  Sahara walked over to the target and pulled out her dagger, slipping it back into its sheath. Then she stepped so close to Armon that his breath ruffled her hair.

  “And that’s why I won,” she told him quietly, planting her finger in the middle of his brawny chest. “Because you’re scared to lose.”

  Armon shoved her so hard that she hurtled backward into the table, breaking the chair on her way down.

  “Who’s afraid of losing now?” Armon jeered as she struggled to sit up.

  Without warming, Jared laid him out flat on his back with a stunning right hook.

  “Only cowards hit women,” Jared said, tossing a small wad of bills onto Armon’s chest. Then he turned, grabbed Sahara’s sandals in one hand and pulled her to her feet with the other.

  “Come on,” he said roughly, propelling her outside.

  Once out in the open, Sahara breathed deeply, coughing a little and holding her left side. “I think I bruised my ribs.”

  She grinned at him, but he seemed to be in no mo
od to laugh with her.

  “What the hell was that?” Jared turned on her. “Do you want to get killed? Or thrown into prison? Or what?”

  “No.” She arched her back and rubbed her side. “I just want to help you, Jared.”

  “And you think getting in a bar fight with some piece of dung like that is going to help me? Or anyone else, for that matter?”

  Sahara shook her head. “You’re all scared, all of you. And you don’t have to be.”

  “You’re talking about things that you know nothing about.”

  “Really? You might be surprised.”

  Jared sighed. “Look,” he said. “I don’t know how things worked on your own homeworld, but here women don’t act like that. Women don’t play men’s games. And women certainly don’t stand up on chairs and talk about rebelling against the Dragon-Lords.”

  “That’s too bad. Might make things more interesting if they did.”

  Jared dropped her sandals and caught her bare arms in his hands. “Sahara, we’re different. Did it ever occur to you that you might learn something from our women about how to deal with men?”

  “What could I possibly learn from that squad of goggle-eyed dolls? Except that men here like women who are easy to push around?” She tipped her chin up to meet his gaze. “Is that what you want?”

  “This isn’t about what I want. It’s about people generally. There are effective ways of reaching people, and then there are not so effective ways. That in there—” he pointed back at the tavern—“was not so effective.”

  Sahara dropped her eyes, feeling a sudden rush of something like shame welling up inside her. “Well, maybe….”

  “You’re going to get a terrible reputation like this,” he continued. “I don’t want you to be forever labeled as an outworlder, an outsider…an outcast.” He turned away and started walking again. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ve got something you need to see.”

  Sahara picked up her sandals and trailed along after him, swinging her sandals by their straps. With each step, the cool stones of the path seemed to draw the heat of her passion out of her, like poison drawn from a wound. Gazing up into the hazy sky, she was suddenly and absurdly homesick. With a heavy sigh, she focused once more on the stones beneath her feet.