Free Powers by James A. Burton Page B

and shook sleep and pain out of his head, shielded his eyes with one hand, caught the glint of steel held a couple of feet away from the glow.
    Knife. It waved back at him.
    “Little man, what did you do with that star?”

VI
    He shook his head again, groggy, trying to clear it. He studied the blade gleaming in the side-splash of that light, all he could really see, all she meant for him to see. Yes, he knew who held the knife, the light. That damned Afghan harpy. Again.
    But he concentrated on the blade, squinting. Slight double curve to a fine stabbing point. Double-edged blade, to slash as well. Strong central rib. He couldn’t see guard or hilt, in the black behind the dazzle . . .
    He was a bladesmith.
    “I would have thought that style of khanjar came from well south and west of your people.”
    “I took it from a Persian who annoyed me.”
    That made him snort, even facing the knife. He wasn’t awake enough to be scared yet. If she’d meant to kill him, he would have woken up in hell. Or wherever. Besides, a demon wouldn’t let her. She’d said so.
    “This Persian didn’t object?”
    “He could not object, being dead.”
    Pretty much what he’d expected.
    By that time, he had a start of some wits about him. “I didn’t do anything with that star. You claim to be a seer. You claim to be able to find things. Can you see that forging anywhere around here?”
    He raised his hand to the side of his head, chancing her nerves. After all, a knife wasn’t as twitchy a weapon as a gun. He’d stared at the wrong end of both more than once. He’d survived. A knife was more dangerous at close range, but it wouldn’t go off by mistake. If she cut his throat, she’d mean to do it.
    His fingers met slippery hair. Yes, blood. Skin tender, throbbing already. Not serious, scrape on his scalp about an inch long, no apparent break or even crack to the bone underneath. Sometimes a thick skull paid off.
    Not as bad as what his cane had done to her, and that hadn’t slowed her down. He held those wet red fingers out into the light.
    “Does this make us even? Blood for blood?”
    “In your dreams.”
    There it was again, the idiomatic speech, just like that “Melissa” thing, the signs of someone who had lived in this society all her life. Contrast that with the dead “Persian” who’d donated her knife— nobody called them Persians anymore. Persian meant a long-furred and somewhat ugly breed of cat, not a nationality or race.
    Chills shot through him as he woke up enough to be scared and shake his brain into action. The woman liked to torture people. With a knife. She’d said so. That wasn’t the worst of it.
    “The star. What about the star? ”
    “Gone. I took our tame wizard out to the scene and the star was gone. You and I and Allah in His infinite mercy were the only ones who knew about it. So I thought we should have a little talk with Allah, you and I.”
    That star had touched him somehow, tied itself and its hopes to him. His chest turned hollow and he started to sweat with fear. He had to concentrate on breathing.
    “You’re positive it’s gone?”
    “Boards tossed to one side, empty print in the ash. The wizard said he could feel where it had been. He also gave me a strong sense that he was frightened, once I told him what you’d found, what you’d said. Wouldn’t talk, couldn’t make him. You’ll talk, one way or another.” She waved her knife in front of the light, adding emphasis.
    The light irritated him—just as she’d intended. The whole damned game irritated him, Afghan Harpy and Mother and Legion’s tricks and all. Few people could manage to live as long as he had without developing a little control over their tongues, but midnight interrogations were designed to strip all that away.
    “Screw you, your flashlight, and the goddamned camel you both rode in on. You don’t need a knife to make me talk. I don’t have your Allah-damned Solomon’s Seal, don’t know where it is,