Resenting the Hero (8 page)

So I had more important things to do than gaze at myself in the mirror and make sure my hair was just so. Sorry.

It took us a while to find the bench dancing circle in the mess of stalls and tables and people. If it weren't for the flag, dark red with four black horizontal lines, we probably wouldn't have found it at all. There were a dozen or so dancing sets, each consisting of two benches, roughly eight feet long and barely the width of the average male foot, with two black bars lying between them and one on either side. Boring things to look at, really.

Timpani were being tuned on the side, four in all. I loved the sound of the kettledrums, it made me shiver, but I hadn't been allowed to listen to them very often. Only while dancing under the supervision of my instructors. The stalkers, the people who would be manipulating the bars while we danced, were placing pans of chalk throughout the dancing circle and wiping down the bars. The dancers were stretching or testing their balance on the benches.

“Hey, you're the new Pair,” a voice said from nowhere. A hand was thrust out at us. It was followed by the rest of the body and a warm smile. “I'm Elias Arter,” she said, grabbing Karish's hand for a quick shake, then mine. “This is my Shield, Kennis Mao. Sorry we didn't meet you when you first rode in, but everyone who can lends a hand with the Star Festival.” Her gaze scanned over me, and she looked like she didn't know what to say. Wasn't impressed with my outfit, I supposed. “Are you going to dance?” she asked.

With her other hand, Arter was keeping a good grip on her Shield, a solid-looking fellow who was staring off into space. I didn't know if he was even more sensitive to the noise than I, or just bored. “I'm Mallorough,” I said, though I figured she already knew. “This is Shintaro Karish. And yes, I've been ordered to dance.”

She grinned. “Poor girl,” she said mockingly. “But you Shields get so few opportunities to shine, you've got to grab your chance when you can.”

Mao woke up then, staring at his Source with obvious astonishment. I heard Karish making a swiftly repressed choking sound behind me. I kept my expression blank. I hoped. “Aye, there is that,” I agreed mildly.

Mao got his own expression under control and looked at me. I could see the traces of apology in his eyes. I shrugged imperceptibly. She was a Source. “Do you dance?” I asked him.

“Only when it's absolutely necessary,” he said wryly. “I'm stricken with a case of two left feet. But I shall enjoy watching you and sighing with envy.”

“My, how optimistic you are. When does it start?”

“After sunset. It'll be a bit yet. Grab something to eat.”

There was plenty of typical festival food, too spicy and too heavy. I didn't want any of it right then. It would weigh me down. Nothing to drink yet, either. But I promised myself I would indulge freely after the dancing.

Karish had already lasted longer than I'd anticipated. He was aware of the long, admiring glances sent his way, and he responded to them with nods and smiles. I saw him send a few admiring looks of his own. But he kept a hand on me at all times. I didn't much care for that, it made me feel like a child, but it was an accepted method of keeping track of a Shield, an easy way to sense and stop a dangerous act before it started. It would be better if he learned me the way I had to learn him, so he wouldn't have to hang on to me all the time, but that would never happen with his eyes everywhere but on me.

I shifted my feet uneasily. Someone was playing music somewhere near. It was the gorgeous, languid call of an oboe. It chilled me, but in a good way. I shifted my shoulders in the attempt to relax them. Then I clenched my teeth and dug my nails into my palms. Karish's grip tightened. “Shall I tell them to stop?” he asked, his voice so low and smooth it sent shivers down my spine.

I shook my head. I didn't want it to stop. It felt good.

“Are you sure?”

“I'm all right.”

The words were barely out of my mouth before a pair of cymbals crashed together inside my left ear. At least, that was how it sounded. I'm sure my feet cleared the ground by a good arm span, but I didn't scream. Good for me.

Karish pulled me to him, close to his side. I could see a passerby giving us a strange look. I felt suffocated. I struggled free. “Let me go.” He was far too ready to touch me, and I wasn't used to it.

“You're more sensitive than I thought.”

“I'm not so bad you have to hang all over me.”

“I won't have you accusing me of neglecting you.”

“So don't neglect me. Watch me. But don't be touching me all the time.”

He didn't like that at all. “I'm sorry I'm so offensive,” he said coolly.

Someone snickered and said, “I'll watch her for you.”

I looked at the man with surprise, ready to be offended again. I wasn't a child who needed to be supervised. But then he smiled at me, and it was a cute smile, so I smiled back.

“No, thank you,” Karish refused him with chilly disdain.

The man didn't appear to be impressed by the note of hostility. “No, I'm serious. I know about Shields.”

“I'll bet you do,” Karish sneered.

The man's face darkened. Didn't like the insinuation that he would take advantage of a woman made susceptible by music. Always a good sign in a man. “I will keep her out of harm's way for you,” he said with a controlled voice. “Since you seem to find the task so troublesome.”

Karish deliberately stepped in between the stranger and me. “You may leave, now,” he said loftily.

The regular shrugged. “Let me know if you change your mind,” he suggested. “I know how overburdened you Sources tend to feel. Have fun.” And he wandered off.

“Prat,” Karish muttered.

I watched the stranger walk away. He'd been appealing in a nondescript kind of way. Wiry build, nice brown eyes, good smile.

Then I forgot about him.

The sun finally disappeared, and I took off my shoes and stockings and started stretching, rotating my ankles and wrists. It had been nearly a month since I last danced the benches, and I was finding it hard to get loose. The drummers did a few warm-up rolls on the timpani, and I let the music work my muscles over.

Bench dancing was a dangerous pastime. People who were bad at it didn't do it. Two opponents stood on the benches, facing each other, a foot on each bench. Four stalkers, two on each end of the benches, worked the bars. The bars were lifted to just over bench height and were clattered together. The dancers had to jump and hop from bench to bench to keep their feet from getting caught between the bars. There were three rules. The opponents couldn't touch each other. A dancer couldn't have two feet on the same bench at the same time. And no touching the ground. Getting caught between the bars didn't mean an automatic loss according to the rules, but it hurt, a lot, so in such cases the dancer usually forfeited.

All Shields had to learn bench dancing at the academies. It was a wonderful way to force us to pay attention to what was going on around us. Some regulars danced just for fun. There were amateur competitions for those who took it a bit more seriously. Then there were the professional bench dancers who traveled from city to city, collecting purses. And where you have professional sports you must also have gambling, with stakes rising to ludicrous heights. Dancers could get rich, some honestly, some by taking dives. Shields couldn't make money from bench dancing, though. We were supposed to donate any winnings to charities.

The list of competitors was called out. I nodded to my first opponent, a young girl who was an idiot to be dancing at all. She had the look of someone in the middle of a growth spurt, gaining inches every day and having to relearn her own proportions every time she walked through a room. She should have waited until she finished growing before dancing again, especially in a competition.

I allowed myself a few more stretches, then dipped my feet in a nearby chalk pan. I stepped up onto my assigned benches, rubbing my soles into them. I watched the girl climb up at the other end of the benches and settle into a half crouch. She stared at me intently.

There was a warning roll from the drums. I felt the pounding in my stomach, and my whole body shivered. I shook it off. Bent knees, hands loose at my sides. Silence descended on the circle.

One moment, all was still. The next, an explosion of sound and movement. I was never sure exactly how or when it started. All of a sudden I was dancing, pulling one foot off the bench and feeling the faintest breeze as the bars crashed together under my sole. That foot went down, the other came up.

Just as suddenly, it stopped. I looked up in surprise. That had to be one of the shortest dances of my life. The girl had fallen off.

She started crying.

I rolled my eyes as a woman I assumed was the girl's mother ran out to soothe her disappointment, shooting nasty glances at me for defeating her precious daughter.

I looked over the other dancers. Some had been defeated as quickly as my opponent. I saw the appealing fellow, the one who had offered to keep an eye on me. He had won his dance.

He noticed me watching him. He winked. I smiled.

The first round was over. Some bench sets were dragged aside. New chalk for the stalkers, and a new drumroll. The bars would be lifted half an inch higher for this round.

New opponent. I beat him, too. My third opponent was more of a challenge. All the dancers were in fine form, but he was in particularly hardened shape. He spent a lot of time practicing, I could tell. He was possibly a professional. And he looked like he meant to be troublesome.

But I beat him, too.

I'd never danced against regulars before. At first I thought I was defeating them so easily because they were regulars. No doubt they didn't enjoy the high levels of rigorous training all Shields endured.

But then I faced Ogawa. She was good and had a height advantage, but she was tired before we even started, and I could feel her thinking about her feet too much. Every step she took, she shifted her balance just a little too far. Shortly after we started, her movements became less fluid, less sure, her breath coming too hard. Her stamina deteriorated rapidly, and I knew she would fall the instant before she did. She hit the sand, unhurt, and I jumped down after her.

“You're very good,” she said as I helped her to her feet.

“Because I beat you?” I teased her.

“Aye,” she answered somberly. “And you don't even feel it.”

“I will tomorrow,” I promised her. “Believe me.”

She smiled wearily and limped out of the circle. Tenneson gave her a comforting clap on the shoulder and a goblet of wine.

I suddenly realized my throat was dry. Swallowing was a difficulty.

My name was called again. I approached the benches, and I found myself facing my would-be protector, the one who “knew about Shields.” So he was that good, was he?

I looked him over. Very good build. Quite a bit taller than me. Elegant feet, for a man. He was soaked with sweat and breathing hard, as I was. He was also trembling, as I was not. Apparently the music didn't fortify him as it did me. That was my advantage.

I could take him.

We mounted the benches. The drums rolled. The bars rose to slightly above knee level—for me—and crashed together. I had to leap higher than he did to avoid them. One foot went down on the off beat, the other came up. I grit my teeth and forced exhausted muscles to move.

I refused to lose. I concentrated on the music, willing it to take me over. I reminded myself what the timpani did to me, and I felt a roll shiver through me. I felt it coat the pain a little. Good enough.

I sneaked a look at my opponent. He wasn't landing on the benches well, wasn't quite centered. His trembling was even more pronounced. I could practically feel it. Or maybe that was me I was feeling. I had started to wobble, too.

My opponent got caught. He shifted his weight too heavily to his down foot and he couldn't shift it back again. Two bars tried to meet and found their course obstructed by his knee. I was jarred back to the benches, and he screamed as wood crushed bone and cartilage.

He collapsed to the ground and rolled onto his back, digging his hands into the ground to keep them from clutching his shattered knee. There were calls for the healer, who was mysteriously absent. No one went near him. No one knew what to do for him, and no worried companion came out of the crowd to comfort him.

I dropped onto the ground, barely on my feet, watching it all through a haze. Sweat was running into my eyes, my heart was pounding in my ears, and my chest heaved in a desperate attempt to suck air into my lungs. The music had stopped, and I was shaking so hard I thought something might fall off.

I saw Karish force his way through the crowd, a goblet in one hand. Wine, I supposed. He knelt beside my victim, insinuating an arm under the man's back and raising him enough to sip at the wine.

Then I felt it, even through my own raging senses. Those tiny releases, those subtle adjustments that meant only one thing. He was channeling. He was channeling? Right then? What the hell was he thinking? We weren't on duty, and I was exhausted.

He was channeling. That meant I had to Shield. I cleared my head of my heartbeat and forced myself to pay attention to his.

Only there was no real rush of power through him, not like before. Just an odd rambling trickle that curled in on itself and barely made it past the Shields I'd erected. His blood wasn't racing, his mind was calm, it was almost like he wasn't really channeling at all. But he was doing something. I could feel it. I could see the tension flowing from the body of my opponent, the breath easing.