Sword Breaker-Sword Dancer 4 (26 page)

I stopped swearing when I realized I wasn't alone, and when I discovered it was rather difficult to make any sound at all, because something very taut and painful was looped around my throat. Wrists were tied behind me, and a length of something--wire?

rope?--ran from them to the binding around my ankles. An excessively short length; my legs were bent up so that heels nearly touched buttocks. It was highly uncomfortable.

Which didn't make me very confident about the situation.

"Sandtiger."

So much for wondering if they--or he--knew who I was. On one hand, it made me feel like this had been done for a reason. On the other, it made me feel like I was in more trouble than just a random, if violent, robbery.

Especially since I heard the few coppers in my pouch rattle as I shifted, testing bonds.

"Sandtiger."

I stilled. The back of my neck itched, and forearms. My belly felt queasy.

"Do me a favor?" I asked. "Give us a little more light, so I can see what party I've been invited to."

Nothing. And then the voice asking, with a trace of' mild amusement, if I was sure I wanted light. "Because if you see me, will you not then have to be killed?"

A cultured, authoritative voice; the kind that appears ineffective, until you demand proof of strength. The slight accent was of the Border country, with a twist of something else.

It sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it.

I expelled a breathy, cynical grunt. "Hoolies, you'll kill me regardless--if that's what this is all about. If it isn't, you don't really care one way or another." I worked my wrists a little, found no give at all. If anything, the binding tightened.

Silence. And then light.

I swore in spite of the loop around my throat.

"Precisely," he agreed. "Now, shall we discuss once more what kind of payment you would like for the Northern woman?"

I told him what he could do with himself.

"I intend to," he said mildly. "I'm quite depraved, you know. It's part of my reputation.

Umir the Ruthless, they call me."

I gritted teeth. "Is that why you want Del?"

"Is that her name?"

I swore again. This time at myself.

"No." The light came from a crude clay lamp set into a window sill. He stood in front of it, which threw him mostly into silhouette and limited its effectiveness, but the pale glow from behind me balanced the illumination and allowed me to see the characteristic dark Southron face with high-arched nose, sharp cheekbones, thin lips and deep sockets, but the eyes in them were an unusual pale gray. Borderer, I decided, in view of the accent.

Rings and studded belt glinted. "I want--Del--for the very reasons I gave you before: I collect differences."

"What in hoolies is that supposed to mean?"

He gestured. "Some people collect gemstones, golden ornaments, horses, women, men, rugs, silks ..." Again the smooth gesture illustrative of the obvious. "I collect many different things. I collect things that interest me by their very differentness."

"So you want her."

"She is a remarkably beautiful woman, in a very dangerous, deadly sort of way. Most women--Southron women--are soft, accommodating things, all tears and giggles--depending on their moods, which are innumerable. She is most decidedly not soft. She is hard. She is sharp. She is edged, like steel. Like glass." His smile was faint in the thick shadows. "So keenly honed she would part the flesh with no man the wiser, and let him bleed to death at her feet, smiling all the while."

"As she'll part yours," I promised. "She's a sword-dancer, borjuni ... a fully trained, jivatma-banded sword-dancer. Do you have any idea what that means?"

"It means I want her more than ever." He smiled. "And I'm not a borjuni. I'm a tanzeer."

"In Quumi?"

He shrugged. "With proper management, Quumi could become profitable again. But it has only lately come into my possession. I have annexed it to my domain." He pointed northerly. "Harquhal."

"Harquhal is yours?" I frowned. "Harquhal hasn't belonged to a tanzeer for years. It's a border town--a Borderer town. You can't just walk in there and take it over."

"It's when people believe you can't that you can." He made a sharp gesture. "But we're not here to discuss annexations. We're not here to discuss anything, really--I just thought you might like to know that even as we speak, my men are abducting the woman for me."

I tried to break the bindings and succeeded only in nearly choking myself into unconsciousness. Shaking with anger, I subsided. "So much for offering to buy her."

"I pride myself on being a judge of men. When I learned who you were, I knew it was unlikely you would give in. You have something of a reputation, Sandtiger... there is talk that imprisonment in Aladar's goldmine changed you." He paused. "And the woman."

"How?" I spat. "Are you trying to say I'm soft, like the Southron women?"

"To the contrary--although some undoubtly would argue that; but then, they have no idea what motivates a man." He smoothed the rich silk-shot fabric of his nubby, stubbed burnous, rings glittering. "Those who understand men--or understand you--say the mine and the woman have made you more focused. More deadly than ever. Before, you cared mostly for self-gratification... now that life and freedom mean so much more to you--now that there is the woman--you are not so lackadaisical."

"Lackadaisical?" It was about the last word I'd choose to characterize myself.

"Men who are nomads--or once were--drift with the Punja, Sandtiger. Where they go matters little, so long as there is a job, or women, or wine." He smiled. "You were blessed with unusual size, strength and quickness, and a great natural ability... why should a man so talented waste his strength unnecessarily? No, he merely flicks the insect aside instead of squashing it, because he knows he can... and that if he should choose to squash it, his will be the quickest foot any insect has ever known."

He stopped speaking. I stared at him, unsettled by his summation. By his ability to judge so easily, and speak with such certainty.

I lay unmoving, cognizant of bindings. "Let her alone."

"No." He moved a single step closer. "Do you understand what I have just said? You are a man who cannot be bought. An anomaly, Sandtiger--a different kind of sword-dancer, whose whole lifestyle is to be bought. Slavery of a different sort."

I bit back anger, putting up a calm front. "So, am I to join your collection, too?"

"No. Sword-dancers are a copper a dozen... admittedly, you might be worth more than that, but not so much that you're worthy of my collection. No," he said thoughtfully,

"were I to add a sword-dancer, it would be Abbu Bensir."

I blurted it without thinking. "Abbu!"

"I want the most unique, Sandtiger. That is the point. You are very good--seventh-level, I believe?--but Abbu is ... well, Abbu is Abbu. Abbu Bensir."

I know. I know. It was stupid to feel even remotely jealous, in view of the circumstances. But it grated. It rankled. Because while it's bad enough to be trussed up and dumped in a stinkhole because you're inconvenient, being told you're not worth as much as your chief rival makes it even worse.

I scowled blackly. "Ever heard of Chosa Dei?"

He smiled faintly, brows lifted in amused perplexion. "Chosa Dei is a Southron legend.

Of course I have."

I grunted. "He collected things, too. Mostly magic, though."

The tanzeer laughed softly. "Then we are very alike, the legend and I. I have acquired a bit of magic lore over the years."

Magic lore, not magic itself. I thought the distinction important. "What happens next, tanzeer? Am I to be left here as rat food, or do you have something in mind?"

"What I have in mind is the woman." He smiled as my muscles instantly knotted against the bindings. "I would not try quite so hard to break free, Sandtiger. That is not rope imprisoning you, but magic."

I froze. "Magic?"

"Runelore, to be precise." He shrugged. "I have a grimoire."

"A grim-what?"

"Gri-moire," he enunciated. "A collection of magical spells and related enchantments.

The Book of Udre-Natha, it is called. The Book of the Swallowed Soul." The tanzeer smiled. "My soul is quite intact, as yet... but certainly bartered." He reached inside his burnous and drew out something that glowed dull gray-brown in muted illumination.

"This is but a sample, a fragment left over--do you see?" He spoke a single word under his breath, and the thing he held flared into life. It glowed a sickly yellow-green. "There.

Runelore. The Book of Udre-Natha is full of such small magics, as well as larger." He came closer, bending slightly to dangle the length before my eyes. "Do you see the runes? Hundreds of them, all woven together into a single strand of knotted, unbreakable binding, stronger than rope, or wire. That is what imprisons you, Sandtiger.

At throat, wrists, ankles." He gestured. "Skill or no skill, sword or no sword, even you cannot break free of magic."

Transfixed, I stared at the abbreviated length dangling from his fingers. Dim, pulsing light; runes knotted together to form a bizarre, living rope thick around as a woman's smallest finger.

He tucked the runes away. "I would not struggle too much," he warned. "Part of runelore, once set to bind, is to constrain such attempts. If you fight too heartily, the loop around your throat could quite easily strangle you. And I would hate to have that happen."

"Why?" I asked rustily. "What use am I to you?"

"Not to me. To Sabra."

Every muscle froze.

"I don't want you," he said, "but she does. And since I am not averse to making a profit, I'm pleased to be able to rid myself of you while also earning coin--and Sabra's gratitude. One never knows when such gratitude can come in handy."

"She's a woman," I said, looking for an edge. "You'll deal with a woman tanzeer?"

"I'll deal with anyone I must to secure the things I want." He shrugged. "I am a pragmatist, Sandtiger ... for now, Sabra rules her father's domain, but that will change.

It always does, eventually." He shook out the folds of his heavy sleeves. "By now they should have the woman--Del?" He nodded. "So I take my leave." He turned to the lamp, blew it out. The nacreous glow of binding runes cast sickly light upon his stark, shadowed face. "Sabra should arrive from Iskandar in a day or two. Until then, you'll have to make shift where you can. And if you think to shout for help, recall you are in my domain. I have promised the people I will restore her to her former glory--and I have also told them they are not to meddle in my affairs."

I lurched, then stiffened as rune-bindings tightened. "Wait--"

He moved to the door and put his hand upon the latch. "I am not a murderer, borjuni, or rapist. I acquire things to admire them. It may please you to know I have no intention of harming the woman."

It was something. But as he shut the door and latched it, I wondered if he lied.

Lied about everything.

Twenty-eight

No light, save for the ghostly glow of rune-bindings. I lay in pallid darkness, bathed by sickly shadows, and wondered how far I could test the bonds without strangling myself.

Umir the Ruthless had been clever; by also running the single length of rune-rope through loops at wrists and ankles, he made certain any sort of testing would tighten the noose snugging my throat.

Hoolies take him.

Then, again, I reflected, he seemed to think his soul was already compromised by his ownership of the Book of Udre-Natha, or whatever the hoolies it was.

I scowled into darkness. By refusing to think about magic most of my adult life, it seemed I'd missed out on a lot of knowledge and forgone conclusions. It seemed the South was riddled with magical items, grim-whatevers, would-be sorcerers, afreets... ah, hoolies, I don't care what they say, it's all tricks and nonsense.

Except Umir's "nonsense" was doing a fine job of keeping me out of action.

I lay very still and did a meticulous examination of my physical condition. My kidneys still ached unremittingly, and undoubtedly would for a day or two; a few bruises here and there, abrasions; a couple of painful gouges; a sore lump on the side of my head.

And a cramping discontent across my spine that told me something else: they'd left me my sword. Still sheathed and hooked to harness, which I still wore.

A question occurred: Why?

Then again, why not? Without my arms free, the sword did me no good. And for all I knew, Sabra had requested its presence as pointedly as my own.

And also something else: What if someone had tried to take my sword, and Samiel had repulsed him?

If you didn't know his name, he could be downright testy. It was a jivatma's first line of defense; the second being its ability to do incredible, magical things.

Magic.

I chewed the inside of my cheek thoughtfully. Hadn't I used magic the day before, to repair injured knee, and restore arms and fingernails?

Hadn't I bent Chosa Dei--well, a piece of him--to my will?

I shivered. The binding tightened at throat, on wrists, on ankles.

I lay in the dust-smeared darkness and sweated stickily, trying to swallow without giving the noose a reason to snug itself any tighter. Trying to figure a way of undoing Umir's magic.

Trying not to think of what they were doing to Del, who--drunk or not--had swallowed much too much aqivi, and received a tap on the jaw from a none-too-gentle fist.

I slept, and woke up with a jerk that snugged the noose a step tighter. Now it was really uncomfortable. I cocked my head back, trying to put slack into the tautness; rapped my skull against the upstanding hilt of my sword and swore, hissing the oath in disgust, despair, desperation.

"Stupid ..." I muttered hoarsely. "Your shodo would hold you up to ridicule--"

But I broke it off. I didn't really want to think about my shodo right about now. Twelve years dead, he still exerted a powerful influence over my behavior. Much as I hated to admit it. Much as I got sloppy and depended on size, strength, quickness and natural ability to win my dances, instead of the precise techniques my shodo had labored seven years to teach me.