Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (16 page)

dubious expression. "I'm not stupid, Tiger; there's always a chance something might prevent me from

winning. I could trip at the wrong time. Get a blister on my thumb. Lose a finger." He glanced pointedly

at my hands. "All the other losers will just be losers. I'll walk away with Umir's coin in my purse, and the

honor of bringing in the Sand-tiger to face punishment."

"We will walk away," Ozmin clarified.

Mahmood nodded. "We're splitting it, remember? Otherwise you could have taken him on by

yourself. And we all know who'd have won that contest."

Maybe not, in my current condition. I contemplated leather knots glumly. I'd known returning to the

South was a risk. Being challenged by Khashi in Julah was merely the first of many I expected to face.

But that was one by one. Umir's scheme likely
would
get me killed. At Alimat we'd held many such

contests to test our skills against one another, because competition brought out the best. It focused the

mind, honed the talent. By the time the two finalists met, regardless of cuts, bruises, and slashes, they

were prepared for anything.

Whoever came out of Umir's contest the winner would be very, very good, and very, very hungry for

his—dessert.

"Doesn't sound like there's much in it for me," I said lightly.

Rafiq affected surprise. "But of course there is! You'll have the honor of dying in front of men you

trained with, sparred with, danced with, even drank with. Men you respect, and who respect—

respected—you. Who will never forget you and will speak your name to others. How better for a

sword-dancer to die? It's our kind's immortality." Then his expression hardened. "Oh, but I was

forgetting. You have no honor. You aren't a sword-dancer. You're just a man whom no one will

remember, whose name is never spoken. A man who never lived, and thus can have no immortality."

Rafiq added with elaborate scorn, "A man such as you might just as well have been born a slave."

The verbal blade went home, as he had intended. My origins weren't a secret. They'd been part of

the legend: a Salset slave had, against all odds, risen to become a seventh-level, Alimat-trained

sword-dancer, favored by the shodo. When you're a legend, origins don't matter except as seasoning for

the story.

Now, of course, I wasn't a legend. And Rafiq wanted a reaction. Maybe he wanted me to choke

myself trying to reach him. But I merely grinned at him. "So much for honor. I don't think there is much in

killing a former chula."

His face darkened. After a moment he kicked his horse into a trot and went ahead again.

While I, meanwhile, blessed the bald, blue-headed priest-mages for forcing me to rededicate myself

to one of the teachings of my shodo.

Discipline.

It was its own kind of magic.

ELEVEN

BY THE TIME we reached the place Rafiq identified as Umir's somewhere near sundown, I was

tired, thirsty, hungry, sunburned, and more than a little sore from a long ride with my hands tied, not to

mention the residual debilitating effects of sandtiger poison. Most of it had worked its way out of my

system—and this was my third encounter, so my reaction was somewhat lessened—but I wasn't exactly

feeling myself. Rafiq and his friends had given me water along the way, but they didn't claim a spare

burnous among them, so all I had to wear was my dhoti. Not to mention I hadn't eaten for a couple of

days thanks to the sandtiger attack, and now that the worst of the sickness had passed my belly was

complaining.

Last time I'd looked, Umir had concentrated his holdings farther north. It was very unlike him to take

himself so far south. But he was a tanzeer who enjoyed buying all manner of items he deemed worthy of

his collections, and I guess domains qualified. For all I knew he'd added five or six since I'd sailed for

Skandi.

The house was, I decided as we approached, fairly modest for a man of Umir's wealth and tastes,

being little more than a series of interconnected, low-roofed rooms built of adobe, the pervasive

mudbrick of the South, with timber roofs. Except Umir had had his adobe smoothed into silken slickness

and painted pristine white with lime, so it glowed in the sun. Tall palm trees formed clustered lines of

sentinels around the house, and masses of vegetation peeped over courtyard walls, indicating there was

good access to water. Which I saw proved as we rode into the front courtyard: a three-tiered fountain

spilled water into a large tile basin. This was wealth incarnate. Trust Umir to find water at the edges of

the Punja.

Thirst reestablished itself. I wanted nothing more than to fall into the fountain, but good old Ozmin

and Mahmood still had me closely leashed. Rafiq tracked down a servant, explained his business, and

within a matter of moments we were politely invited to dismount in the cobbled, shaded courtyard. The

horses were taken away by grooms. Damp cloths were presented to Rafiq and his two friends to wipe

off the worst of the trail dust; I was ignored. Ozmin and Mahmood still shadowed me on either side,

leashes coiled in their hands. In dhoti, dust, sunburn, and sweat, I was definitely at a disadvantage when

it came to presentability.

We were permitted into the house and left to wait in a reception room of airy spaciousness, with tile

floors and colorful tribal rugs. Priceless items were set in nooks and adorned walls. Low tiled tables

displayed other items, including thin, colored glass bowls and bottles, which I found more than a little

risky with numerous careless sword-dancers trooping through the house. But maybe that was part of the

appeal for Umir.

After a suitably lengthy wait intended to intimidate lesser personages, Umir's steward appeared. Said

steward then led us through the reception room out into what I thought was a courtyard off the back of

the house. Except I discovered it was nothing like. The back of the house was constructed of plain walls

bowing out from the main house like a bubble. Thick, curved walls approximately six feet high. No

exposed bricks. No adornment. No windows. No vegetation. No fountains. No nothing, except

elegantly curving walls that met precisely opposite where we were standing, and imported silk-smooth

Punja sand raked into perfection.

A circle.

A very large circle, more expansive than a proper sword-dance required; I suspected the

sword-dancers not fighting a given match would stand against the walls to watch. There was no danger in

doing so; a man who stepped out of the circle drawn in the sand forfeited the match, and we all of us had

learned to dance in close quarters. That was part of the beauty, the art, and the challenge.

Umir, I realized with a start of surprise, had had the house built with his sword-dancer contest in

mind. If it were true he intended to hire the winner for life—or at least for the balance of his professional

career—it was no surprise sword-dancers would come from all over the South. Likely at retirement

Umir would settle some land and a dwelling on him; not a bad job at all. I'd even be interested myself, if I

weren't scheduled to be the post-dance entertainment.

Waiting in the sun surrounded by white-painted walls wasn't my idea of fun, especially since I was

tired enough my eyes kept trying to cross. I scrubbed with bound hands at the sweat and dust filming my

face and considered plopping myself down in the sand, then eyed Ozmin and Mahmood and decided

against it. But as Rafiq and his friends grew impatient enough to start complaining, the master of the

house appeared.

Umir the Ruthless was a tall, slender, aristocratic man with high cheekbones, arched nose, and dark

skin, all classic features of a Southroner save for his eyes, which were a pale gray. I'd always assumed

Umir had some Borderer in him. As was habitual, he wore robes of the finest fabrics. The toes of soft,

dyed-leather slippers peeked out from under the bullioned hems.

He spoke to Rafiq, but didn't look at him. His gaze was fastened on me. "Well done."

Rafiq had never claimed any subtlety. "When do we get paid? Now, or after he's dead?"

Umir was unruffled. "Oh, now, of course. I'll have my steward tend to it." He assessed me with a

faint smile. "Well, Sandtiger . . . the last time we met, I wished to acquire your woman. Does it please

you to know I now wish to acquire you?"

"Depends on what you want me for," I answered. "Now, if it was me you wanted to hire for lifetime

employment, we could probably work something out. But if I'm meant to be dessert, probably not."

One brow lifted delicately. "Dessert?"

"I told him what you plan," Rafiq offered. "How he's to be the reward for the winner."

"Oh, but you should have left that to me," Umir murmured. "You have deprived me of amusement."

Apparently he'd made some kind of signal, because two large men appeared from the house. Umir

indicated them with a negligent gesture. "Rafiq, you and your friends are free to avail yourselves of my

hospitality with the other sword-dancers, in the visitor's wing. This particular guest is now the

responsibility of my house."

I just love the way a cultured man finds euphemisms for everything. Guest. Hah.

Ozmin and Mahmood were happy enough to hand over the leashes to Umir's large servants. The

steward presented a coin pouch to Rafiq and led them back inside. Which left me outside with Umir, and

my two keepers.

The tanzeer's expansive gesture encompassed his circle. "Do you like it?"

He waited expectantly. I hitched one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Rather attractive in a spare,

unassuming sort of way."

"Oh, yes. Very minimalist. No distractions that way. Merely the pure, elegant art of the

sword-dance."

He had not brought me out here to discuss the attractions of his architecture but to impress upon me

this was to be where I died. I thought again of sitting down, or asking if I could go back out front and fall

face-first into the fountain. Did neither, under Umir's examination.

The tanzeer's nostrils flared with distaste. "Why is it whenever I see you, you are in a state of utter

filth and dishabille?"

I smiled winningly. "I lead an active life."

He made a dismissive gesture. "Well, for a short time, at least, you shall enjoy the best my poor

house has to offer. Scented baths, oils, the finest of food and wine, comfortable lodgings; even women, if

you like. I do not stint my guests."

At this point, wobbly as I was, it all sounded wonderful— except for the women. Well, even they

sounded wonderful in the abstract. (Once upon a time the women wouldn't have been abstract at all, but

Del had reformed me.)

"I'm not a guest," I said. "I'm dessert."

Umir smoothed the front of his figured silk overrobe with a slender hand weighted with rings. "I

would be remiss if I offered my other guests dessert lacking in piquancy. By the time you step into the

circle, you will be well fed, rested, and fit."

"Hasn't anyone told you?" I asked. "I can't step into a circle anymore. That's the whole point of

elaii-ali-ma."

He waved that away. "Call it what you wish. A square, if you like. But you will fight for me,

Sandtiger. As only you can."

I lifted brows. "What's in it for me? What possible motivation would I have for meeting the winner of

your little contest?"

Umir's eyes and tone were level. "Until last year, you were a man of honor. An Alimat-trained,

seventh-level sword-dancer of immense skill and repute. I saw what took place at Sabra's palace, how

you stopped the dance against Abbu Bensir and declared
elaii-ali-ma.
It was for the woman, was it

not? The Northern woman. Well, I understand her worth. Not for the same reason, perhaps, but that

hardly matters. You made an outcast of yourself for her sake. It had nothing to do with disenchantment

with the oaths you swore, the life you chose. You may deny it now, to me, but when you step into that

circle—and it will be a circle—you will recall those oaths. They will once again rule your life. You will

dance, Sandtiger—and yes, I do mean dance—because you will have no other choice. It is all you

know. It is what you
are.
And you will die with whatever honor you may make of your last dance."

Umir was right. With my life at stake, I would not refuse to dance. But. . . "You know, I'm getting

really,
really
tired of everyone assuming I'll lose."

The tanzeer stared at me with the faintest of puzzled frowns.

I spelled it out for him. "I might win, Umir. What happens then?"

He shook his head. "I have been given to understand that it is an impossibility you might win."

"Oh? Why? Did you ask Rafiq? Someone else? How can anyone be sure
what
will happen?" I took

one step toward him, as much as I was willing to risk while on doubled leashes. "What if I win, Umir?

What happens then?"

He was baffled. "But you have broken all your oaths. It was explained to me."

I laughed. "Yes, but broken oaths and loss of honor does not necessarily translate to loss of skill."

Clearly Umir had never considered I might win. Clearly none of the sword-dancers he'd consulted

considered I might win. Which is just the way I liked it.

"So," I said, "does the deal apply to me? I win, and you offer me employment?"

His face was very stiff. "I find it highly unlikely you would win.