Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (17 page)

I lifted brows. "Why? Do you intend to drug me?"

Color stained his cheeks. "Of course not! I am not Sabra, who was interested only in punishing and

killing you. I want a true dance. A true winner. There will be no trickery."

"Your winner won't dance with me," I said. "He'll fight me. He'll attempt to kill me. And I will do my

very best to kill him. And
if
I do, I expect some reward for it. Something more than dessert."

There was only one thing worth having. And Umir knew it. "The freedom to leave my domain

unchallenged."

I nodded. "That'll do."

His tone became aggressive. "But anyone may challenge you outside my domain."

"Of course. But that's not your concern. And I truly believe anyone who witnesses me killing the best

of the best here in your homemade circle may think twice about challenging me anywhere."

His lips thinned. "You are overconfident."

" 'Over'? Don't think so. Confident, yes." I gifted him with a friendly smile. "I
am
the Sandtiger."

"You truly believe you can intimidate everyone?"

It wasn't false confidence or bluster. I'd done it before. Many times. It was one of my most effective

weapons. I was bigger, quicker, stronger and more agile than anyone else I'd met in the South. I was

simply better.

I smiled and said nothing.

"I wonder," Umir murmured, "what Abbu Bensir will say?"

Simply better—except possibly for Abbu Bensir. We hadn't settled that yet. I stopped smiling. "If

Abbu's here," I said, scowling, "why have a contest at all? Offer him the job and put us in your circle."

Umir studied a ring, admiring its beauty in the sunlight. "But that would deprive me of the entry fees."

I had to laugh. No wonder Umir the Ruthless was one of the wealthiest men in the South. He

charged sword-dancers to step into a circle against one another when they did it all the time for free, just

to hone their skills.

A faint glint of amusement appeared in Umir's pale eyes. "I hope you do understand, Sandtiger, that

my goal here is to find the best out of many. I'm not interested in death. Only in the unique. Your

presence here, under the peculiar circumstances of
elaii-ali-ma,
offers uniqueness. All of the men who

lose my contest will go out and find other employment, possibly even with tanzeers as wealthy as I. But I

offer something no one else can."

I knew what that was, but he detailed it anyway.

Dusky color stained his dark skin, and pale eyes glowed. "The opportunity to kill the Sandtiger in

front of other sword-dancers, thus plucking the greatest of thorns from their pride and adding

unassailable luster to one man's reputation. His name will be spoken forever with reverence. Tales will be

told. He will go to his death one day secure in the knowledge he avenged the tarnished honor of Alimat

and killed one of the greatest sword-dancers the South has ever known."

"And just when do you plan to
serve
dessert?"

Umir smiled. "In ten days."

Ten days. In ten days Del could be dead. Ten days was too long. Ten hours was too long. Even

though Nayyib was with her. "How about now?" I asked.

Umir nearly laughed aloud. "I think not."

"I'm serious. Give me a sword, and call for the dance right now."

"You are half-dead with exhaustion; do you think I can't see it? You can barely stand up." He shook

his head. "I will not present a farce. Ten days, Sandtiger. After you have rested and recovered.
Then

you may prove to me if you're as good as you claim." He gestured to his servants. "Escort him to the

bath chamber, then to his room. See that he is fed."

I dropped all pretenses, all facades. "Wait," I blurted sharply, as Umir began to turn away. "The

Northern woman," I said, "the one you wanted so badly ..."

He paused.

"She's ill," I told him. "Possibly dying. If you let me go to her—send any number of men with me you

wish, tie me up, keep me on a leash, put
chains
on me if you like—I swear to return and take part in

your contest."

Umir studied me consideringly. Then, with delicate disdain, he said, "I do not accept worthless oaths

from men with no honor."

I was tired enough and dirty enough that a bath among the enemy—with the enemy's servants

watching—did not unduly disturb me, especially since my wrists were finally untied and the nooses lifted

from my neck. Nor did I fear drinking the watered wine servant-guards offered as I soaked in the huge

hip-bath. I was too thirsty. And for all Umir had imprisoned me—and had done so before—he'd never

actually tried to harm me. If he was offering the Sandtiger on a platter to his guests as a fillip to his

contest, he would indeed want me fit enough to provide proper entertainment. His reputation depended

on it. He was ruthless when it came to dealing for prized acquisitions—kidnapping Del was an example

—but not a killer.

So, knowing I needed to be in the best physical condition possible if I wanted to survive—minor

motivation—I took advantage of his hospitality and came out of the bath markedly cleaner and feeling

more relaxed than I had in days. Upon being dried by female servants and anointed with scented oil, I

was presented with a soft linen dhoti and a fresh house-robe of creamy raw silk and a russet-colored

sash, but my leather dhoti and sandals were missing. Then the male servants escorted me barefoot down

a cool, tiled corridor to a wooden door boasting a rather convoluted locking mechanism on the

corridor-side latch. They gestured me in, and in I went. I knew better than to try Umir's servants. They

were very large men, and I was on the verge of turning into a boneless puddle of flesh.

The room clearly had been built to house a prisoner. The edge of the door was beveled so it

overlapped the jamb; there was no crack into which a knife or some other implement might be inserted in

an attempt to lift the latch. Nor was there any bolt or latch-string in evidence. Just planks of thick wood

adzed smooth, studded with countersunk iron nailheads impossible to pry out. The door could only be

opened from the corridor, and even a concerted effort on my behalf to knock down the door with brute

strength would result only in bruised flesh and, possibly, broken bones. No thanks.

Nor was there a window. Just four blank walls with a row of small holes knocked through mudbrick

up near the roof in the exterior wall, well over my head, and an equally blank adobe ceiling. The floor

was also adobe, lacking tiles or rugs. A large night-crock—in this case, daycrock, too—sat

unobtrusively in one corner. The only piece of furniture in the room was a very high, narrow bed. Next to

the bed, on the floor, was set a large silver tray containing cubed goat cheese; mutton pie baked in flaky

pastry; a sprig of fat, blood-colored grapes; a small round loaf of steaming bread accompanied by a

bowl of olive oil; and a pewter cup, plus matching tankards of water and wine. Not to mention a folded

square of linen with which to blot my mouth upon completion of the meal. Umir believed in manners.

Ten days. I wondered whether that included today or began tomorrow. I wondered it all through the

meal, the entire water tankard, half of the wine, and as I fell backward onto the bed. Umir had even

provided a pillow and coverlet. Then I didn't wonder anything at all. I fell fast asleep.

In the echoes of the dream, I saw old bones. Heard a woman's voice.

And took up a sword.

TWELVE

I WOKE UP not long after dawn to the sound of sword blades. For a moment I was disoriented,

aware of unfamiliar smells, light, and the fabric beneath my body. Then I remembered.

Swearing, I crawled out of Umir's so-called guest bed and sat hunched on the edge, scrubbing at

creased face. I'd been shaved the day before during my bath, so the stubble was short instead of its usual

three or four days' worth of growth.

Swords clashed outside. In the pallor of the morning, I glanced up at the line of airholes cut through

mudbrick near the ceiling. Apparently the exterior wall of my room faced Umir's circle off the back of the

house. But obviously I was not to be allowed sight of the matches or of the individual who might be given

the honor of killing me.

The door latch rattled. The door itself was thrown open. Had I intended to move, I wouldn't have

had time to get off the bed. As it was, I just sat there, scowling at my unannounced visitor.

Umir. I stopped scowling and presented him with a blandly noncommital expression of

nonaggression.

Then the two large men who'd shadowed me yesterday came into the room, and even as I began to

stand up they grabbed my arms arid jerked me onto my feet. So much for Umir's hospitality.

"Already?" I asked.

The two men clamped grips on my wrists and extended my hands. Umir approached. His expression

was outraged. "It is true!" he cried, staring at my hands. "I believed Rafiq was exaggerating."

Ah. The infamous missing fingers.

"I shall have to reduce his payment," he declared grimly.

My eyebrows leaped up. "Just how much are two fingers worth compared to an entire person?"

Umir glared at me. "I expected
all
of you to be delivered. Whole in body. Those were my orders."

I wanted to laugh; the whole topic was unbelievable. "Not that Rafiq and I are friends, Umir, but he

didn't do it. This happened a few months ago."

"I heard nothing of it!"

"It didn't happen here." Hoolies, what did it matter?

He swung away, took two steps, swung back. His pale gray eyes were fierce. "Can you still dance?"

I suppressed a smile. "According to the rite of
elaii-ali-ma,
I am not allowed—"

He cut me off with a shout. "Can
you still
dance?"

"What, afraid your plan for me as reward will be ruined?"

Umir took one step toward me and swung. I ducked most of the blow, but the flat of his hand still

caught me across the rim of my ear. The servants tightened their grips even more as I tried to lunge at

Umir, holding me back.

"Try me," I said between my teeth. "Put a sword in these hands and try me—or why not ask
Khashi

if I can hold a sword?"

Umir's expression was blank. "Khashi?"

"A sword-dancer," I told him. "We had a little contretemps in Julah. Except he's dead now, so he's

not here to tell you anything about who won and who lost."

Color began to steal back into his face. "He's dead?"

"Yes."

"You killed him?"

"Yes."

"Was he any good?"

I attempted a shrug made unsuccessful by the grips of the servants. "Apparently not, since I won. But

I suspect that depends on your point of view."

Umir bent down and peered closely at my hands. I found the critical examination highly offensive, but

there wasn't much I could do about it. So I just gritted my teeth and waited.

"Are they still painful?" he asked curiously, the way one might ask a guest if he wants more wine.

It took effort not to bellow at him, to retain some measure of decorum. "Explain why this matters to

you."

Umir seemed surprised as he straightened. "Of course it matters. Your physical well being affects the

quality of the entertainment I'll be offering."

I shook my head and began to say something, but Umir abruptly grabbed both my hands and

squeezed.

This did not particularly endear my host to me.

After a moment he released them. Umir debated something internally. Then he nodded. "The plans

are unchanged." And he turned and strode out of the room.

When I was locked in again, I loosed a lengthy volley of curses in every language I spoke, which

was significant after my sojourn at Meteiera, and wished I had numerous breakable items I could hurl at

the door and walls as I paced furiously, waiting for the pain to fade.

Of course such actions would merely trigger even more pain in my Umir-abused hands, so it was just

as well I didn't have that recourse. And I wasn't about to use the slops jar to vent my frustration, because

then I'd have to live with the rather messy results.

Eventually I ran out of curses. The pain diminished. I threw myself onto the bed, hands resting on my

chest, and contemplated the blank ceiling overhead, thinking fiercely focused thoughts of such things as

sword-dances and sword-dancers, broken oaths, missing fingers, idiots like Umir, absent baschas. And

the discipline I'd learned atop the Stone Forest.

Outside, in Umir's circle, sword blades rang. I heard voices raised in cheerful insults, vulgar

suggestions, the occasional compliment.

I frowned. There was one voice that sounded familiar.

I heard it again. The frown dissipated. I recalled sparring matches in one of Rusali's dusty alleys.

With swords and without.

Inspiration. Motivation.

I swung out of bed, pulled it away from the wall, turned it on edge, studied the legs. With care I sat

on one, my own legs gathered under me. I bounced slightly, and felt the answering crack. Smiling, I

stood up, smashed a foot against the leg, and was pleased to see it break off from the frame in one

piece. I was left with approximately three feet of wood. One end was slightly jagged, but that didn't

matter. The other end, adzed smooth at the bottom, afforded me a functional grip.

I set the bed upright again, swinging it around so the legless corner was not obvious to the eye of a