Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (19 page)

determination of a Northern bascha.

"Fill me," I invited.

That moment faded. I inhabited another. When I opened my eyes, I found Umir standing in the open

door, staring at me oddly.

Eventually he bestirred himself and spoke. "Dress yourself. My servants will prepare you, then escort

you to the circle."

The tanzeer departed. His servants held a fresh leather dhoti, a flask of oil, new sandals, and an

overrobe woven of gleaming bronze samite, the finest silk in the world. Once Del had worn one similar at

Umir's request, albeit white; and the interior had been lined with priceless beads, glass, and feathers.

Mine, fortunately, was unadorned silk.

Mute, detached, I stripped out of linen dhoti, pulled on the soft suede. The servants poured oil into

their hands and began to work it into my flesh. Once I might have wondered if the oil was tampered with

in some way, but I knew Umir would not do such a thing for this match. He wanted a true dance. He

wanted no one to say the Sandtiger lost because Umir had cheated.

The servants shaved me, then attempted to help me put on the rest of the clothing. I refused both

overrobe and sandals. Wearing only the dhoti, I was escorted out of the room in which I had been

imprisoned for ten days, and taken out to Umir's white-walled circle.

My host had, as I had expected, assembled all of his guests along the curving, white-painted wall off

the back of his house. Having been present at Iskandar, I could see Umir had not been successful in

luring all sword-dancers to his contest. But the number was decent. They were most of them

Southroners, but there was a fair proportion of foreigners. They were taller men, heavier; brown-haired,

blond, even red-heads, and everything in between with eyes of every color. Skin was tanned, freckled,

or burned a permanent red from exposure to the harsh Southron sun. Though Southroners all resemble

one another because of similar coloring and builds, the only likeness among the foreigners was a

hardness in their eyes and the swords at hips and shoulders. There is a marked difference between men

who wear swords for protection or impression, and men who make a living with a blade. An ease exists

among the latter, a casual confidence in carriage, in self-knowledge. A sword is more than a sword. It is

a part of their souls.

Sabra, the first, if short-lived, female tanzeer, had made her exhibition garish and overly dramatic.

Umir's tastes and intentions were different. He neither announced my arrival nor my name; he knew, and

I knew, there was no need. The Sandtiger had been promised to the winner.

Some of these men had never seen me. Some likely hadn't been born when I first left Alimat. These

men gazed at me with a quiet avidity, marking how the man matched legend and rumor.

Undoubtedly some found me larger than expected, others thought me smaller. If what Del had said

of Meteiera's magic lifting a measure of harsh usage from me were true, then perhaps I looked younger

than many anticipated. But there was no doubt in any of the eyes that I was who I was. It was why I

could go nowhere truly disguised. Nothing can hide facial scars left by a sandtiger's claws.

Something inside me kindled abruptly into memory, and regret. Now Del would bear her share,

though fortunately her face was spared.

If she had survived.

The sword-dancers, as expected, took the measure of me: noted stature, the way I moved, the

length of legs and arms, the depth and spring of my ribs—and the massive scar left there by Del's

jivatma
—the architecture of bones and muscle, the fit of flesh over both. In the circle, everything counts.

Particularly in a death-dance.

They also, every one of them, looked at my hands.

The pale sand was warm beneath bare feet, but Umir had selected a good time of day. Since it was

Punja sand, the sun would eventually heat the intermixed crystals beyond endurance. But it was early

summer and mid-morning, bright enough to see without squinting, not so warm as to burn the callused

soles of a sword-dancer's feet.

I noted a few frowns, an occasional puzzled expression. After a moment's detached reflection, I

realized it was likely I resembled nothing of what those who knew me by sight anticipated. Skandi had

changed me. But none of them knew about Skandi. I had simply disappeared after Sabra's aborted

sword-dance, after declaring
elaii-ali-ma.
All they knew was the here and now: an aging man who

somehow looked younger, wearing double rings of silver in his ears, with hair cropped shorter than was

his wont. The build was the same, the features the same; but the man, somehow, was not.

There were men I knew. I watched their eyes meet mine, then slide away. Faces were stiff, set in

expressions designed to acknowledge the seriousness of the situation while giving nothing away of their

thoughts. Some of them had been friends. Some of them had been good friends. But such things meant

nothing when weighed against the shame of
elaii-ali-ma.
Here, I had no friends. No honored opponents.

Only enemies.

Umir gestured me to halt. I acquiesced, marking the slant of shadows, how the sand had been raked.

No clouds: Nothing would alter the intensity of the sun, thus altering the dance. I was aware of the

servants just behind me. I smelled heat and sand and oil, the faint tangy musk of assembled, active males.

Then I sent myself away . . .
lost myself once more in the wind of ioSkandi, threading my way

through the Stone Forest as I gazed down upon the circle, the man, the woman.

Memory endured.

I
was sword'dancer.

Sandtiger.

Legend in the flesh.

I smiled, returning. I was ready.

Umir raised his voice. "Will anyone among you draw the circle?"

No one moved. No one spoke. Everyone stared.

The tanzeer made a placatory gesture. "Yes; I do understand. There is the matter of
elaii-ali-ma.
I

neither disparage it nor mean you dishonor, nor ask you to forget. What I wish is to present that which

most closely resembles what this man, this outcast, threw away. He should know what he had, what he

shared with you, and what he has lost. The best of you will remind him, so that he dies comprehending

the worthlessness of his life." He paused. "Is there any among you who will draw the circle in which this

man will die?"

I heard a murmuring among them as they discussed it. Umir was asking a lot. I had no business being

in a circle of any kind, yet here I was. They could accept the tanzeer's suggestion or repudiate it even as

I had repudiated the honor codes.

Then a man pushed out from behind the others, unsheathing his sword. A tall, wide-shouldered,

fair-haired man, bred of Northern climes. I knew those eyes. Knew that face. Had heard the voice,

intentionally raised beyond the wall of my room so I might hear and know he was present. Recognized

the sword; I had met him before many times, to drink with, to spar against, to share his food. He, his

wife, his two little girls—now three, if I remembered correctly. They had cared for me after injuries more

than once.

Alric's eyes met mine, blue as Del's. I saw the faintest of flickers there, a tautening in his jaw. Though

not born to Southron customs, he had learned them well. He lived among Southroners, danced among

Southroners, was married to a Southroner. His habits were theirs. He understood them.

He walked nearly to where I stood, set his blade tip into the sand and began to pace out the circle,

drawing the line.

Alric finished where he began. He turned to face me, studied me, seemed to look inside my soul. I

wondered what he saw.

Abruptly he pivoted. With long strides the tall Northerner walked into the circle to the very center,

bent, and set down his sword.

This time the murmuring became recognizable words of angry protest. The other sword-dancers

were not pleased that one of their own spit in their faces by presenting me with his sword. Alric had just

done his reputation among them irreparable harm; but then, Alric had always gone his own way.

At least one man here would mourn my death.

His message was clear: I need not worry that the sword I would use had been tampered with.

And the other message: he had not won his dance. It would not be Alric I'd meet in the circle, who

would, unlike the others, make no attempt to kill me.

He inclined his head briefly, acknowledging me, then left the circle. Alric found a place to stand

against the wall. He was alone, apart, as he had made himself by declaring his loyalty.

Inwardly, I laughed. Already Umir's plan had gone slightly awry. Rafiq had brought him the sword

I'd bought in Haziz, which one of the servants nearest the tanzeer held. But it would remain unused. Now

I had another. One I could trust implicitly, one that suited me in weight and balance; Alric and I were

very similar in build, and I had sparred with it before. It also was offered by a friend to a man who

supposedly had none among those who lived in the circle.

Such intricacies of mind, such subtle subtexts, could do much for a man who meant to kill another, or

to preserve his own life.

"Musa," Umir called.

After a moment bodies parted. A pathway was opened. A man came forward, walking toward the

circle. I had half expected Abbu Bensir, but this man was not he. Much younger than Abbu, perhaps

twenty-six or -eight; taller, though not as tall as I; heavier than Abbu, though not a big man; slightly lighter

in skin, hair, and eyes. But he had the high-bridged nose and steep cheekbones present in so many of his

countrymen. Not Borderer, I didn't think. But a mix of something that gave him greater size than most

Southroners and, I decided, more power. He moved with the lithe, coiled grace of the snow cats I'd

seen high in Northern mountains, up near Staal-Ysta.

He wore only a dhoti, as I did. No harness, no sandals. He carried his sword. His eyes were fixed

on my own.

The others called out encouragement to him. He ignored them. There was a tight-wound intensity in

Umir's new hired sword. His eyes did not leave mine. His expression was a predator's, fixed and

unwavering. Not for him the camaraderie before a dance, the jokes and wagers exchanged. He had

come to kill me. He wanted me to know it.

Musa, Umir had named him. I didn't know him. I'd never heard of him. But he was here among the

others and had obviously defeated those others; I discounted nothing at all about him.

The tanzeer once again raised his voice. "As all of you have no doubt heard, the Sandtiger is no

longer whole in body. But lest you believe him physically unable and thus offering no challenge, let me

repeat what you may also have heard: this man killed one of you in Julah a matter of weeks ago. His

name was Khashi."

There were quiet, abbreviated murmurs. Every man present knew already. Likely Rafiq had told

them, bragging about how he had so easily captured the man who had so easily killed Khashi. Borrowing

glory, Rafiq.

I looked at Musa. Musa looked back. He borrowed no glory. The man's carriage claimed the quiet

confidence of the expert, requiring neither bragging nor flattery. The unsheathed sword dangled casually

from his hand. His forearms and ribs were webbed with pale, thin, slit-like scars, unavoidable in the

circle, but there were no scars of significance. Blades had gotten through his guard, had marked his flesh,

but none of them had done true damage. Mere pricks and minor cuts. Either everyone he had faced had

been no better than adequate, or he was truly good. Potentially great.

Based on the identities of many of the men I saw gathered in Umir's walled circle, the quality of much

of the opposition, that he was good was a given.

"Umir," I said quietly, "forget the appetizer. This man wants his dessert."

The tanzeer glared at me. "Your places!"

For me, it was a matter of taking three strides to the edge of Alric's circle. I waited. Musa, opposite,

crossed the circle, set his sword beside Alric's, then paced back to take up his position. There were

perhaps four inches between our respective heights, and he was long-legged. The race would be of

equals.

He also had hands boasting all four fingers.

I raised mine. Displayed them palm out. Let Musa and everyone else take a good look. "Surely," I

said, "it will not take long to kill me. How can any man lacking two fingers hope to defeat the best of the

best?"

It infuriated Umir, who clearly did not want his rebellious dessert ruining the moment. There was only

one way to end it. "Dance," he said.

FOURTEEN

I DUG the balls of my feet into sand and thrust myself forward, crossing over Alric's line into the

circle. Three strides and I reached the center, snatching up Alric's sword.

I let momentum carry me forward into a somersault that took me out of immediate danger as Musa

reached for his own weapon. I spun as I came up at the edge of the circle, blade at the ready, and

blocked the first slashing blow. The clash of steel rang through the inner circle encompassed by Umir's

wall.

Block. Block. Block and block. Musa was fast with his sword, disengaging and returning