Sword-Sworn

by Jennifer Roberson

  I smoothed oil across the back of my neck. “We’ve had this conversation before.”

  “And you have never given me a definitive answer.”

  “No isn’t definitive?”

  “You haven’t said ‘no.’ You have made objections. There’s a difference.”

  Well, yes, there was. “You’re absolutely certain you want me to teach you to be a sword-dancer.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Something in his eyes flickered briefly. It was neither doubt that he could answer nor fear that he’d answer wrong. Maybe it was merely a question he’d never expected of me.

  The stud nosed my shoulder. I patted his muzzle, then eased his head away. “Well?”

  “It’s what I’ve wanted to be since I was very young.”

  I wiped alla oil across my abdomen between harness straps and began working it in. “Why?”

  “My sister and I…” A quick smile curved his lips as he thought of her. “We made swords out of sticks. Drew circles in the sand. Eventually my mother made her spend more time in the house, so I had to dance alone. But my sister knew, and I knew, that someday it would come to this.”

  “What made you choose me?”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I didn’t, at first. There was a sword-dancer in the village, on his way to Iskandar. For the dances there two years ago.” His eyes flickered again. “Do you recall?”

  Did I recall? Oh, yes. With infinite clarity. Del did too; it was where she’d killed Ajani.

  I tossed used leaves aside, worked at splitting a new one. “So this sword-dancer rode through your village, and you asked him for lessons?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he give them to you?”

  “Yes. He needed money, and I offered to pay him.”

  I nodded, bending to work oil into thighs. “And you decided by the time he left that you wanted to challenge me.”

  Once again color warmed the dusky tan of his face. “I didn’t mean it as a challenge. I just wanted to step into the circle with you. I knew I would lose.”

  I grinned lopsidedly. “Not necessarily.”

  “Against you? Of course.”

  “Nayyib, the first time I stepped into a circle against a legendary sword-dancer, I won.”

  “But you’re you.”

  I straightened up. “I wasn’t me then,” I said in exasperation. “I was just a gangly seventeen-year-old kid with hands and feet too big for his body, who was underestimated by a man who should have known better. Complacence in the circle is dangerous—it nearly got him killed, and I had only a wooden sparring blade, not live steel.” I shook my head, remembering Abbu’s shock. I waved a depleted leaf at him. “And there, Neesha, is another lesson.”

  His mouth twitched in a half-smile. “Will you give me more? It would be my honor—and I have the money to pay you, too.”

  I laughed, tossing aside the leaf. I was aware of Del moving even more slowly as she prepared the gelding. Nayyib’s horse was already tacked out and loaded, groundtied some distance away. “Look…” I paused, thought about it briefly, gave it up. “I have every intention of reopening the school at Alimat, but not quite yet. There are a few things to settle first. If you truly want to learn—if you haven’t lost interest or gotten distracted by something else by then, like a woman—come find me then.”

  His jaw tightened. There was nothing puppy-doggish about his eyes now; he was angry, but he was suppressing it with unexpected self-control. Some of the boyishness faded behind a harder veneer. Suddenly he wasn’t a kid at all, but a man.

  His voice was very quiet. “What would it take?”

  “Time.” And then I heard my shodo’s words come out of my mouth. “There are seven levels. But there is no prescribed length of time required to reach any of those levels. It may take two years to reach the first level. You may leave after you reach it, if that is your choice—but to leave before you can walk means you’ll be killed before you can even dream of running.”

  “And to achieve seven levels?”

  I shrugged. “Few men last that long. They leave to make a living.”

  “You are a seventh-level sword-dancer.”

  “I was. I’m not anything now, other than outcast.”

  “Elaii-ali-ma,” he said. “Rafiq told me, when I asked.”

  “Time and oaths,” I told him. “It’s a demanding service, the circle. Too many believe it’s about glory. Rafiq does, and it’s why he’ll never survive. In truth, it’s mostly about honor, and oaths, and service. The elegance of the dance, the beauty of live steel. Glory comes, if you win enough, well enough—but that’s not the point. It only seems like it to young men who don’t want to stay in the village, get married, and father babies on the first village girl they bed.”

  He had controlled the anger. His voice was steady. “And if I choose to achieve the seventh level, as you did?”

  “Can you afford ten years?”

  He blinked. “It took you ten years?”

  I bent to apply oil to my calves and shins. “No, it took me seven. But I was the first to do it that fast.”

  Nayyib nodded once. “Seven levels. If it requires twelve years, then I will give you twelve.”

  Del led the gelding around in front of the stud. Waited, saying nothing.

  “Don’t swear any oaths just yet, Nayyib,” I suggested. “Not until you know what they are. Because at Alimat, the oaths you swear are for life.”

  He didn’t shy from it, was not afraid of me. “You broke yours.”

  “And every sword-dancer in the South is trying to kill me.”

  His glance slid to Del. Quietly, he said, “There are times when certain oaths must be broken, if to keep them breaks oaths you have made to others.”

  So. She’d told him. It seemed the Northern bascha had been doing quite a bit of talking to the Southron boy.

  Who wasn’t really a boy. Just considerably younger than I.

  Like Del.

  He was still gazing at her. She didn’t avoid it. I saw a look pass between them, though I couldn’t interpret it.

  Something pinched deep in my gut. Jealousy? No, not really. But an awareness that things were changing; that they would continue to change.

  And Del knew nothing about my limited time. Her life would change, too.

  I looked back at Nayyib. He said he’d give me twelve years. In twelve years, or possibly ten, I would be dead.

  Abruptly I tossed away the rest of the leaf. Turned and mounted the stud. I reined him in and looked down at Nayyib, waiting for my answer. “You can come with us as far as Julah. We’ll spar there, and then I’ll decide.”

  The stud has a very comfortable long-walk, once he consents to settle into the gait. Too often he has a burr under his blanket, or a bee up his butt—figuratively speaking, of course—and takes it out on me. But for now he was content to just walk on, head bobbing lazily at the end of his neck. I very nearly fell asleep, until Del’s voice woke me up.

  “Tiger!”

  I let the stud go on, twisting in the saddle to look back. Del and Nayyib had stopped some distance away and were staring at me. “What?”

  “Where are you going?” Del called.

  “Julah!”

  “Julah’s this way.”

  I reined in. “No, it’s not.” I pointed. “This way. South.” “That’s east,” she declared.

  Was she sandsick? “No, it’s not. This is south. Julah’s this way.”

  Del stabbed a finger in front of her horse. “There’s the road.”

  “That’s a road,” I told her. “Five of them meet at the oasis. This is the road to Julah.”

  Nayyib shook his head and said something to Del I couldn’t hear.

  “What?” I asked, irritated.

  “It’s east,” he answered.

  “How would you know? You’re not from around here.”

  “No, but I do know my directions.”

  “That’s not a road at all, T
iger,” Del called. “Take a look.”

  This was ridiculous, having this pointless discussion in the middle of the desert. I looked. Blinked. Saw that indeed the stud and I were striking out across the desert with no road, trail, or track in sight.

  I scowled. It felt right, this direction. It felt south. Or else I really had fallen asleep, and the stud had chosen his own route.

  I turned him around and headed back. Felt an abrupt sense of wrongness so powerful I reined in sharply. “No,” I insisted, “it’s this way.”

  Del pointed down the road. “South. Julah. I’m not from around here, either, but I know that much.”

  But it was wrong. Wrong. I knew it. Felt it in my bones.

  And abruptly I swore, remembering the dream. My bones would know, she’d said.

  Del’s voice, “Tiger?”

  I closed my eyes tightly. Tried to reorient myself. Tried to let my lifelong sense of direction tell me which way was the correct one. Yet when I opened them again, I still felt that they were wrong and I was right, despite the evidence of the road.

  Or maybe we were both right. Julah lay south, but where I was supposed to go lay east.

  “Find me,” she had said. “And take up the sword.”

  I looked at Del. “Which way is the chimney from here?”

  “The chimney?”

  “The rock formation we brought down when you broke your sword. When Chosa Dei fought Shaka Obre.” Oziri had called it Beit al’Shahar.

  Del pointed. “That way.”

  “West.”

  She nodded. So did Nayyib.

  The stud and I were facing west. Del’s gelding and Nayyib’s bay faced south, toward Julah, with the oasis not terribly far behind them. East lay behind me, and that was the way I—or my bones—wanted to go.

  Well, we don’t always get what we want. I clucked to the stud and headed him toward the road. Once there, I stopped. Shuddered from head to toe.

  Del’s expression was concerned. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. Something…” I shook my head, knowing how it sounded. “Something keeps telling me we need to go east. Or I do, at least.”

  “What’s east?” she asked.

  A dead woman, apparently. A scattering of bones: pearls of the desert.

  “The Punja,” I said.

  A line appeared between her brows. “It makes no sense.”

  “And I agree with you wholeheartedly,” I said. “All I know is, something in me wants to go east.”

  Nayyib, wisely keeping out of the conversation, looked past me and changed the subject. “Someone’s coming.”

  I turned in the saddle, looking in the direction of the oasis. A cloud of dust accompanied the ride, obscuring the horizon. I noticed then that one arm was waving. A man’s voice was raised over the hoofbeats of his horse.

  “Wait!” he cried. “Wait!”

  “Someone from the oasis?” Nayyib wondered.

  “Wait!” He sounded frantic; had something happened at the oasis that required help?

  “Guess we’ll find out,” I said. At least the distraction kept me from heading east.

  The stud snorted, pawed, shifted sideways restlessly, not happy to be standing in one spot. I reined him in, had a brief discussion with him when he protested, and glanced up as the rider grew closer. I could make out his features, but I recognized none of them.

  “Wait!” he called.

  Then I saw the flash of steel.

  I twisted, gesturing at Del and Nayyib with a sweeping left arm. “Move! Out of the way!”

  As I swung back, yanking blade free of sheath, everything around me slowed. Swearing, I reined the stud back sharply, off the road, but by then it was too late. The rider neither reined in nor reined aside. With sword raised above his head, he crashed his dun horse into the stud.

  Perception fragmented into shards of images, impressions. I felt the impact rock the stud, knocking him sideways. Was aware of the dun’s head smashing into my left elbow, of rolling eyes and hot breath. The stud staggered, nearly went down. A flash of steel blinded me even as I tried to yank the stud’s head up into the air, trying to keep him on his feet, to pivot left so I would have a clean line for my own blade. But we were too cursed close, my assailant and I, with our horses jammed together.

  I dropped the reins and, cursing, hammered a fist into the dun’s nose, trying to get him off me, off the stud. I saw the flash of a blade, brought up my own. In the mass of tangled horseflesh it was impossible to parry properly, but I did block the worst of the blow’s impetus. Then the stud was trying to fight the dun, mouth agape, neck snaking, head swinging sideways, teeth snapping.

  The dun reared, screaming. My stirrups were gone anyway; I pushed off, diving sideways, and lost my sword on the way down. I landed hard, tasted sand and blood, saw stars; I tried to scramble up, to get out of the way, but my momentum was off, and I tripped over my sword and fell. Escape was now impossible in the midst of the equine battle; I couldn’t tell which way was up or down, in or out. I just rolled myself up in a tight ball, arms hooked over my head, and prayed no hoof would land on any part of my anatomy.

  Dimly I was aware of shouting. Del’s voice. Nayyib’s. And a stranger’s. The screaming was terrible, the frenzied trumpeting of an enraged stallion. I focused on it, sorted out which direction it came from, and decided to take the chance. I lunched upward from the ground, ran two steps, fell again, rolled, came up into a crouch. In the midst of the battle I saw Nayyib dart in on foot and bend, sword bared. He sliced at something, and nearly got his head smashed for his trouble. But I saw the dun go down as Nayyib leaped back out of the way, and realized what he’d done.

  The rider flung himself off as his mount, hamstrung and pressured by the stud, crashed to the ground. He rolled away, scrambling even as I had, and lunged upward—only to come face to face with Del. He had lost his sword in the melee, but grabbed for his knife. Del, who still claimed her blade, used it with fierce efficiency, driving it through his belly.

  The stud reared, trumpeted again, came down with both front hooves striking. I heard the sickening crunch as he smashed the dun’s skull. He spun then, took two leaps away, whirled back and stood trembling, front legs twitching, tail slashing. Ribbons of sweat rolled down his flanks.

  And blood.

  Nayyib was there immediately. Not everyone will approach a horse in the stud’s condition; probably no one should. He could easily strike again, or bite. But Nayyib caught the cheekstrap of his bridle, quickly looped the rein around his nose, then through bit shanks, and pulled it taut. He was done so quickly the stud had no chance to react. Nayyib held him there, soothing him with his voice, using the looped rein as a makeshift stud-chain.

  Del was with me. “Are you all right?”

  I spat blood and sand, felt grit in my teeth. Wiped a hand across my mouth and managed only to smear things around. “Fine.” I tried to get up. My left leg protested vociferously. I sat back down. “Well, maybe not so fine.” I inspected the sore leg. The side of my knee was scraped and sore. But what—? Oh. Yes. I recalled the dun’s shoulder slamming into the stud, with my leg trapped between.

  Del knelt, putting one hand on the reddened, abraded area. “Is it broken?”

  “I don’t think so. But I’m betting it’ll color up nicely by morning.” I tried again, arrived on my feet. The leg was very sore but whole. I was lucky it hadn’t been crushed. “I’ve got to see the stud.”

  “Nayyib has him. He’ll be fine.”

  I limped over anyway, talking to the stud as I approached so I wouldn’t startle him. “He’s cut,” I said sharply.

  Nayyib, still holding the stud’s head, nodded. “Sword blade. Just a slash, I think, but painful.”

  It was in the fleshy part of the stud’s left haunch, about six inches long. It wasn’t deep enough to sever muscle, but it had laid the flesh back. Blood bathed his left hind.

  “Oh, son,” I murmured, “the bastard got you.”

  �
�It’ll need stitches.” Nayyib stroked the stud’s nose gently even as he worked the rein. “I have silk thread in my pouches, and a needle.”

  The stud, bothered by dripping blood and sweat, kicked out sideways with his left hind. I shook my head. “He’s not about to put up with that right now.”

  Nayyib nodded. “We’ll need to get him down, have someone sit on his head. And tie his legs—and probably his tail—so he can’t kick or blind me.”

  I looked at him sharply. “You?”

  “I’ve done it before.” He smiled crookedly. “When I was no longer a child playing with sticks, I dreamed of being a sword-dancer in my head. What I did outside of it was work with stock; my father has a small horse farm near Iskandar.”

  “Then why aren’t you there?” I asked. “Or do you have so many brothers he doesn’t need you?”

  “Oh, no, there is only me and my sister. But we had a disagreement, he and I.”

  “Don’t tell me. You told him you wanted to be a sword-dancer.”

  Nayyib soothed the stud with his hands and voice. “He did not approve.”

  I sighed, winced as I put too much weight on my aching leg. “I think about all I’m good for is sitting on his head. But he’ll go down if I give him the signal; I trained him to that for sandstorms.”

  Nayyib looked doubtful. “After a fight?”

  I considered it. Possibly not. “Let me try,” I said.

  Nayyib nodded.

  I went to the stud’s head, looked him in the eye, told him I needed him to go down, then gave him the signal: a slap on the left shoulder. He wrung his tail and made no move.

  “Oh, come now,” I said. “You’ve done this before.”

  Another slap, plus a prodding thumb.

  Nothing. Except for a very stubborn look in his eye.

  “All right, we’ll do it my way,” Nayyib said. “Del can mind the rope snubbing up his one leg, while I stitch.” He glanced over his shoulder at Del, who had caught her gelding and Nayyib’s and waited out of the way. “Can you get into my saddlepouches? There is a leather pouch in there, dyed blue. It contains medicaments. And I need you to bring me every halter rope and my spare burnous.”

  She nodded and turned to his horse.