Sword Born ss-5

by Jennifer Roberson

  Her eyes snapped opened. After a moment of tense silence, she said carefully, "That would make sense." And as I went rigid from head to toe, she put a hand upon my knee. "I know, Tiger."

  "Del —" I bit into the pierced cheek, bringing fresh blood. "I can’t do it again."

  The hand tightened. "I know."

  "We have to find a way off this ship. Before —" I shut my eyes, squeezed them, then opened them. "Before."

  "We will."

  I pushed myself to my feet then, took two long strides to the rail and gripped it. Sea spray dampened my face as wind stripped back my hair. It was harder than I’d thought.

  "Are you sick again?"

  I spat blood, then spoke steadily, without excess emotion. "I will drown myself before I let anyone sell me into slavery again."

  "Oh, Tiger —" A half-hearted, desultory protest.

  I swung to confront her, startling her with my vehemence. "And you had better not pull me out of the water. Promise me that."

  Del stared at me, weighing words, tone, expression — and began to believe. The color drained until she was white-faced, horrified, sitting stiffly upon the rope. "I can’t make such a —"

  "Promise me."

  She shook her head decisively. "There will be a way… we will find a way, make a way —"

  "No," I said bitterly. "Not again."

  "Tiger —"

  "First the Salset for sixteen or seventeen years, then Aladar and the mines. I can’t do it again. I can’t."

  She attempted reason now, still not certain, but taking nothing for granted. "You freed yourself of the Salset. And you got free of the mines. There are opportunities that —"

  "Enough." I cut her off curtly. "Don’t ask it, don’t wish it, don’t expect it, Del. I can’t."

  Abruptly she thrust herself from the rope and stood there rigidly, trembling. She sought to speak, could not. Then turned to walk away with none of her usual grace.

  "Del —"

  She spun, furious. "Don’t!"

  I gestured futility. "I have to do —"

  "No, you don’t. You don’t have to do any such thing."

  I clamped my jaws shut. "I can’t —"

  "I can’t do it! Do that? I can’t! I can’t!"

  "Del —"

  "No." In the coldest tone I had ever heard from her. "Are you so selfish, that you can ask this of me? Are you so blind, so arrogant?"

  My voice rose. "Arrogant — !"

  "What are you, to ask this of me? To expect me to watch you drown?"

  "I didn’t mean you had to watch —"

  We were both shouting now. "You are a fool!" she cried, and then added something in uplander so vicious I knew better than to request a translation.

  "It’s not the first time," I reminded her sharply. "When Chosa Dei was in me, you agreed to kill me. This time I’m only asking you not to rescue me."

  "And I couldn’t do it!" she snapped. "Do you recall I had my jivatma at your throat?"

  I did. Clearly.

  "Do you recall how I promised then to make certain Chosa Dei would not be set free?"

  I did.

  "Do you recall how he very nearly took you as his own, as his body, so that he would have the means to destroy the land?"

  Oh, yes. I recalled.

  "I knew then I couldn’t do it," Del said. "I knew it. I promised you then — and I couldn’t do it."

  "Del —"

  "I will make no more such promises, Tiger. No more. Never." Tears stood in her eyes. Outrage, most likely. And maybe something else. "The only promise I shall make you is that I will die for you."

  "Del, don’t…you don’t —"

  "I do," she said. "Oh, I understand. I see. I know. And I refuse." She stepped close to me, very close, so that I felt her breath on my face. "In the name of my dead jivatma I swear this much: that I will do everything within my power to defend your life against any threat. Even one made by you." She was trembling with anger and, I thought, fear. "Don’t ask anything more. Don’t wish anything less. Expect nothing — but that I will die in your place to keep you from being a fool."

  I caught her wrists, gripped them firmly. Opened my mouth to answer, to deny her this oath — and saw we had gathered a crowd of grinning onlookers. I swore, released her, and turned sharply back to the rail.

  I stared blindly at the sea as I listened to her go.

  Near dawn I awoke. I don’t know if it was a sound, or the lack of. But I realized I was alone.

  The emptiness was abysmal.

  I stretched, twisted, and shook out parts of my anatomy until sweat sheened me. It was dawn, both breezy and cool, but I’d lost myself in the rituals I’d been taught at Alimat, in training to the shodo. He had explained that even a boy of seventeen should never assume his body was fit, and that as he aged fitness would become harder to achieve.

  Of course, I didn’t believe him. At seventeen (or sixteen, or eighteen; no one knew for certain), after nearly two decades of labor for the Salset, I was more than certain I was fit. After all, I’d survived slavery, had killed a sandtiger for my freedom, had been taken on as a student of Alimat. After I defeated Abbu Bensir, Alimat’s best apprentice, I knew my conditioning was superb. Hadn’t I nearly killed Abbu?

  Well, yes; but accidentally. Killing him wasn’t the object. Defeating him was, and that I’d accomplished. Quite unexpectedly.

  However, the shodo himself, with unequivocal skill despite his advanced age, soon convinced me that despite the quickness and strength of my young body, and the potential for remarkable power and true talent, I was merely a boy. Not a man. Not a sword-dancer.

  It had taken me years to understand the difference. By the time my body was honed the way the rituals of Alimat required, I was nothing like that boy who’d killed the sandtiger — and nearly killed Abbu. I was nothing like the man who moved quickly through the first four levels, followed by three more. I was a child of Alimat: conditioned to codes and rituals and the requirements of the circle.

  And now I stood outside of all the circles, self-exiled. But the body remembered. The mind recalled. Reflexes roused, began to seep back despite scrapes and bruises and gouges. I was more than twice the age I’d been when Alimat had accepted me, and I knew intimately the weight of the shodo’s wisdom: as a man ages, fitness becomes harder to achieve.

  As years in the circle are measured, I was no longer young. I bore scars from all manner of battles and circumstances, owned a knee that complained occasionally, and had noticed of late that my distance vision took a bit longer to focus.

  But I was a long way from being old, fat, or slow.

  Fortunately for my plan, the captain noticed that.

  She leaned her back against the rail, elbows hooked there idly — which, I could not help but notice, enhanced the jut of her impressive breasts. She rode the deck easily, graceful as cat, while wind whipped the red braid across one shoulder like a loop of twisted rope. Where the sun picked out highlights, strands of hair glowed gold as wire.

  She smiled. "Do you know, I believe you might match Nihko."

  "Who?"

  "Nihko," she answered. "My first mate."

  "Oh. Blue-head."

  The woman laughed. "Is that what you call him? Well, he has a name for you, too."

  "He does, does he?" I bent, flattened palms against the deck. "And what would that be?"

  "Something vulgar."

  I grunted. "Nothing new."

  "I imagine not," she agreed. "And I expect your woman calls you something equally vulgar, now."

  I straightened. "What ’my woman’ calls me is none of your concern. And you of all people should know better than to describe her that way."

  A red brow arched in delicate surprise. "What? Is she your woman no longer, now that you have argued?"

  "She isn’t ’my woman’ ever."

  "No?"

  "No." I paused. "Not even before we argued."

  "Do you not own her?"

  I shook o
ut my arms, flexed knees; I was cooling now in the wind, and sweat dried on my flesh. "No one owns her. She isn’t a slave."

  "But she is bound to you, yes?"

  "No."

  "Then why would she stay with you?"

  I scowled at her. "The reason any woman stays with a man she — admires."

  "Admires!"

  "Likes," I amended grudgingly.

  "Even now, do you think? After you shouted at her?"

  I stood at the rail. "She shouted back."

  "And now she will leave you?"

  "It’s a little hard to leave me when we’re both stuck on this boat."

  "Leave you here." She touched one breast, indicating her heart.

  "Ask her," I said grimly.

  "Nihko says she refuses to let you die."

  I didn’t realize they’d overheard quite that much. "Del does what she pleases."

  "And if she pleases to keep you alive?"

  I shrugged. "A man can find ways to die."

  She considered that. "And why should he wish to die?"

  He doesn’t. But. "There are choices a man makes about the way he lives."

  "Ah." She smiled. "And now you have argued together and are in bad temper, like children, because she likes you enough to wish you to survive, even if you wish to die."

  "No one should interfere with a personal choice."

  "No?"

  "No."

  "And if her personal choice is to keep you from dying?"

  I glowered at the water and offered no reply.

  "Would you prevent her from dying?"

  That one was easy. "I have."

  "And she, you?"

  I turned on her then. "What is this about?"

  "So, you will not admit a woman may prevent a man from dying? Does it weaken your soul, to know a woman can?"

  I set a hip against the rail and folded arms across my chest. "What’s my prize, if I answer your questions correctly? And how would you know if I did?"

  She laughed at me. "On this ship, there is truth among men and women."

  "Truth?"

  "I tell you a truth. There is no man of my crew who was born believing a woman could save his life. But they learned it was so, when I saved theirs."

  "You saved theirs."

  "Oh, yes. I bought them."

  I stiffened. "Bought them —"

  "Out of slavery," she answered. "All save Nihko. Nihko came to me."

  "Why?" I asked sharply.

  "Ask Nihko."

  "No — I mean, why did you buy them out of slavery?"

  "I required loyalty. And that cannot be bought, or beaten into a man."

  "Loyalty for what?"

  "My ship."

  I began to understand. "You couldn’t hire a crew."

  "Coin does not buy loyalty."

  "No men would hire on with you as captain. So you bought yourself a crew another way." I shrugged. "Slave labor."

  "I bought them. I freed them. I gave them the choice. Eight of ten sailed with me."

  "And the two who did not?"

  She hitched a single shoulder. "Free men choose as they will. Those two chose to go elsewhere."

  "Loyalty you couldn’t buy."

  In the sun, her eyes were pale. "They would have left me later. It was better to lose them then."

  "And the others?"

  "One is dead," she said. "The others are here."

  "Still."

  "Still." She tilted her head slightly. "The only man who would ask his woman to let him die rather than become a slave is a man who has been a slave."

  Anyone who had seen my back knew that. I eyed her up and down. "You seem to have an intimate knowledge of slavery."

  She lifted her chin in assent. "My father owned many."

  I had been on the verge of assuming she had been one. Or a prostitute, which is, I’d been told by Delilah, a form of slavery. But this was nothing I had expected of the conversation. "And does your father know what his daughter does?"

  "What she does. What she is." A strand of sun-coppered hair strayed across her face. She trapped it and pulled it back, tucking it behind a gold-weighted ear. "He is a merchant," she said, "of men. He sells, buys, trades."

  "So," I said finally, "you bought these men from your father, freed them — and now you ask them to do to other men what was done to them."

  She said matter-of-factly, "Booty is many things."

  And the daughter of a slaver would have no trouble finding a market for me. Or Del.

  I shook my head. "No."

  Small teeth glinted white. Even the rim of her lips was freckled. "She believes you worth saving."

  I shrugged. "No accounting for taste."

  It startled a laugh from her. I watched her eye me up and down, assessing me; it was what I had hoped to provoke in her, an interest in imagining what might come of intimacy, but now I could not help but wonder if she assessed me as a man who might perform in her bed — or perform as a slave. The chill in my gut expanded.

  "So," she said, "you are willing to die for your freedom, as you believe death is better than slavery. I ask you, then, will you live for your freedom? If you were offered the choice?"

  "I saw the choice you offered our captain in the reefs."

  "But there was a choice," she insisted quietly. "I did not require him to sail his ship aground. He could have surrendered to us and saved his ship, his cargo, and the lives of his men."

  "Maybe he didn’t want to become a slave either."

  "But that is the final choice," she explained. "If you have the means to buy your safety, I do not insist upon selling anyone." She flicked a hand briefly and eloquently. "Find a way to buy your freedom, if you would not have me sell it. That is your choice."

  I could ignore the opening, and risk not getting another. Or I could test the possibility while making no commitment. "And what," I asked steadily, "might you count as coin?"

  The slaver’s daughter smiled. A light came into her eyes. "There are seven intact men on board," she said, "and I doubt you may offer more than they have."

  "Have offered?" I asked. "Or are forced to surrender out of loyalty?"

  "You owe me no loyalty."

  "No."

  "You owe me escape," she said. "To prove you are better than we judge you. And that is what you plan even here and now, as we speak."

  "Is it?"

  She nodded once. "I do not rule my men. I understand them."

  "And you believe you understand me."

  "More than you understand me." She grinned. "I repeat: I doubt you may offer more than my crew have."

  I shrugged casually. "There are men — and there are men."

  She ignored that. "I have seen your hands."

  "So?"

  "So. I know what manner of work causes calluses such as those. Not slave labor, but skill. Practice. Dedication. Discipline."

  "I repeat: So?"

  "You seek a sword," she said calmly. "You believe that with a blade in your hand, it will prove no difficulty to overcome eight men and one woman."

  "I do, do I?"

  "It shouts from your eyes. From your body. In every movement you make here, returning your body to fitness." She was serious now. "There are two kinds of men in the world: fools, and those who are dangerous."

  I spread my hands. "Me? Dangerous?"

  "As Nihko is dangerous. You are two of a kind."

  "I’ve got a bit more hair on my head."

  "And testicles."

  That startled me. "What?"

  "Some men pay with more than simple coin."

  I pondered that. I pondered the idea of a man surrendering himself so far as to lose that which makes him a man. But then, there was no certainty Nihko had had a choice.

  I cleared my throat, trying to ignore the reflexive tightening of my own genitals. With effort I changed the subject — and the imagery. "And your price, captain?"

  With no hesitation she answered, "The woman."

  I bit dow
n on my anger. "Why barter for what your men could take?" Del would account for a few, but in the end superior numbers would undoubtedly prevail.

  "For my men?" Her smile was bittersweet as she shook her head. "Oh, but I want her for myself."

  I stared at her, speechless.

  "And now you know," she said, "why my father cast me out, and how I came to be a renegada."

  SIX

  Del, in the tiny cabin we’d been "assigned," swung around as I shut the narrow door behind me. Her expression was pensive; that changed to studied patience as she recognized me.

  I cleared my throat. "Well," I began, "it seemed like a good idea. I just didn’t quite figure on this — minor complication."

  Blue eyes narrowed; Del knows all my tones and euphemisms. "What minor complication?"

  I spread a hand across my chest. "There is, after all, one woman in the world who is not overcome by my manly charms. Only one, mind you — but still. I am crushed. I am undone. I am destroyed. I will undoubtedly never recover."

  "You made your move on her." She considered my expression. "I thought you said you weren’t rushing anything."

  "I didn’t make any kind of move," I said. "Well — innuendo. But that’s not really a move —"

  "Depending on how such things are interpreted."

  "— at least, not the sort of thing I really consider as an official move," I finished, ignoring her interruption. "There’s an art to seduction, you know."

  "Seduction requires subtlety," Del said. "You have none."

  "None?"

  "It is one of your charms," she observed, "that there is no guile in you. At least, not when it comes to such base instincts as copulation."

  I affected horrified shock. "Hoolies, bascha, why don’t you just take all the romance right out of it!"

  "You say what you want, Tiger. I respect that."

  I leered at her. "Respect this!"

  Del sighed. "As I said, there is no subtlety in you."

  "Well, there was," I answered. "At least, I thought I was being pretty subtle. But it’s lost on that woman."

  " ’That woman?’ " Del eyed me curiously. "My, this sounds serious."

  I began again. "She wounded me. She cut me to the quick. She utterly shattered my spirit —"