Sword Sworn ss-6

by Jennifer Roberson

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 immediately to try new angles the moment I halted his blade. As with Khashi, I let him take the offense, judging foot placement, balance, strength, agility, blade speed. He had learned well, no question.

  I was already at the edge of the circle because I had put myself there. One step, and I would be outside. But I knew better than to expect that would stop the dance; I was meant to die, and I was no longer honored among my peers. Musa would follow and continue the fight with no risk to his reputation, because I was, well, me. Still, I wanted this to be a true dance at least in my own mind, so that if I died, or if I won, no one could accuse me of cheating.

  Well, they could. But I’d know better.

  Musa brought more weight to bear, trying to push me beyond the line Alric had drawn. I dug in one foot and stopped the motion with a braced leg, then trapped his blade, held it, let him have a taste of my own weight as I pushed against him. Back, back, and back.

  We were now once more in the very center of the circle. I yanked my blade free as Musa cursed, and slashed beneath his. Tip kissed flesh. A thin line of blood sprang up against the skin above his left knee.

  My turn for offense, his to defend. And he did so admirably, blocking my blows as I had blocked his. When we broke and backed away panting, considering other methods to find a way through respective guards, we circled like wary street cats on the stalk, waiting for the most opportune moment to attack.

  The first series of engagements was completed; neither of us had won. In Julah, Khashi had been dead by now. In fights too many to count, I had won by now. I suspected it had been the same for Musa.

  Usually, the first moments of any match are spent testing the opponent’s skill. A sword-dance is, in most cases, a dance, an exhibition of ability and artistry in pursuit of victory. But there were certainly dances where defeating the opponent was all that mattered, not how it looked. Musa and I had both chosen the latter, hoping to surprise the other, and neither of us had succeeded. Now the dance would shift into the testing phase as we teased one another’s skills and signature movements out into the daylight, hoping to create openings we might exploit.

  I saw Musa’s eyes flick down to my hands wrapped around Alric’s leather-strapped grip. There was no hiding the missing fingers. He was likely somewhat surprised I had matched so well against him initially in view of the disability. I wasn’t, but only because I had worked like hoolies to overcome the problem, and I knew what to expect of my grip. An opponent didn’t.

  Musa lunged. I met his blade with my own and realized at once what he meant to do. Instead of movements aimed at my body in hopes of breaking my guard, he now went for the sword itself. Whether he drew blood didn’t matter; the point was to disarm me. And that he judged a simple enough matter. I wasn’t so certain he was wrong.

  There was no finesse, merely strength and tenacity. Musa banged at my blade again and again, smashing steel against steel. From above, from below; from either side. The angle he applied changed with every blow, so that I constantly had to alter my grip upon leather wrappings or risk having the weapon knocked out of my hands. Then Musa could kill me at his leisure. I was at a distinct disadvantage, since not only did I have to concentrate on hanging onto my sword, but I also had to remember to block any body blow he might attempt without warning.

  Which in fact he did attempt, and indeed without warning; I managed to turn most of the impetus aside, but the point of his blade still nicked me along the ribs. It was no more noticeable a wound than the shallow slice I’d put in the flesh of his lower thigh. The most damage either of us had managed to inflict was to our wind; both of us were panting heavily, noisily sucking air to the bottom of our lungs.

  Now I went at him. Musa blocked each blow, and with each block he threw in a slight twisting of his blade. It wasn’t enough to place him in danger of losing contact with or control of the steel, which would give the advantage to me, but it did continue forcing me to shift my grip each time. At some point he expected my mutilated hands to betray me. It wouldn’t require much; merely a subtle change in pressure on the hilt, a weakening of my grip, that he could exploit.

  The rhythm of the dance had changed. We no longer held our places in the center of the circle or kept ourselves to one specific area a step or two away from that center point; now we used the entire circle. We smashed steel against steel; hammered at one another; locked up blades and quillons; spun, ducked, or leaped away
, using the time apart to recover breath. Sweat ran down my face, tickled along my ribs and spine. Musa’s dark hair dripped as he shook it back, sending droplets flying. Bare feet had scuffed the neatly raked sand into an ocean of foot-formed hummocks. I didn’t doubt we’d blotted out in places the line Alric had drawn, but it didn’t matter. Everyone knew where the boundary lay.

  Musa’s strategy was sound. The stumps of my fingers ached, and the edges of my palms felt abraded from the continuous movement of flesh against leather wrappings. So far the specialized strength training of my forearms had aided me, and what I’d learned from the fight against Khashi, but Musa was clever enough to find a way around such things. All it required was time.

  I was aware the sun had moved in the sky. My body told me we had been at this longer than likely anyone had expected, including Musa and me. But Umir ought to be happy.

  We stood at opposite edges of the circle, facing one another. Chests heaved, throats spasmed, breath ran ragged. A half-smile twitched briefly at his mouth. I saw it, met it with raised brows. In that moment we acknowledged one another as something more than mere opponents. We were also equals. He likely had never met one since attaining this level of skill, unless he’d faced Abbu. I didn’t doubt Abbu could defeat him; though acknowledging that meant admitting the possibility that Abbu was better than I. We neither of us knew, having never finished a dance.

  Then Musa came at me, running, and the moment was banished. My sword met his, screeching. Teeth bared, he jerked his sword back and swung it down and under, going for my legs. I dropped to one knee, trapped his sword, pushed it up, then shoved him back with the power of my parry.

  Musa staggered backward, retaining his balance with effort. He had expected to have me with that maneuver. Now he was angry. Equality no longer mattered.

  "Old man," he said, "I will outlast you!"

  Possibly he could. But I merely got up from the sand, laughing, and gestured him to come ahead.

  He did. And in that moment I was aware of the vision I’d experienced in my room before the dance: me free of the stone spire to soar over the valley, to look down upon the man who met the woman in the circle. The vision overlay reality as Musa came on. I saw him, and I saw myself as the man in the circle in the Stone Forest, facing Del. The man with four fingers in place of three.