Sword-Breaker

by Jennifer Roberson

  I lay very still and did a meticulous examination of my physical condition. My kidneys still ached unremittingly, and undoubtedly would for a day or two; a few bruises here and there, abrasions; a couple of painful gouges; a sore lump on the side of my head.

  And a cramping discontent across my spine that told me something else: they’d left me my sword. Still sheathed and hooked to harness, which I still wore.

  A question occurred: Why?

  Then again, why not? Without my arms free, the sword did me no good. And for all I knew, Sabra had requested its presence as pointedly as my own.

  And also something else: What if someone had tried to take my sword, and Samiel had repulsed him?

  If you didn’t know his name, he could be downright testy. It was a jitvatma’s first line of defense; the second being its ability to do incredible, magical things.

  Magic.

  I chewed the inside of my cheek thoughtfully. Hadn’t I used magic the day before, to repair injured knee, and restore arms and fingernails?

  Hadn’t I bent Chosa Dei—well, a piece of him—to my will?

  I shivered. The binding tightened at throat, on wrists, on ankles.

  I lay in the dust-smeared darkness and sweated stickily, trying to swallow without giving the noose a reason to snug itself any tighter. Trying to figure a way of undoing Umir’s magic.

  Trying not to think of what they were doing to Del, who—drunk or not—had swallowed much too much aqivi, and received a tap on the jaw from a none-too-gentle fist.

  I slept, and woke up with a jerk that snugged the noose a step tighter. Now it was really uncomfortable. I cocked my head back, trying to put slack into the tautness; rapped my skull against the upstanding hilt of my sword and swore, hissing the oath in disgust, despair, desperation.

  “Stupid…” I muttered hoarsely. “Your shodo would hold you up to ridicule—”

  But I broke it off. I didn’t really want to think about my shodo right about now. Twelve years dead, he still exerted a powerful influence over my behavior. Much as I hated to admit it. Much as I got sloppy and depended on size, strength, quickness and natural ability to win my dances, instead of the precise techniques my shodo had labored seven years to teach me.

  Just as Umir had said.

  Ah, hoolies. Might as well give it a try.

  Shut my eyes. Thought about magic. And power. And need.

  Thought about Del, and how if I didn’t get loose Umir might bind her up in rune-ropes and haul her off to a lair every bit as impregnable as Dragon Mountain, and tuck her away behind wards I couldn’t break no matter how much magic I summoned, because he had a grim-something.

  Thought about me, left to lie here in a stinking, rat-infested, dusty, musty, dry-rotted room with no breathable air to speak of, and certainly no food or water, or even a way of relieving myself—

  (—which would hurt too much, anyway, because someone—or several someones—had planted feet in the small of my back, somewhere in the general vicinity of my kidneys—)

  —until Aladar’s vengeful daughter arrived from Iskandar by way of Harquhal, and hauled me off to a lair every bit as impregnable as…

  Ah, hoolies.

  “Magic,” I muttered grimly, “and let’s be quick about it.”

  But quickness is not something that goes very well with magic. Especially if you have a renegade sorcerer—well, a piece of him—stuck inside you somewhere.

  And the rest of him in your sword.

  Thought about runes, and sickly light, and undoing all the knots.

  Umir had taken the last bit of rune-rope from inside his burnous. It had been nothingness, a stringy patch of darkness. Until he spoke a single word.

  What in hoolies had he said?

  I thought about it. Hard. Until my head ached along with everything else, and sweat stung my eyes, and the cramps in neck, arms, and legs made me seriously consider moving even against my better judgment, because if I didn’t move soon, the pain would become unbearable.

  Umir the Ruthless. Who’d said Sabra might arrive in a couple of days.

  Who’d said he didn’t really want to kill me. But who had undoubtedly known that I’d be dead inside of two days anyway, because a combination of the slackness of sleep and the spasms of muscular cramps would cause me to move, and the bindings to constrict.

  Until I choked to death.

  Which meant that unless I myself engineered it—as soon as possible—I’d be dead of “natural causes” before Sabra arrived to collect me.

  Magic. I shut my eyes and thought about it, willing myself to relax.

  And fell asleep.

  I came to with a jerk, gagging, and spat out a word. The word, recalling how the syllables fit together, and how Umir had pronounced them. A tongue-tangling, gnarled word, like the unruly spine of the stud when he humps and hops and squeals. But I knew it, and I said it—

  And nothing happened.

  Ah, hoo—

  No. Something did happen: the glow brightened.

  Not what I had in mind.

  I tried again, altering intonation.

  Nothing.

  Yet again. Only this time, the pressure increased.

  “No—” Desperately, I pressed my skull more fiercely against the sword, trying to escape the tautness. Spine arched, legs cramped, buttocks tightened. Kidneys blared discontent.

  “Undo…” I gagged. “—not—do… undo—”

  I summoned the word again, saw its shape inside my head, tried one more time.

  This time I said it backward.

  Light winked out. The pressure didn’t slacken, but it didn’t tighten, either.

  For now, that was enough.

  I said the word—backward—again.

  Nothing.

  “Undo—” I muttered. And thought about knots untying.

  Nothing.

  Swearing, I concentrated. Visualized rune-bindings I couldn’t see, had never seen, except for a brief glimpse in Umir’s hand.

  Dangling from his fingers: a tangle of glowing runes, like a four-plaited Salset rein.

  Memory wandered nearer.

  —think—

  Had it. Saw the lines, the patterns, the knots. Thought about my own lines and patterns and knots; the welts graven in flesh, slicing whitely through two-day stubble; the intersections I’d carved into sand and dust before the old hustapha; the interlaced layers of knot on knot: double, triple, quadruple, wrapped twice and thrice, then knotted again, then braided; then joined by one and two and three and four—

  Displaced by my panting, a gout of dust blew up into my face. Irritated eyes teared. Runnels channeled cheeks, reminding me of Mehmet’s face when first I’d seen him, dust- and sand-caked, thirsty, exhausted; Mehmet, whose aketni harbored a hustapha, a sandcaster, who cast the sands for me and called me a jhihadi—

  Or had he?

  A ripple swarmed over my flesh. At least the runes didn’t tighten in immediate response, but it still didn’t feel good.

  Flesh tingled. Every inch itched. And I couldn’t do a thing.

  “—don’t think—about that—”

  But I did. Because a warping chill wracked my limbs, setting my joints to aching. Weirdly, it reminded me of the North, wrapped in winter’s breath.

  Nausea invaded my belly.

  Hoolies, not now!

  I swore against the ground. I sweated, then shivered convulsively, in the two-faced touch of fever.

  Now is not the time—

  A sour belch worked its way up from the unhappy contents of my belly.

  What I need now is magic, not this—

  Magic.

  Which always made me sick.

  Hoolies, maybe it was working!

  With renewed determination—and a still discontented belly—I returned with increased vigor to my attempts at dispelling Umir’s bindings.

  I panted. Sweated. Ground teeth. Thought about runes: Southron, Northern, Borderer. Thought about knots untied, unlaced, undone.
<
br />   Thought of everything backward.

  Slackness.

  Eyes popped open. Breath was thunderous in my ears. I thrust myself upright, chest heaving. Ash slipped free of neck, of wrists, of ankles. I brayed a hoarse laugh of triumph that combined unexpectedly with a throttled belch, then doubled over and fell sideways, sucking air and dirt and blood.

  Ah, hoolies. I hate magic. It makes me feel bad.

  Cramps eventually subsided to a manageable level. I lay there panting a moment longer, drying in the darkness, then pressed myself up again.

  Del.

  Oh, bascha. Give me a chance—I’m coming.

  I got up, staggered to the door, wrenched it open crookedly on sun-rotted leather hinges.

  And fell through into the dawn.

  Twenty-nine

  I stumbled into the shadow-curtained room, rebounded from the doorframe when I misjudged its nearness, and rousted Akbar’s nephew. “Where is she? Where did they take her? Which way did they go?”

  The nephew gaped, duly rousted.

  One-handed—the other was full of sword—I caught a knot of cloth beneath his chin and jerked him off his pillow. “I said, where is she?”

  “The woman?” he managed.

  “No, I mean the mare.” I let go of his nightrobe. “There were men here earlier—”

  He tugged at his twisted attire. “Yes, but—”

  “Which direction did they go?”

  “Toward the North gate, but—”

  “Did they hurt her?”

  “No—but—”

  “Harquhal,” I muttered intently. “They’d take her to Harquhal—unless there’s somewhere else—”

  The voice came from the doorway. “Where in hoolies have you been?”

  I jumped, spun, stared. “What are you doing here?”

  Stalemate. Del knitted brows. Lovely pale brows, set obliquely in a flawless, familiar forehead—unmarred by all save bad temper.

  But never mind that. “I mean—” I frowned back. Then, rather lamely, feeling more than a little foolish, “Didn’t they come for you?”

  Boreal gleamed in her hands. “Those men? Yes.”

  “But…” I sat down—no, collapsed—on the edge of Akbar’s nephew’s bed. “I don’t understand.”

  “They came,” Del clarified. “Happily, I wasn’t in the room. I was in the stable, looking for you.”

  Uh-oh. “For me?”

  “Yes. The last thing you said to me was you were going to check on the horses.” The scowl deepened; pointed reproach. “When you didn’t come back, I went to look for you.” She shrugged. “I heard them come. I stayed where I was. In the stall, with the stud.” She scrutinized me. “You look worse now than you did two days ago.”

  I felt worse, too. Then, it was head and knee. Now it was everything else. “I thought,” I began, with great dignity, “that I would rescue you.”

  “I’m fine.” Then her expression softened. “Thank you for the thought.”

  Akbar’s nephew stirred. “May I go back to sleep now?”

  “Oh.” I stood up, rubbed numbly at filthy cheek, then tried to arrange my back so my kidneys didn’t hurt. Well, didn’t hurt so bad. “We’d better get out of here.”

  Del stepped aside as I made my way by her into the common room, then followed. “Are you so sure they’ll be back? They came here once and didn’t find what they wanted. Sometimes a room already searched makes the best hiding place.”

  “They’ll be back.” I fought my way through tables, kicking stools aside grumpily, and headed for our room. “I have the feeling Umir won’t give up.”

  “Who?”

  “Umir. The Ruthless. The man who wanted to buy you.”

  “Him?”

  “Now he wants to steal you.” I yanked cloth out of the way and leaned against our doorsill. “Do I seem real to you?”

  Brows shot up. “What?”

  “Never mind.” I waved a limp hand. “Just—get our things. I’ll see about the horses.”

  “Our things are with the horses.” Del studied me. “After those men left, I packed and readied them.”

  “Readied—?”

  “Saddled, bridled… with pouches already in place.” Her expression was exquisitely bland, as if she didn’t want to insult me but knew any comment would. “With all the botas filled.”

  I must look really bad.

  “Well, then…” I straightened up, winced. “I guess we should leave.”

  Blandness was replaced with the faintest trace of dry concern. “You do not appear to be in condition to go anywhere.”

  “It never stopped me before.” Grinding teeth, I pressed a hand against my spine. “Let’s go, bascha. Sabra’s on her way, and Umir will be back.”

  We repaired to the stable with due haste and brought the mare and the stud out, whereupon the stud took to lashing his tail and peeling back his lip. A shrill, imperative whinny—meant to impress the mare—pierced the pale new light. And my right ear, much too close to the stud’s mouth. Horses can be loud.

  I whopped him on the nose. “Not now, lackwit…”

  Del swung up on her mare, assembling folds in the slack burnous. Boreal’s hilt above her shoulder glinted in the dawn. “If you are in such a hurry…”

  “I’m coming. I’m com—oh, hoolies, horse, did you have to do that?” I wiped a glob of slobbery slime from the filthy ruin of my left cheek. “The mare goes,” I declared, “as soon as we reach a settlement that has a gelding for sale.” I planted my left foot in the brass stirrup, catching hold of the stud’s sparse mane—I keep it clipped—and dragged myself upward. To the detriment of my kidneys. “They went out the main gate, which means we should try the other one.” I turned the stud and headed him around the corner of the cantina. “Umir doesn’t know where we’re going, and since I know he knows we know Sabra is after us, Julah is the last place he’d expect us to go.”

  “Won’t he have dispatched men to the other gate?”

  “The walls are falling down, in case you hadn’t noticed. We’ll look for one of the breeches.” We rounded the cantina into the street proper. “I don’t think—”

  But what I didn’t think never got said. A man stepped out of fading darkness and caught hold of my rein, pulling the stud up short. “I challenge you,” he declared, “to formal combat in the circle.”

  “Nezbet,” I gritted, “we don’t have time for this.”

  “Shodo’s Challenge,” he clarified. “Or will you once again plead injury in place of cowardice?”

  Del took a stab at it. “Just kill him, Tiger.”

  “Shodo’s Challenge,” Nezbet hissed, still gripping the rein.

  “Later,” I suggested. “Right now we’re sort of busy—”

  “Tiger.” Del’s voice, stirred from equanimity into something more intense. “Others are coming.”

  “Umir’s men? No.” I answered it almost as soon as it was asked because I saw the others.

  “Sword-dancers,” Nezbet said. “Osman. Mahoudin. Hasaan. Second- and third-level. Honorable men, all.” He smiled. “Will you say no before them, Sandtiger the Coward?”

  I tossed the free rein to Del. “Hold him,” I said. “This won’t take very long.”

  Surprise flickered in Nezbet’s dark eyes. Then pride, and sudden pleasure. Lastly, recognition: he’d finally gotten his dance with the South’s greatest swordsman.

  Unless, like Umir the Ruthless, he tacked that title on Abbu.

  I stripped out of my burnous, suppressing a wince of pain from kidneys, and draped it across my saddle. “Let’s go,” I said briefly. “We’re burning daylight, here.”

  Nezbet let go of the rein. “Do you mean it?”

  I bared even teeth. “Shodo’s Challenge, is it not? To put me in my place?” I waved a commanding hand. “Hurry up and draw the circle.”

  Brows arched. “But you are the Challenged. You have the right—”

  I spread fingers across my heart, inclining head. “I give t
he honor to you. Just draw the thing, Nezbet!”

  “—isn’t right,” he muttered, but stepped away from me into the street to begin the proper circle.

  I glanced down the street at the three approaching sword-dancers. Looked the other way. Fidgeted with a buckle on my harness. Glanced at the trio again. Finally looked at Del. “Maybe you should just go on. I can catch up.”

  “No.”

  “It’s you Umir wants, not me. If you hang around just for this—”

  “I’m staying.” Del smiled. “You need someone to hold your horse.”

  I sighed. Bent to untie and unlace sandals. “Waste of time,” I muttered. “Stupid would-be panjandrum…” I jerked the sandals off. “Ought to know better than to turn this into a challenge… stupid Punja-mite should have been taught never to make it personal.” I unhooked arms from my harness, sliding free of straps. “Thrice-cursed son of a goat—who does he think he is?”

  Del, from atop her mare, with amused curiosity, “Do you ever hear yourself?”

  “Hear myself? Of course I hear myself. I’m not deaf. How could I not hear myself?”

  The smile blossomed, unrestrained. “Then perhaps one day you should listen.”

  “Don’t have the time,” I growled. Glared back into the street. “Is that thing finished yet?”

  Nezbet straightened. Showed me white teeth against a dark Southron face. “Step into the circle.”

  “About time.” I unsheathed, dumped the harness on top of the sandals and strode out into the street. Saw from the edge of my eye Nezbet’s three witnesses range themselves against the cantina wall. My witness, on horseback, jabbed a sandal into the stud’s nose to remind him of his manners. I reflected, belatedly, I might have put him somewhere else. He was a stud, after all, and the mare was a mare. “All right, Nezbet.” I stopped at the circle. “Shodo’s Challenge, you say.”

  “Yes.” He continued smiling.

  “Death-dance,” I told him, then stepped into the circle.

  Nezbet lost his smile. “Death-dance!”

  I stood in the precise center of the circle, the Chosa Dei-infested blade a diagonal slash across my chest from hip to shoulder. “You drew the circle. I choose the dance.”

  “But—” He broke off, realizing his blunder.