“See?” I smiled, lifting brows guilelessly. “If you had learned from the shodo, you’d have known better than to fall for that trick.”
“This was not to be to the death,” he hissed, dark color ebbing to gray. “I was hired to find you, defeat you—bring you back to Sabra!”
“Plans go awry.” I beckoned with a triple snap of fingers. “Step into the circle.”
The edges began to fray. “This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be!”
I hunched an idle shoulder. “Life often isn’t, Nezbet. But then third-level sword-dancers know that already.”
Elegant nostrils pinched. He flicked a white-rimmed glance at Osman, Mahoudin, and Hasaan slouched against the cantina. Then looked back at me. “You said—” Splotchy color stained his face. “You said—any man may refuse a dance.”
“I said it. It’s true. But generally the man who refuses is the chall-enged, not the challeng-er; it would be pointless—and somewhat foolish—if the challenger withdrew after begging for the dance.” I shrugged again. “And a Shodo’s Challenge, accepted, can never be renounced, or the skill level is lost, along with all the honor. Especially before witnesses.” I flicked the blade in new light. “A man such as yourself—third-level, no less!—would never do such a thing. It would besmirch his honor to even contemplate it.”
Nezbet was gray. “I may renounce the terms.”
“I don’t think so.” I squinted past him at the trio. “But if you like, you can put it before your friends. They might be talked into lying for your sake.”
“Lying!”
“The circle codes,” I mentioned, “say something about other sword-dancers bearing witness against a man who reneges on a proper challenge.”
“But—” Nezbet ground teeth. “You want me to renounce it!”
“I don’t care what you do.” I lowered the sword a notch. “I’m a little busy, Nezbet—would you please make up your mind?”
Jaw muscles flexed violently. Then he tore off his burnous, ripped thongs loose on his sandals, jerked arms out of his harness. And stepped into the circle.
“Better,” I commended, and put my sword down in the middle.
It surprised Nezbet. Some of the tension and desperation drained from eyes and body. “I thought—” But he didn’t finish. Smiling faintly, he set his sword next to mine.
“Who’s arbiter?” I asked. “Which of your friendly trio?”
He was, abruptly, magnanimous. “Let the woman do it.”
“Del,” I called.
Nezbet and I retreated directly opposite one another to the perimeter of the circle. We would run, scoop up sword, commence. A true Southron challenge, with footspeed part of the dance.
“Prepare,” she said calmly.
Nezbet stared at me. He was swift, young, and agile, vibrant with life, prepared to spring and snatch up the sword. He knew he could beat me. Knew he could beat me. I was old. Big. Slow.
And my knee could not have healed since our last confrontation.
Stupid Punja-mite.
Nezbet smiled.
“Dance,” Del said.
Thirty
I wanted nothing more than to teach the boy a long, lazy lesson, beginning with sheer power and ending with endurance. But I didn’t have the time.
So instead, I settled for speed.
He gaped inelegantly as I snatched up Samiel, hooked the tip beneath Nezbet’s blade, and sent it sailing out of the circle before he could even reach it. Hands closed on sand. I pinned the left with a sword-tip, lending it just enough weight to sting.
I leaned down over the boy, who knelt out of awkward deference to the steel biting into his hand. “The woman beat you,” I hissed. “What makes you think I can’t?”
Nezbet called me a name.
The sword tip pricked more deeply. “That isn’t very nice. Where’d you learn that kind of language?”
So of course he repeated it.
I lifted the tip from his hand, traced a steel path up a bare arm, tapped him repeatedly under the chin to add emphasis to each word. “Not nice at all.”
“Chula,” he spat. “Everyone knows the truth.”
“Do they, now?” I rested the blade on his left ear.
“Can an earless man still hear gossip?” Now to the mouth. “Can a tongueless man repeat it?”
Black eyes glittered. “Jhihadi-killer. You have no honor left.”
“No, I suppose I wouldn’t—if it were true I’d killed the jhihadi. But we’ve had this discussion before, and I don’t care to repeat myself.” I took the sword away, indicated his. “There it is, Nezbet. Fetch it back, if you like… the dance has hardly begun.”
A trickle of blood smeared the back of his left hand as he rose. “You would allow—?”
“I’m polite,” I said lightly. “Jhihadi-killer or no, I remember the seven years I spent with my shodo, and all the lessons learned.”
Stiffened jaw flexed. “You will say I have forfeited if I step out of the circle.”
“Not if I give you permission. That’s in the codes, too.”
Nezbet jerked around to face the trio in the shade. “You hear him!” he called. “He permits me to retrieve my sword without forfeiting!”
Stupid, stupid Nezbet. Have you no sense at all? Have you no idea of what personal dignity and self-control are all about?
Stupid me for asking.
I put down my sword once again and went barehanded to my side of the circle. My kidneys hurt like hoolies, I needed to eat something, and I wanted very badly to find a nightpot.
But first things first.
Nezbet came back with his sword, then paused just inside as he saw my relinquished blade. “But—again? To run?”
It wasn’t required. We’d begun. It was most definitely out of place, but not disallowable.
“There.” I pointed. “That was a bad start for you. Why not try again?”
He stared at me for a long moment, unable to read my intentions. Then, frowning, Nezbet slowly set his sword next to mine. Retreated to his side of the circle.
“Dance,” Del said.
This time he reached his sword and actually picked it up. But by the time he did, I was waiting for him. Samiel’s tip teased his throat.
I tongue-clucked sympathy. “Sorry, Nezbet. You must have slipped in the sand.” I bent and put down my sword. “Let’s try one more time.”
One of Nezbet’s friends stirred against the cantina wall. Osman, or Mahoudin, or Hasaan; I didn’t know which. “Kill him,” he suggested.
“I think he’s trying,” I said.
The other flashed a grin. “No, Sandtiger. I mean you should kill him.”
“Ah.” I looked at Nezbet. “I believe they’re getting bored.”
Nezbet, who had not put down his sword, lunged directly at me. Thereby forfeiting any shred of honor, but I don’t think honor—or even victory—was on his mind anymore.
Now he wanted to kill.
The steel sang, arcing out of the rising sun. A black slash of blade, silhouetted against whitening light. I sidestepped slightly, caught the wrist and broke it, then hooked Nezbet’s ankle and sat him on his rump.
Meanwhile catching his sword before it hit the sand.
I gazed down pitilessly on the stupid Punja-mite. “I hate repeating myself, but this time I think I will.” I bent down close. “You’re too stupid to kill.”
Nezbet, shaking, was mute. And about time, too.
“Where is she?” I asked. “How far behind?”
The boy still said nothing. Tears of shock and humiliation welled in dark eyes.
“Where is she?” I repeated.
“Coming,” he muttered. “She and all her men.”
“How far behind?”
He shrugged. “A day, maybe. She rides like a man.”
No time to waste. I fetched my own sword, then stepped out of the profaned circle and walked over to his friends. Osman. Mahoudin. Hasaan. Or maybe the other order. “Which of you is
next?”
Three faces were very still. Then one of them smiled.
I tossed him Nezbet’s sword. “Which one are you?”
“Mahoudin. Third-level.” He handed the blade to the young sword-dancer next to him. All of them were young. “You do me honor, Sandtiger. But I have learned the lesson: any man may refuse a dance.”
I looked at the next. “You?”
In silence, he shook his head.
“You.” The third and final man.
“Hasaan,” he said simply. “And the price is not enough.”
“Oh?” I lifted brows. “Any price is enough if there is a level to be attained.”
Hasaan demurred. “Death is not the level I aspire to.”
“Hoolies, boy, I’m not about to kill you! How can you spread word of my deeds if your guts are all over the ground?”
White teeth shone briefly. “May the sun shine on your head.”
“It is.” I glanced up, judged the time, angled a shoulder away. “Another time, then. When the price is worth the risk.”
Mahoudin briefly spread fingers against his heart. “You should have killed him. He’s lost his sword, and honor—the circle is closed to him. What is there left to live for?”
I paused. “The chance to learn some sense.”
The second—Osman?—shook his head. “You’ve made him borjuni. Better to have killed him.”
“Nezbet made himself.” I turned and walked away, heading for Delilah.
Behind me, three quiet voices, intended to be private: “Big,” one of them murmured. “Strong,” from another. Followed by the third, “Fast for a man so old.”
You can’t win for losing.
Riding. Again. Hurting, again. And Del noticed it.
“What’s the matter?” She reined the mare a sideways step from the stud. “You look sort of—gray.”
“Need to—stop—” I gritted.
Del pulled up at once. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because—we needed—to go—”
“That was hours ago.” She watched me in concern as I bent in half over the stud’s neck. “What’s wrong?”
“I just—need to get down… for a bit… something I should do—” I slid out of the saddle, managed to find the ground, hung onto the stud. “Walking, at the moment, is not my idea of entertainment… do you mind?”
Del stared blankly.
“Then watch,” I muttered. “Right now, I don’t much care.”
“What do you—oh.”
Oh, indeed. I hung onto the stud and got my business done, swearing all the while. The results were as expected, with kidneys as sore as mine.
Once decent, I dragged myself back into the saddle. Del heard the creaking, the swearing, and turned back to face me. “What did they do to you?”
“Generally beat me up.” I pressed a hand into my back. “Someone had big feet.”
“We should find a place to stop and rest. At once.”
I grunted. “We’re in the middle of the Punja.”
“There are oases, are there not? And settlements? And wells?”
I squinted. “No settlement close by. But water’s not the problem. That can wait until tomorrow evening. Right now, we can’t stop.” I set the stud moving. “I don’t trust Umir.”
Del followed, clucking to the mare. “Surely he will not come so far. For me? So far into the Punja?”
“I got the feeling Umir would go anywhere he needed to, to acquire whatever he wants.” I glanced at her. “You don’t see yourself the way others do. You are—different. And that’s what he collects.”
“No one sees himself the way others do. You don’t.”
“No,” I agreed sourly. “And not as Osman and Hasaan and Mahoudin do either, apparently.”
Del was blank. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” I slanted her a glance. “How do you see me?”
“Me?”
Echoing myself: “I don’t mean the mare.”
Del glared. Then it faded, replaced by thoughtfulness. “I see the underparts.”
“The what?”
“Underparts.” She chewed a lip, thinking, brows tangled together. “The things not on top.”
I laughed, and scrubbed at my face. “I forget sometimes—you are Northern, after all… the language is not the same.”
“I am reminded of that, myself, when you sometimes talk.”
So bland. I nodded acknowledgment of the point. “So, what is this underpart you see? The things not on top.”
“The man inside the skin.”
Something cold tapped a fingernail against my spine. It nearly made me squirm. “What about the outside?”
Del frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Do I look—” I paused, “—different?”
“Of course.”
Colder yet. “How different?”
“Not like anyone else.’”
“Del—”
“What do you think?” she asked indignantly. “You are taller than all Southroners, but not so tall as most Northerners. You are darker than me; than every Northerner, but not so dark as a Southroner. Your eyes are green, not blue or brown, or even the occasional gray. And you are brown-haired, not black-; not fair, either.” She sighed. “Is this enough for you?”
“No.”
She muttered in uplander. “Your nose, then.”
“My nose?”
“It curves upside down.”
“My nose is upside down?”
Expressions warred in her face as she fought for the best explanation. Finally she settled for example. “You have seen Abbu’s nose.”
“Abbu’s has a notch in it. Abbu’s was broken. Mine never was.”
“But you can see what it was, Abbu’s nose. And many others. All shaped like this.” She hooked a finger downward, bowing the knuckle out.
I tested mine. “I don’t have a hook.”
“No. Yours is much straighter, though not as straight as some tribes I have seen. Yours is more like a Northerner’s. And your cheeks are not so sharp, so arched.” Del studied me. “We have discussed this before. You are both, and neither. There are things of the South in you, and also things of the North. Like a Borderer.”
I nodded impatiently. “Do I look real to you?”
“Real!” She frowned. “You asked that before.”
“Just—do I look real?”
Pale brows arched. “Do you mean to ask, are you the man of my dreams?”
“No!” I glared. “Can’t you be serious?”
“Not at the moment,” she murmured, and burst out laughing.
Which only goes to prove you can’t talk to a woman.
Camp, such as it was, was established with little fanfare: two blankets spread on the ground, wadded—in her case, folded—burnouses for pillows. Nothing at all for a fire: we lay on our blankets and chewed steadily at dried cumfa. Staring up at the stars.
“You meant it,” she murmured.
“Sometimes.” I lay very still. It was better not to move.
“Earlier. About seeming real.”
“Just wondered.”
“If you were real?”
I thought about it deeply, eventually dredging up an answer. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I promise not to laugh.”
“Oh, I don’t know… I enjoy hearing you laugh.”
“So long as it’s not at you.” Del smiled at the sky. “Sometimes, there is cause.” She rolled toward me, settling her head into a spread hand on the end of a braced arm. “Do you not feel real?”
“My kidneys convince me I am.”
“Then you have proof. Pain means you are real.”
“But—” I frowned, chewing violently on the last bite of cumfa. “I don’t know anything about me. I have no past.”
The amusement died in her eyes. “You have too much of a past.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean I have no history. Only an upside down nose, and color li
ke a brown burnous left too many years in the sun.”
“So do most Borderers. Look at Rhashad: he has red hair.”
“I don’t look anything like Rhashad.”
“Most Borderers do not look like one another. The dye lots are always mixed.” Del smiled. “I don’t mean to tease. But you do not strike me as the kind of man to need a past. You make your own of the future.”
That cut too close to bone. “They said the jhihadi was—is—a man of many parts.”
Del’s gaze sharpened. She stopped chewing cumfa.
I scratched a patch of bruise. “Nobody knows much about Iskandar, either.”
“He died.”
I counted. “It’s been eight days.”
“Since?—oh.” Del shrugged. “I think you will outlive Iskandar’s ten days.”
“Not if Sabra has anything to say about it. Or maybe Umir. The Ruthless.”
“They must catch you, first.”
“Umir caught me.”
“And you got free.” Del’s brow wrinkled. “How did you get free? You have told me nothing.”
I shrugged. “Nothing to tell.”
“But they beat you, and you got free.”
“I wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t used—” I stopped.
Del waited. And then realization sharpened her gaze. She pushed herself upright. “Magic,” she finished.
I heaved a heavy sigh. “The sorriest day of my life was getting involved with magic.”
“But it got you free of Umir. You just said so.”
“It’s also got me lugging around an infested sword. One I didn’t want in the first place, but now…” I sighed again, very tired, letting it go. “Hoolies, it’s not important.”
Del lay down again. “You humiliated him.”
“Who? Oh. Him.” I sucked a tooth. “Nezbet got what he deserved.”
“You might have beaten him fairly.”
“I did beat him fairly! I gave him a chance to quit before we started, and two chances to give up. What did you want me to do—cut off his head, like you did Ajani’s?”
Her tone was flat. “No. But—”
“But? Did you want me to kill him?”
Del said nothing.
“Did you?” I persisted.
She sighed. “It seems to me you left him injured and angry and humiliated. Some people, with nothing but that to think on, come to trouble you later. They make bad enemies.”
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