Sword-Breaker

by Jennifer Roberson

  Dim light shadowed his features. I saw the steady, pale brown eyes, the seamed scar bisecting his chin, the quiet readiness. He was and had always been something I was not: a man secure in himself. A man so good at what he did it colored all his life.

  In the circle, I was as good. Possibly even better, though we couldn’t know that yet. But I was not and had never been secure within myself.

  I just didn’t tell anyone.

  Abbu waited in silence. That he respected me, I knew: he had put off his sword. I thought it unnecessary. I had been chained all night. As quick as he was, I could attempt very little before he could counter me.

  I looked into his face and saw banked expectancy.

  Belly tautened abruptly “It was you,” I declared. “She was a day, two days behind. And then suddenly she was here, waiting at Fouad’s.”

  He grinned. “There is a disadvantage to being a legend, Sandtiger. People begin to expect things. When we realized you and Del had left Quumi, I told Sabra—and Umir, once we met up with him at the oasis—that you were bound for Julah. I didn’t know why, but I knew where. It’s where you always go: Fouad’s. So I suggested they double up on mounts and water and beat you here to Julah, so the trap could be laid.”

  I recalled Fouad’s unfeigned friendliness, his courtesy toward Del. “Fouad?”

  Abbu hitched a shoulder. “You have no idea how determined Sabra is. She is—not like other women. What Sabra wants, she gets. Julah is her domain; she is free to do as she likes, and to any person who happens to strike her fancy: man, woman, child. You know what Aladar was like—I heard what he did to you. The daughter is worse. The daughter is—different. Fouad would have been a fool to refuse her.”

  “What happens to Del?”

  He shrugged. “She’s Umir’s, now. He’ll do whatever he likes.”

  I sought something in his face. He had known, admired, desired Del. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  Abbu Bensir laughed his husky, broken laugh. “Have you no faith in the bascha? Umir underestimates her—I know better. He beds boys, not women… and he wants merely to collect her. Collectors cherish their icons.” He shifted against the wall, rubbing absently at the notched bridge of his nose. “Del is hardly helpless. I doubt he’ll keep her long.”

  “Which brings us back to me.” I picked up the cup of water, drank.

  “It’s simple, Tiger. We dance.”

  I nodded thoughtfully as I lowered the cup. “Sabra mentioned certain provisions.”

  Something jumped briefly in the flesh beneath one brown eye. “She promised me the dance. I didn’t ask for provisions, merely the chance to settle it according to the codes. Nothing more than that.”

  I grunted. “Sabra may have other ideas.”

  “Sabra is ruthless,” he agreed. “Far more ruthless than Umir, but—”

  “But you trust her.”

  His mouth thinned. He pushed himself from the wall and walked to me, then around me, peering briefly out the slit serving as window. I heard his step behind me; the rasp of his broken voice, distinct and oddly tight. Each word was emphasized, and very deliberate: “Listen to me.”

  I didn’t say a word.

  Silence. Then, very quietly, with infinite clarity: “Sabra needs to show her power to all the male tanzeers, as well as the men of her domain. To prove herself. To hold them all with whatever means it takes, because she is a woman. She will do whatever she has to do. Left to her own desires, she might have had you flayed alive—have you ever seen that done?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “A man trained by our shodo, a seventh-level sword-dancer, deserves to die in the circle.”

  “Don’t do me any favors.” I set the cup down. “Once, we might have settled this in a circle where death was not required.”

  “Once,” Abbu agreed. “In Iskandar… but a horse interfered. And also in the Punja, but then Chosa Dei interfered. And now it’s much too late.” Steps gritted again as he came around to face me. No more amusement. No more quiet goading. He was perfectly serious. “It will be quick, and clean, and painless. It will be an honorable death.”

  The words rose unbidden. “You’re sure of yourself.”

  The flesh at the edges of eyes creased. He didn’t—quite—smile. “I admire your bravado. But be sensible, Sandtiger… I am Abbu Bensir—”

  Very quietly, I told Abbu Bensir where to go. Also when, how fast, and in what condition.

  The recoil was faint, but present. And then he did smile. “Steel, this time. No more wooden blades.”

  I looked at the scar in this throat. “I nearly killed you then. I was seventeen years old, utterly lacking in skill… it’s twenty years later, Abbu. And you’re that many years older. Slower. Stiffer. Older.”

  “Wiser,” Abbu said softly. “And the Sandtiger is not so young as he once was.”

  No. And he’d also spent a muzzy-headed night chained to a splintery bench, thinking about Delilah.

  I looked again at his throat. “Funny thing, Abbu—I never thought you were the kind for revenge.”

  The tone snapped sharply. “Don’t confuse me with Sabra.”

  I looked at him more alertly.

  “This isn’t for revenge. What do I care about that? What do I care about you?” He angled a shoulder toward the door. “I just want to dance.”

  I sought another edge. “Is she that good in bed?”

  Abbu swung back, laughing. “Old trick, Sandtiger.”

  I shrugged. “At least it’s a reason.”

  “She is—inventive. Uninhibited. But a woman, all the same, much like any other.” He gestured. “I gave you my reason. I dance for the joy, the challenge… do you realize how long it’s been since I danced with a worthy opponent?”

  Sourly, I said, “I’d just as soon not.”

  “Too late.” He turned, moved toward the door, looked back. “There is one more thing.”

  I waited.

  Brown eyes glittered in sunlight. “I am older, even as you say… and growing older daily. There is in me now a desire to leave behind something of myself, if I am to leave the world. A name, if nothing else.” The husky tone took on a quality I’d never heard in Abbu: intense, decided virulence. “Old men are flaccid in spirit, dying drunk in a filthy cantina, losing wits to huva dreams, or pissing in their beds. I’d rather die in the circle. I’d rather die honorably.” He put his hand on the latch. “And if it’s meant to happen, I’d just as soon have the Sandtiger do it than some Punja-mite of a boy who caught me on a bad day.”

  I stared blankly at the door as it shut slowly behind him, latch falling into place. I wanted to call him a fool. But I thought about what he’d said. Applied it to myself. And realized he was right.

  I’d sooner have Abbu kill me now than Nezbet do it later.

  Of course, given a choice.…

  Without any further ado, I ate the food they’d left and finished off the water. Then got up from the bench, stretched, and began to loosen up.

  Abbu Bensir. At last.

  The smallest flicker of anticipation lit a bonfire in my belly.

  Thirty-nine

  Dead Aladar’s impressive palace was very much as I recalled it: white-painted adobe; tiled, elegant archways; palm and citrus trees planted for shade, and looks. Even the stableyard boasted layers of cream and copper gravel.

  I was barefoot. The gravel was small and fine, but gravel nonetheless; I scowled faintly, assessing footing, thinking ahead to the dance. As yet the day was still cool, which meant the footing would also be cool, but I preferred packed sand or dirt to a circle drawn in gravel.

  The stableyard was filled with spectators, except for the circle and a narrow perimeter around it. They stood against walls, squatted in gravel, sat upon benches and stools, dependent upon their status. All men, of course. Most, I assumed, were guards or mercenaries Sabra had hired to maintain a hold on Julah; the richly-dressed men were merchants and the politicians of the city, who would fight to snatch it away; others were tra
ined sword-dancers who’d come down from Iskandar. I knew many of the latter, by name or by face. As one they stared at me, as I stood flanked by a knot of guards, and then at Abbu Bensir as he came out of the airy, elegant palace into the bright stableyard.

  It was, I thought, silly. So much fanfare for a dance. But it was Sabra’s idea, of course: she intended to see me killed before a multitude of witnesses, so no doubt could be attached to her part in the matter. What she meant was plain: she alone had caught the Sandtiger, killer of father, jhihadi, and Oracle, when all others had failed; see now as she meted out justice!

  Hoolies, what a farce.

  I wore only brief dhoti and necklet, naked of sandals, burnous, harness. It’s the usual attire for a man entering a circle; extra clothing can foul the dance. Many of the sword-dancers had seen me dance before in identical garb, but none had seen me dance properly since coming back from the North.

  Except, of course, for Abbu. He was unsurprised. But I saw and heard the reaction as everyone else saw the hideous scar left by Del’s jivatma.

  Yet something else for the legend. I found it a little amusing.

  As I waited in my knot of guards, Abbu quietly stripped out of burnous, harness, sandals. Like me, he wore a dhoti; unlike me, there was no necklet, nor a fist-sized, lumpy fissure eaten out of still-living flesh. He was a spare, sinewy man several years beyond forty, seamed by nicks and slices gone pale pink or white with age. He was Southron, and therefore smaller, but Abbu Bensir lost nothing at all by boasting less bulk; nothing at all by giving up height to a lower distribution of weight.

  Surreptitiously, I sucked in a substantial breath that lifted and spread ribs, giving me room to breathe, then released it slowly and evenly. I yawned once, twice; shook out arms and hands; felt the tingle in thighs and groin. Felt the rippled, ticklish clenching deep in my belly that always presaged a dance.

  Umir the Ruthless had named me a gut-level dancer, a man whose quickness, power, and skill had never truly been tested to prove or disprove the legend. This time, I knew, was different. This time I would find out exactly what—and who—I was.

  I thought of Sula. I thought of Del. I thought of the nameless mother who had birthed me in the sands, then left me there to die. All those years ago: thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight.

  Hoolies, who cares?

  It was Abbu Bensir I faced.

  It began as a ripple. Then a quiet murmur. And at last a splitting of bodies: Sabra, Aladar’s daughter, came out of her father’s magnificent palace. With her came white-clad eunuchs carrying cushions, fans, gauzy screens quickly erected to shade her from the sun as she settled upon piled cushions. She wore vivid, bloody crimson: tunic, trousers, turban, and the palest wisp of modesty veil weighted with tiny gold tassels. Leather slippers were also red; the tissue-thin soles were glossy gold with freshly gravel-torn foil. It was, I decided wryly, Sabra’s way of proving her wealth and her disdain for poorer people, even the rich ones gathered here.

  She lifted a small, graceful hand, and everyone fell silent. Her voice rang throughout the courtyard, carrying even into corners. She knew how to pitch it properly. “Honored guests, today I bring you the justice of a powerful yet humble new tanzeer as personified in the circle, the South’s greatest tradition. Let there be no question as to who the dancers are: Abbu Bensir, whom you know, and also the Sandtiger.”

  I sighed and cocked a hip as a murmuring filled the stableyard. This might take a while.

  “Abbu Bensir,” she repeated, “who is accorded the honor of being the South’s greatest sword-dancer, trained by the most honorable and most revered shodo of Alimat, where only the best of the best are privileged to be trained.”

  Everyone knew that.

  “And the Sandtiger, also trained at Alimat and was taught by the same shodo, but who repudiated the training, his honor, and codes by turning to basest infamy. He murdered three men: my father, Aladar, former tanzeer of Julah—” Her voice broke artfully a moment, then she recovered a perfect composure, “—and also the jhihadi, long promised to the South by prophecy and legend as the man who would save us all by changing the sand to grass.”

  “Or maybe glass,” I muttered.

  “And lastly, the man who by blackest sorcery murdered the Oracle, the one sent to all of us to prepare the way for the jhihadi, so we could honor and welcome him.”

  “Anything else?” I murmured.

  Sabra placed a hand across her heart, inclining her head modestly. “I am only a woman, and unworthy… but I have done this thing. For Julah, and all of the South—I give you retribution for the deaths of three whom we loved!”

  Hoolies, what a performance.

  “And so,” she said quietly, “today I bring you justice. Today I bring you a dance that will never again be equaled. A dance to the death. A true and binding dance shaped of true and binding oaths, as taught at Alimat. All of the codes shall hold. The traditions shall be honored.”

  “It might be fairer,” I shouted, “if somebody gave me a sword!”

  It did what I expected: broke Sabra’s hold; shocked merchants and politicians; made the sword-dancers laugh. The tension she worked to build was abruptly dissipated.

  She didn’t like it one bit.

  “Here!” Sabra snapped, and one of her guardsmen muscled me over to her cushions. Black eyes were livid, but red-painted lips smiled sweetly behind the sheer red veil. “A sword?” she inquired. “But of course there will be a sword. A very special sword.” Sabra snapped her fingers. “Surely you will know it. It is all a part of the legend.”

  For a moment, a moment only, I thought it was to be Samiel. And then, as quickly, I knew better than to hope it. Sabra was not stupid. If she had known nothing about jivatmas before setting out after me, Abbu would have told her by now. He knew enough about them to respect and be wary of them. He had seen Del’s, and he’d also seen mine. Abbu knew better.

  So, not Samiel, full of Chosa and Southron magic. Brief hope died.

  A eunuch came forward bearing an oblong purple cushion. Displayed upon it was a sword, a Southron sword. A very familiar sword: shodo-blessed, blued-steel blade, with beadwire-wrapped hilt.

  Strength, like sand, ran out. “Where did you get this sword?”

  “You were careless,” she said, “and heedless of the legend. Which makes it all the sweeter.” Her eyes dwelled avidly on my face, weighing my expression. What she saw pleased her; Sabra smiled, and laughed. Maliciously, she whispered, “I restore what has been lost, to make the legend complete.”

  I gritted teeth tightly. “It broke,” I hissed curtly. “Singlestroke broke.”

  “And so you discarded it.” Sabra shrugged. “The halves were found, and recognized. I had them brought to me, and repaired. So I could restore it to you.”

  “Hoolies, woman—you’re sandsick. Steel once broken…” But I let it go, seeing the glint in black eyes. She knew. As well as I. As well as anyone, though she took no pains to tell them.

  Steel once broken will always break again. No matter how skillful the mending.

  Which, of course, is what she wanted.

  Sabra gestured expansively, showing small white teeth. “Take it, Sandtiger. So the legend is whole again.”

  I was getting downright sick of hearing myself called a legend. First Abbu, now Sabra. I was a sword-dancer, nothing more. A good one, I’ll admit; I’ll even say I’m great (which I’ve been known to do anyway)… but real legends are usually dead. And I wasn’t. Yet.

  I put out a hand. The cushion was snatched away.

  “Ah!” Sabra laughed and coyly touched her breast. “So I am reminded… there are the oaths to be sworn, first!” She gestured to Abbu, raising her voice so all could hear again. “Will you come forward? All must be witnessed. All must be done properly, according to the honor codes of Alimat. Both of you must be bound into a blessed circle.”

  I wondered sourly how much she’d already known. How much Abbu had told her.

  Sabra laughed
again as Abbu came forward. “Still I forget—how like a woman!” Another graceful gesture. “I have special guests. There—do you see?”

  We looked, of course, as she meant us to. Directly across the circle another sunshade affair was erected, cushions laid out carefully as eunuchs gathered with fans. Umir the Ruthless stood there. By his side was a hooded woman well-swathed in Southron silk.

  Singlestroke. And Del. What more could I ask for?

  Freedom for both of us.

  Hoolies, what a mess.

  Umir brought her forward to the edge of the circle. Close enough for me to see her wrists were bound before her. Close enough for me to see her face and the expression upon it. Clearly she was unhurt; just as clearly she was annoyed. But she lacked jivatma and freedom, even as I did. And as we each of us gazed at each other, seeking truth behind mutual masks, we knew there was no way out.

  Umir had worked his own brand of magic. She wore white samite, the costly Southron silk that only tanzeers could wear, because all else were forbidden save by a tanzeer’s permission. Plain, unadorned samite, too bright in the light of the sun; a hooded, loose-fitting burnous that grazed the tops of bare toes, neither belted nor fastened. It hung open from hood to hem in heavy, unmoving folds.

  Umir smiled at me. “Subdued, is she not? As is her attire?”

  I scowled, thinking him foolish.

  “I prefer simplicity in all things; in the things I show to the world. Surface understatement can be so effective… but underneath that surface, the complexion is much different. In people—and in attire.” He put a hand on Del’s shoulder, sinking fingers into samite. “This burnous is a part of my collection, worth the price of three domains. Worthy of her, I think.”

  Umir caught cloth abruptly and pulled the burnous open with a skilled flourish, draping it inside out across his left arm like a cloth merchant showing off wares. The severe white burnous was abruptly something else; something incredibly more: a lurid Southron sunset awash in morning light. All the yellows, and the oranges; all the lurid reds—and everything in between—of a simoom-birthed sunset boiling out of the Punja’s horizon bloomed against costly samite, and an even costlier woman.