“Not only younger,” I taunted, “but also smarter than you. Not to mention faster—”
He snatched up Singlestroke: a sword is a sword, and no weapon is disdained. I let him grip the beadwire hilt; watched his expression alter; marked the shift in posture. The shock of seeing the sword had faded. Singlestroke had been “dead” to me for too long. Now he was merely a chance for me to upset the dance.
“Two engagements,” I said. “Then all hoolies breaks loose.”
Abbu didn’t flick an eyelash. He just came in with Singlestroke.
He was good. Very good; I sucked in breath, ducked away, twisted his steel off my own. This was just the beginning—what would happen at the end?
Gravel hissed and chattered. Abbu drove me back, straight back, teasing me with steel. I caught the blows, turned them; threw steel back at him. His deftness and speed was incredible.
Back— I thought. Almost—
Blade scraped blade. Quillons caught, hung up, broke free as we wrenched them apart. All around us people murmured.
Almost— I thought. Two more steps—
I let him drive me back. Then countered his pattern, responded with my own.
“That’s enough,” I said.
Abbu’s eyes flickered.
I grinned. Laughed. Stared straight at the scar that punched a hole in the flesh of his throat, then rotated a hip, shifted stance, lifted elbows and twisted wrists, giving him what he expected. What he had recalled so many times, in the darkness of his dreams; the memory of the maneuver that had nearly ended his life.
Let him remember it all.
Let him make himself ready.
Let him prepare the defense; consider the proper riposte—
Then take it away from him—from them—by purposely breaking the pattern.
By purposely breaking the sword.
By purposely breaking the oaths.
Exactly eight paces—my legs are much longer than theirs—and I was out of the circle.
I was in Sabra’s shade, marking quickness as she sprang up. Judging how far she could get. Hearing her garbled call for guards as she tripped over cushions and silks.
Then Sabra was in my arms.
But I didn’t intend to kiss her.
Forty-two
I knocked the turban off her head, sank a fist into thick black hair, and yanked her head back roughly to expose the fragile throat. Then settled my left arm across it, pressing a hard-muscled wrist into the taut-stretched windpipe.
One throttled outcry escaped her, and then she clawed at my arms. I shut off her breath easily with a slight increase in pressure. “Your choice,” I told her.
She wavered, sagged minutely, then allowed slackened arms to drop back to her side.
“Better.” I looked out into the courtyard, noting opened mouths and staring eyes, as well as stiffened postures. Saw Abbu still standing in the circle, broken Singlestroke in one hand; saw Umir across the way with a white-clad woman next to him, poised to move; saw—and felt—the tension in Sabra’s hirelings as they considered options. “Five things,” I said clearly. “Two horses immediately—and one of them better be mine… two Northern swords—leave them sheathed, if you please… and one Northern bascha.” I looked across at Umir. “Cut her loose now.”
For a long moment no one did anything. And then Abbu threw down Singlestroke. His own sword lay in gravel just outside the circle, where I had dropped it on my way to Sabra. I didn’t need steel. I wanted my hands upon her.
The chime of steel on gravel released everyone. They began to stir, to mutter; Umir cut Del’s wrists free, and she moved away quickly. Someone came up from a stable block with the stud and Del’s mare. Someone else approached me with two Northern jivatmas. Sheathed, as requested.
“On the horses,” I said.
It was done. Del moved to mare, mounted, hooked arms through harness straps. Loose sleeves fouled on leather and buckles, but she jerked the fabric loose, yanking it into place even as Umir blurted a protest. Then she reached down and took the reins to the stud, turning him broadside to me.
I smiled. “Your turn,” I said to Sabra.
She was perfectly rigid, barely breathing, trembling with tension and anger. I could feel it through crimson silk; in the rigidity of her neck; in the minute curving of stiffened fingers.
“Elaii-ali-ma!” I shouted. “Every single sword-dancer here knows what that means!”
Abbu’s face was ashen. “Do you?”
“Three days,” I told him. “It’s in the honor codes: you all owe me three days.”
“Those of us who are sworn, yes—”
“Doesn’t matter,” I told him. “I’m taking Sabra with me. That ought to make the others think twice.”
Slowly he shook his head. “Such a fool, Sandtiger.”
I smiled over Sabra’s head. “One thing I have learned is that in order to stay alive, one must make sacrifices.”
“This?”
“This,” I confirmed. “Do what you have to do. Everything’s different now… I can’t afford to care.”
Abbu thrust a fist into the air. “Elaii-ali-ma!” he shouted. “The oaths of honor are broken! There is no more Sandtiger among us, to enter the true circle in the name of Alimat! Elaii-ali-ma!”
Those who were sword-dancers echoed the cry. Then all, led by Abbu, turned their backs on me.
“Now,” I rasped to Sabra, and walked her across the gravel to the restive, waiting stud.
Del, strangely white-faced, pulled him up short so he couldn’t sidestep. A glance showed me she appeared to be unhurt, as did the stud. Then I turned my attention back to Sabra, still rigid in my arms.
“Time to go,” I told her. Sabra opened her mouth. I immediately made a fist and chopped her just under the jaw, snapping her head back. It would hold her for a while.
She sagged. I scooped her up, threw her facedown across the front of the saddle, clambered up behind her. Grabbed a handful of raven hair and jerked her head up, displaying the slack face. “Not dead,” I told her eunuchs. “But she will be soon enough if anyone follows us.”
I dropped her head back down. She was dead weight across the saddle, arms and legs dangling. I pressed one hand into the small of her back, caught up the reins with the other, and nodded at Del.
She swung the mare and left at a trot. I followed at the same pace, hearing gravel hiss beneath hooves.
Hearing also the echoing cry that had filled the entire courtyard: “Elaii-ali-ma!”
We wasted no time. Our long-trot through narrow streets scattered passersby and earned us curses, but that was the least of our worries. All I wanted to do was get out of Julah as soon as possible; as far from Sabra’s hirelings as we could, before they at last roused into action.
Del dropped back. “Where?”
“Up into the mountains.”
She studied my face. “Are you all right?”
“I will be, once we’re out of here.”
She nodded, slackened rein, fell back behind the stud as we wound our way through canyons of adobe dwellings and ramshackle shelters built out of city refuse.
We left the inner city for the outer, where the streets were a little wider and less clogged. Now I tapped the stud out of a trot into a lope, guiding him through the crooks as I pressed Sabra one-handed down into the saddle and the stud’s withers. It was not the most comfortable way I’d ever ridden, but I’d been left with little choice. I’d sincerely doubted Sabra was the kind of woman to do as I told her, even in the face of threats; she’d have spat in my eye and dared me to kill her. Since I didn’t really want to do that, it was easier just to knock her out and carry her away.
“This way,” I said, and reined the stud into an alley that led us through looming shadows to daylight again. “Keep riding,” I said over the clatter of hooves. “Straight up into the mountains.”
“How long are we going to keep her?”
“Not much longer. I have a plan for her.” I patted Sabra�
��s rump. “She’s going to buy us safe passage to the place we need to go.”
Del twisted in the saddle. “Where do we need to go?”
“Don’t worry about it, bascha. I know what I’m doing.”
Fair brow creased a little. “I’ve learned to be concerned whenever you say that.”
I grinned, oddly content. “I see Umir made you bathe.”
Del grinned back. “I see Sabra didn’t bother.”
Which was enough for the time being; things were normal again.
Up. Out of sandy hardpan into real dirt and webby grass, sprawling in clusters across the ground. Catclaw, tigerclaw, scrubby greasewood trees; beanpods dropped from feathertrees scattered pebbled ground. We chipped and gouged earth as we climbed, negotiating clinking rectangles of shale, and gray-green granite rubble.
Up. Over hillocks and shoulders and elbow bends out onto jagged escarpments, then in against sharp-cut walls. We left behind the first flank and went over across the second. Shale and granite were interspersed with smokerock, crumbling beneath shod hooves.
“How much farther?” Del asked. “There is no trail—do we keep climbing?”
“Keep climbing. We’ll rid ourselves of Sabra any old time, then head higher.”
“What are you going to do with her?”
“You’ll see.”
Del said nothing as the mare worked her way up the mountain. Both horses stumbled, staggered, splayed legs; slid back, recovered, climbed. Beneath me the stud heaved himself upward, head dropped and rump bunching. Shoulders strained, driving legs down through loose footing to firmer ground beneath. He grunted rhythmically.
Sabra’s slack body slipped to one side. I caught a handful of hair and crimson silk, dragged her up, balanced her more securely.
“Is she dead?” Del asked.
“No. What good would a body do us?”
“What good does she do us at all?”
“Be patient. You’ll see. As a matter of fact… wait a moment. Pull up.” I halted the stud, tore strips of tough silk from Sabra’s tunic, tied her wrists together. “No sense in making it easier.” Then I prodded the stud out. “All right. Keep climbing.”
It wasn’t much farther before Sabra roused. She came to with a jerk and a twitch, then arched her back as she tried to counterbalance her head-down posture.
I patted her on the rump. “Careful now, tanzeer—or I’ll dump you on your head.”
Loose hair sheathed her face. Her words were muffled, but not the tone of voice. “Stop this horse. Untie me. Let me go.”
I chuckled. “Not a chance.”
She twisted mightily. I caught handfuls of hair and cloth before she went over. “Let me go,” she repeated.
I stopped the stud. Tipped her off backward. Silk hooked and tore. Bound hands caught on the harness and hilt. Strung up, she dangled against the stud. Toes barely scraped the ground.
“If you insist…” I grabbed hair, pulled her upright, unhooked trapped wrists and dropped her to the ground. Legs buckled and she sat, crying out at the impact. “Now,” I said calmly, “perhaps you’d rather walk.”
She spat out a string of rather foul expletives, all designed to make me blush. Except I don’t blush easily. Then she stopped swearing and began speaking more clearly, if with no less conviction.
“You broke them. You broke them. You made a mockery of the oaths and honor codes.”
“I did what I needed to do.”
“Now you’ll die!” she shrieked. “Do you think I don’t know? Do you think I don’t know how?” Sabra laughed stridently, tossing hair out of her face. “They’ll forgo paying dances to kill you, all of those sword-dancers… you’re meat to them now. They’ll kill you first chance they get—”
“Elaii-ali-ma.” I nodded. “I know all about it, Sabra.”
“You’re not a sword-dancer anymore. You have no honor. You broke the codes. You repudiated your shodo, and the honor of Alimat. Do you think I don’t know?”
Wearily, I sighed. “I don’t care what you know.”
“You’re a borjuni!” she spat. “Sandtiger the borjuni… how will you live now? How will you find work? No one will hire you… no one will ask you to dance. You’re nothing but a borjuni, and you’ll live by borjuni rules!”
“I’ll live by my own rules.”
“Tiger.” It was Del. “We have company.”
I glanced up. Nodded. “I wondered what took them so long.”
Sabra, still sitting in shale and smokerock, twisted her head to look behind us. She saw what we saw: four leather-kilted Vashni warriors wearing human fingerbone necklets, mounted on small dark horses.
She scrambled up and moved close to the stud. “Vashni,” she hissed. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
“Pretty much. It’s the one reason I came up here.”
“Vashni, you fool! They’ll kill us all!”
“They won’t kill any of us. Well… I suppose they might kill you, if you don’t do what they want.” I dug a rigid toe into her spine and prodded her off the stud. “Don’t crowd him, Sabra. He might take a bite of your face.”
Del sat quietly. Equally quietly, she asked, “Do you know what you’re doing?”
I grinned. “Pretty much.”
“Oh, good,” Del muttered. “I guess I need not worry.”
“Not yet.” I reached down, caught a handful of shiny black hair, pulled Sabra up short. “This is Julah’s tanzeer.”
The four warriors sat impassively on their horses. Bare-chested save for the pectorals; also bare-legged. Dark skin was greased. Black hair was oiled smooth and slicked into single fur-bound plaits.
I smiled at the warriors. “This is Aladar’s daughter.”
Dark eyes glittered. Single-file, four men rode down the mountain. Sabra called me names.
“It’s not my fault,” I told her. “Blame your father. He double-crossed them in the treaty, and then he snatched a few young Vashni and put them to work in the mine. Vashni don’t take kindly to that sort of bad manners… I wonder what they’ll do to you.”
She exercised her tongue a little more, until the four warriors pulled up close by. Then she fell silent, twisting wrists against silk bonds. Brilliant crimson finery was torn, soiled, befouled. Tangled hair obscured half of her face. The paint on her lips had smeared. She was altogether a mess.
“Sabra,” I told them. “Aladar’s daughter, now tanzeer in his place. Any business you have with Julah can be tended by this woman.”
They ignored Sabra completely, concentrating on me. Del earned a quick assessment, being a woman and obviously foreign, but me they measured more closely. Then one of them made a gesture, and put a finger on his cheek. “You are the Sandtiger.”
I nodded.
“You and that woman came here before, looking for a not-Vashni boy, one of Aladar’s slaves.”
“That woman” said nothing, but I sensed her sharpened awareness. Again, I nodded. “He remained with the Vashni,” I said. “It was his own choice.”
The warrior flicked a glance at Del, marking fair hair, blue eyes, the sword. He made another quick gesture I didn’t understand, but his fellow warriors did. The three rode down slowly to Del and surrounded her, cutting her off from me. I stiffened in the saddle, aware of sudden tension, but the leader’s eyes forbade me to move.
Each of the three warriors reached out and touched Del’s shoulder. One touch only, then a half-hidden sign. Without saying a word, they reined back and turned their horses, rejoining the fourth warrior.
He nodded. “Bloodkin to the Oracle; may the sun shine on your head.”
The common Southron blessing sounded incongruous coming from a Vashni. But it put me at ease. If they respected Del, they weren’t about to kill us.
“Jamail,” she said. “Is he with you again?”
Something pinched the pit of my belly. I recalled with sick realization that Del hadn’t been present when Sabra had told me her men had killed Jamail.
�
�Bascha—”
But the Vashni overrode me. “The Oracle is dead.”
Del, shocked, opened her mouth. Shut it. Shock was transformed to acknowledgment; her mouth to a grim, tight line. The flesh at her eyes was pinched. “Then I will have to sing his song, when I am free to do so.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I meant to tell you myself.”
“What is this?” Sabra asked. “Grief for a worthless fool? Did you believe all that nonsense about Oracles and jhihadis?”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”
The Vashni looked at me. “Will you kill Aladar’s daughter as you killed Aladar?”
I grinned. “I thought I’d let the Vashni have her, as recompense for the warriors Aladar stole.”
Del spoke before they could say anything. She was, at long last, making sure everyone got it right. “Tiger didn’t kill Aladar,” she said clearly. “I did.”
“You!” Sabra tried to wrench her hair free of my grasp. She failed, then gave it up, transfixed by new information. “You killed my father?”
“Recompense,” Del spat. “For Tiger. For my brother. For all the others.” Cold eyes glittered. “Your father deserved to die. I was grateful for the chance to see the color of his guts.”
Sabra was rigid. “You,” she whispered. “You—not him.”
“No,” I agreed. “But she just beat me to it. He wasn’t a popular man.”
Sabra stared at Del. “You,” she repeated.
Then she reached up and clasped the grip of my sword, trying to tear it down from the saddle.
Forty-three
The stud spooked violently, lurching sideways. I swore, grabbed rein and harness; felt Sabra’s frenzied jerking. The harness came free of the saddle.
“Hoo—” I lunged, leaned, grabbed hold; felt the stud bunch, then cut loose with a buck that nearly lost me my seat. As it was, my position was more than a little precarious.
Sabra was shouting. Both hands were locked on the hilt, tugging it free of sheath. I hung onto harness, tugging back, but the stud’s violence distracted me. He stumbled, staggered, nearly fell. I was halfway out of the saddle, trying to jerk the harness and sheath away from Sabra. Sabra jerked back.
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