He didn’t move. I read the thoughts passing through his eyes. He was young, but I was indeed a legend, as Neesha reminded me that morning. Khalid thought he knew me. He thought I might well be that man.
Onlookers murmured. Many, just passing through town, didn’t know me; certainly the residents did, but as a teacher, a shodo, not an active sword-dancer. I hadn’t danced in Julah for more than two years.
I watched Khalid arrive at the conclusion that I was indeed the Sandtiger. He calculated his skill against the legend and came up lacking. Acknowledgement was bitter. Then again, I was older now. Undoubtedly slower. Not what I once was, probably. He looked at my hands, mentally counted the fingers. The first realization, the first waning of confidence, dissipated. Older, slower, that terrible wound in my chest and side that undoubtedly bothered me now, at my advanced age; and only three fingers on each hand.
Khalid smiled. Khalid bared his teeth. Khalid walked to the center of the circle, halted, as if to set down his sword next to mine. But he did not. “You’re not a sword-dancer,” he said. “Not anymore. And I don’t have to obey any codes, or dance any dances. I just have to kill.”
And then he came at me.
Of course.
Chapter 4
FOUAD’S WORDS: Foolish, foolish, foolish. I ducked the first swing, dove to the dirt and rolled to my feet, sword in my hands. Khalid had not expected it. He swung to face me hastily. Saw the sword in my hands, the readiness in my posture. And he hesitated.
I poked one finger into the air and crooked it repeatedly, gesturing invitation. Asking him, mutely, to come closer. To continue the dance.
He did so with a rush.
Swords sang as we clashed. The dirt beneath my feet was packed from footprints, hoof prints, and wagon wheels. No puddles, no droppings, nothing that could interfere. But then this was not a sword-dance, according to Khalid; we need not confine ourselves to the circle.
Yet I did. I made Khalid come to me. I wanted this to be a traditional dance, so Khalid and his friends could see how it was done, could see what it was that had made me great. Speed, despite my size. Power, because of my weight. Strength, because of my fitness. I had spent two years teaching students. I was as well-conditioned as a man could be, who was active on a daily basis, who used skill and muscle memory. But above all, I had the mental focus that came from years of dancing against the best. From years of being the best.
But I paid him the honor of not being complacent.
I used the sun. I used my shadow. I used my green-eyed Sandtiger’s stare. I used his inexperience. The kid was good, and he’d be better. But not today.
I smashed the sword out of his hands with a twist that sent it wheeling out of the circle. I drove him to the ground, flat on his back. I placed the point of my sword in the hollow of his throat. “Call off your dogs,” I directed, knowing full well that because I’d broken all the oaths and codes, his friends might decide to attack me together. “We’re done here. You and your boys can walk away, can ride out of Julah. In fact, I think you’d better.” I tapped the sword point against flesh. “You’re good, Khalid. You’ll have a successful career, since I’m leaving you alive. That’s my gift to you. But you’re not ready for me yet, and don’t fool yourself into believing you are.” I glanced at his two friends, watching me as if transfixed. But it was Khalid who maintained my attention. “Now,” I said, “tell your friends to replace everything they destroyed and repack my wagon. Until they do, you’ll lie here in the dirt with my blade at your throat.”
After a moment, Khalid croaked an urgent “Go!”
I smiled down at him. “Good boy.”
Afterward, Fouad freshened my mug with aqivi to the rim. I started to tell him I’d only planned to finish off what I’d left behind prior to Khalid’s challenge but decided I would enjoy more than the few remaining swallows—especially since there was backwash in what I’d left.
My eyes adjusted to the dim interior as I blinked. High sun outside; cool in the cantina. I’d sheathed the sword after wiping it down, laced up my sandals but dropped the burnous across the bar top. I leaned casually on one elbow set against the plank, watching men file back in. All took note of me: sandals, harness, dhoti, and twinned silver rings in my ears. Bigger than Southroners. Oh, and claw marks on my face, a crater under my ribs, stumps where my little fingers had once been. Quite a picture, if I do say so myself. And it all served a purpose. You didn’t take me for granted.
Well, at least, you shouldn’t.
There was quiet talk about the dance as customers resumed their seats, but in my presence none of them raised their voices. I turned to the bar and smiled into my mug. Sometimes it was just plain amusing to see what effect I had on others. Of course Del would say that was me being egotistical, but hey— I was what I was. As Khalid had found out.
Fouad, on the other side of the bar, said quietly, “You may have made an enemy today.”
“No ‘may’ about it. I definitely made an enemy today.” I swallowed aqivi, set the mug down. “But they are all my enemies, Fouad. I broke every oath, flouted the codes, dishonored my shodo, dishonored Alimat, and therefore dishonored every sword-dancer in the South. I expect that kid to come after me again.”
That kid, once I permitted him to get up from the dirt, had noted that I stood with the hilt in my right hand, blade resting lightly across the crook of my left elbow. It would be a simple matter for me to swing the sword backhand and lop off a limb. Khalid briefly matched my stare but not my casual smile. He inclined his head to acknowledge my victory, a muscle twitching in his clamped jaw, then turned, gathered up his sword and sandals, and walked stiffly away. His friends fell in beside him, though I suspected he wanted no part of them at that moment. As he departed, wagerers gathered around Fouad as he paid out.
Now he asked, “But if it restores honor to kill you, how is it you have students who want to learn instead of kill?”
“It’s not guilt by association,” I explained. “Yes, learning from me will undoubtedly result—and maybe already has resulted—in an additional challenge or two, and probably some very bad words and nasty accusations, but my students haven’t dishonored anything or anyone. What I started at Beit al’Shahar isn’t Alimat; we swear no oaths. There are no rituals.” I shrugged. “I’m just a teacher, not a true shodo.”
“And others like Khalid?” Fouad asked. “Will they come, too, to challenge you?”
“Khalid didn’t challenge the Sandtiger. He challenged a man for no other reason than to show off. He’d already defeated Neesha, and he underestimated me.”
“But others will come.”
I shrugged. “A few already found their way to the canyon. Two I had to kill.” It was two years before, and one of the dead was Abbu Bensir. We’d finally laid to rest the question of who was better, though I damned near bled to death in the doing of it. “Three others I defeated badly and gifted them with cuts that required enough stitching so they’d have impressive scars to show other sword-dancers; an understated warning from me to others that I won’t go down easily. We haven’t been bothered of late.” One-handed, I turned the mug idly against the bar top. “Swearing elaii-ali-ma—the repudiation of all my oaths and commitments to the honor codes—did not erase any of my skills, you know. But I admit it will be easier for anyone bent on killing me to find me, now that we’re leaving.”
Fouad’s eyes widened. “Leaving?”
“Temporarily.” I sighed in resignation. “Neesha managed to convince Del and me that we should go out and have adventures.”
His brows arched high on his forehead. Then he observed dryly, “You had an adventure today.”
“Well, yes.”
“And your son believes it’s worth it to place you at risk?” Fouad shook his head. “There’s no need for you to go, Tiger. You are you—still. Everyone knows it. Such risk is not necessary.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you suggesting I can’t hold my own against other sword-dancers?
Just against Khalid?”
“Oh, I believe you can hold your own against anyone,” Fouad answered promptly. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean you’d actually be alive at the end of the dance.”
I weighted it with irony. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Fouad shrugged. “We’ve been friends for how long? Ten years? I’ve been witnessing you dance in Julah for a decade. I know how good you are.”
Friends. Hunh. Interesting he would say so. Fouad once sold out Del and me to a lethal and lunatic female tanzeer a couple of years before. Admittedly he’d done it under pain of death—a very painful death—but still. I didn’t consider us friends. We were friendly, but that’s different. When you’re the sellee, not the seller, you hold different opinions. And that was how Del and I had come to own one-third of the cantina each. Recompense. Reparation.
“So,” I continued, “you can give the two-thirds share of the profits to Alric. He and Lena will be looking after Sula, and there are no students at the moment. They’ll need the coin.”
Fouad nodded, looking everywhere else save at me. “And if something should happen to you?”
Hah. I figured we’d get around to that. “There’s Del.”
“And to Del as well?—though the gods forbid it should be so.”
He seemed a little happier to assign death to me, rather than to Del. I glared at him. “Then there’s Neesha.”
“And what—”
I cut him off. “If the gods see fit to wipe out all three of us, there’s still Sula. She inherits.”
His face fell. He’d forgotten about her. Ten years before, when I’d first come to Julah, eventually making Fouad’s cantina sort of my headquarters, I’d been traveling solo. Now I had a family of four.
I grinned at him, then drank more aqivi. “Sorry, Fouad. One way or another, you’re stuck with us.”
Gloomily he said, “I suppose it could be worse.”
“Yes,” I agreed cheerfully. “I might have killed you instead of merely taking shares of the cantina.”
That set him to coughing into his aqivi. When he could breathe normally again, he noted nervously that it was time for him to see to his customers.
“I’m a customer,” I reminded him. The aqivi was having an effect. Hot sun, sword-dance, hours past breakfast, meaning a mostly empty belly. “I need food…and water. And a bed.” I usually stayed overnight when I went into town. But generally I didn’t drink so much aqivi. It had been a long time. If anyone challenged—or came at—me now, I would probably lose.
Fouad was startled. “A bed? It’s only afternoon.”
“Late afternoon,” I emphasized. “And since when is it disallowed for a man to take a nap? A man who just faced a much younger man in the circle? And won?”
He considered that a moment, couldn’t find an inoffensive response, and nodded. “I’ll fix a tray. The bed you can find yourself, since you’re in it often enough.” Fouad turned away, muttering in disgust, “The Sandtiger…drinking water. Going to bed in the daytime.”
Yes, the Sandtiger wanted water. And food. And a bed. A bed empty of wine-girls.
Hoolies, I was domesticated.
Rudely awakened by loud knocking at the door, I flung myself out of bed and grabbed my unsheathed sword, coming up ready to fight—until I realized it was unlikely that anyone who wanted to fight me would do me the favor of knocking first.
“It’s me,” said a male voice I recognized.
Not someone come to kill me. Swearing, I opened the door with the sword still in my hand. “What in hoolies are you doing here? And what time is it?”
“Sundown,” Neesha said, answering my last question first, “and I’m here to complain that you’ve treated me like a child.”
Now that my body realized it was not required to defend itself, my heart slowed. Skin prickled as knee-jerk preparedness and tension bled off. I scowled at him as he stood in the narrow corridor. “Couldn’t we have this discussion at home?”
He scowled back. “No.”
“Then how in hoolies have I treated you like a child?”
He did not moderate his tone or accusation. “You challenged that sword-dancer. After I told you not to. After I practically asked.”
Still bearing my sword—the gods knew when another sword-dancer would come for me—I stepped into the corridor, pulled the door closed. “If we’re going to discuss this, let’s take it into the common room. At least a man can get a drink as he explains the details to his son, who’s entirely incorrect.” I was still without burnous. Still in sandals—which I’d neglected to take off when I fell into bed; still in dhoti, harness, earrings, and scars.
Neesha let me pass and followed me out past the kitchen. “Fouad said you’d already had a fair amount of aqivi.”
“Yes, I have. Did. But a mug of ale would go down nicely right about now.” Neesha wore a belted burnous. I saw him consider taking his off as well, so he could show off his harness and well-conditioned body, but he decided against it.
“Get whatever you want,” I said, “and bring a mug over to me. I’ll find us a table.” At sundown, there were plenty of men scattered throughout the common room. No tables available, but I carried a sword and looked rather intimidating. As expected, two men got up from a corner table almost immediately and retired to one of the deep window sills. I liked it when they did that.
I hooked out a stool and sat down, putting my back to the angled walls. Fouad had lighted the table candle cups in preparation for nightfall. I balanced the sword across my lap beneath the table.
The wine-girls were out in force. They knew better than to approach me—they’d given up on that, thanks to Del—but Neesha was a different story. He politely declined two of them while waiting at the bar for Fouad’s attention; after that, disappointed, they left him alone and found other companions.
He came back with two mugs of ale, foam slopping over the rims. He’d never been much for aqivi. He thumped mine down in front of me, sloshing liquid to the table, and found himself a stool. “Fouad said you fought that sword-dancer.”
“Did Fouad also say I didn’t do the challenging?” Neesha’s brows ran up in surprise. “Ah, you didn’t bother to ask. You just decided.”
My son, delaying a response, drank down several gulps of ale. “Well…I thought that was why you left for town.”
I owed him the truth. “Yeah, sort of. Kind of. But mostly, really, it was for supplies. I just thought I’d deal with both.”
Puzzled, his observation was part question. “But you didn’t challenge him.”
“I did not.”
After a moment of consideration, he asked. “Why didn’t you?”
I smiled. “Because I decided you need to dance your own dances, and learn your own lessons. Such as being certain there’re no horse piss puddles in the circle. Or rain. Or spit. Or anything else wet. I thought I’d taught you that already. Did you forget?”
He had the grace to look abashed. “He annoyed me.”
“He made fun of you,” I translated. “I know, because he tried it with me, too.”
A corner of his mouth jerked wryly. “But you won your dance.”
I sucked down ale, wiped the foam from my upper lip. “You’ll win plenty. Hoolies, next time you come into town in harness—on a wagon—you might just prevail over the fool who annoys you.”
He shifted on the stool. “Well, at any rate, I have a suggestion for the school.”
Neesha was always full of suggestions. Some of them, occasionally, were even good ones. “Yes?” I asked warily.
“You need to offer a circle with piss puddles in it.”
I blinked, then laughed aloud. “Well…yes. So I do.”
Neesha’s smile faded. “Did you tell him? That sword-dancer?”
More ale slid down my throat. “Tell him what?”
“Who I am?”
“What, that you’re my son? No. He didn’t even know who I was, until he saw the bits and pieces and
knitted them together. Scars. Missing fingers.” I shrugged. “You know. I was just a farmer in harness driving a wagon, aping sword-dancers.”
“That’s what he said about me,” Neesha observed gloomily.
“Yes, well, I don’t think Khalid is exactly original. But at any rate, he probably won’t make fun of anyone resembling us for a while.”
Tension flowed out of his body. “All right. Good. I’m glad you didn’t challenge him. It would have been hard to swallow.” His attention began to wander. Ale was no longer worth his concentration; neither, apparently, was his father.
“Go on,” I said. “One thing I don’t need to teach you is how to charm the wine-girls. Or how to lure them into bed. One glance from those eyes of yours takes care of that.” He had melting eyes, did Neesha; a warm ale-brown and fringed with thick lashes.
He grinned at me, showing lots of white teeth against his tanned face. And got up laughing as I shooed him away with a gesture. Two of the four wine-girls attached themselves to him at once. I saw scowls tossed Neesha’s way by the newly unattended men.
Ah, yes, my son. Definitely my son.
Come morning, I was outside the livery, hitching the team to the wagon and making sure supplies were packed safely. I’d just completed my tasks when Neesha arrived, looking the worse for wear. Dark hair was sticking out here and there, and he moved with a little less grace than usual. Overnight stubble shadowed the angles of jaw and cheekbone. He was in harness, but the burnous over it had been belted haphazardly.
I grinned to myself as I climbed up into the wagon. “Satisfying a woman all night is a taxing job.”
He shot me a baleful glare. “Not something you’d remember. With wine-girls, I mean.”
Definitely out of sorts, my son. “Are you coming home with me?”
Neesha nodded. He changed course and went into the livery to get his horse and tack. In the meantime, I told my team to be patient and grabbed a full bota. When Neesha came out, leading his horse, I tossed him the bota. “Aqivi,” I noted. “Hair of the dog.”
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