Sword-Dancer

by Jennifer Roberson

  But Del had a sword. And it seemed she never spoke a frivolous word.

  “There is,” she said softly. “Oh, there is. There is always a home in the circle.”

  I looked at her sharply. “What do you know about circles, bascha?”

  Del smiled slowly. “Do you think I carry a sword for mere effect?”

  Well, it was successful. Even if she couldn’t use the thing. “I saw you terrorize Old Moon with it,” I admitted grudgingly. “Yes, you’re handy with it. But in the circle?” I shook my head. “Bascha, I don’t think you understand what a circle really is.”

  Her smile didn’t diminish. But neither did her silence.

  The bay stud picked his way down through dark umber-colored stone. After the cushioning of the sand it sounded odd to hear hoof on stone again. Del’s dun followed me down and both horses picked up the pace as they smelled water.

  I swung off the bay and turned him loose, knowing he wouldn’t wander with water so close at hand. Del dropped off the dun, waiting silently as I searched for the proper spot. Finally I found my bearings in the huddled rocks, paced out the distance, then knelt and dug out the iron handle. It was twisted and corroded, but my hand slid into it easily enough. I gritted my teeth and yanked, grunting with effort as I dragged the heavy iron lid from the cistern.

  Del came forward with alacrity, tugging the dun behind her. That’s what gave me the first clue; that, and when the bay refused to drink. Del spoke to her horse, coaxing him softly in her Northern dialect, then sent me a puzzled glance. I scooped up some water, smelled it, then touched the tip of my tongue to the liquid in my palm.

  I spat it out. “Fouled.”

  “But—” She stopped herself. There was nothing left to say.

  I shoved the lid back over the cistern and dug a hunk of charred wood out of one of my pouches. Del watched silently as I drew a black X on the metal. The sand would cover it soon enough, scouring the mark away, but at least I’d done what I could to warn other travelers. Not everyone would be as we were; I’ve known men who drank bad water because they couldn’t help themselves, even knowing it was fouled. It’s a painful, ugly death.

  I took one of my botas and poured good water into my cupped hand, holding it to the bay’s muzzle. He slurped at it, not getting much, but enough to dampen his throat. After a moment Del did the same for the dun, using water from her last bota. We hadn’t ridden hard, taking our time without pushing the horses, but now they’d have a long spell before they could water properly.

  I tossed Del my last bota as the dun emptied hers. “Swallow some.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “You’re burning up.” I smiled at her. “It’s all right. It has nothing to do with you being a woman. It’s that Northern skin. A disadvantage out here, much as I admire it.” I paused, noting the downward twisting of her mouth. “Drink, bascha.”

  Finally she did, and I could see the difference it made. There hadn’t been a single complaint out of her or even a question as to how far to the next water. I appreciated that kind of fortitude, especially in a woman.

  She tossed the bota back. “You?”

  I started to tell her I was tough and could handle the extra miles with no water; I didn’t, because she deserved better. So I drank a couple of swallows and hung the bota onto my saddle again.

  I gestured, south as always. “We have enough water to reach an oasis I know. We’ll fill up there. Then we’ll head directly for the next well, but if that one’s fouled too, we’ll have to turn back.”

  “Turn back.” She jerked her head around to look at me. “You mean—not go on to Julah?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t turn back.”

  “You’ll have to,” I told her flatly. “If you go much farther into the Punja without knowing precisely where your next water is, you’ll never make it.” I shook my head. “I’ll guide you to the oasis, bascha. Then we’ll decide.”

  “You decide nothing.” Color stood in her cheeks.

  “Del—”

  “I can’t turn back,” she said. “Don’t you understand? I have to find my brother.”

  I sighed, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “Bascha, if you go in without water, you’ll be as dead as the rest of your family and of no use to your brother.”

  Loosened strands of hair framed her face. Her nose was red, and her cheeks; her eyes, so blue, were intent upon my face. She studied me so intensely I felt like a horse under inspection by a potential buyer not certain of my wind, my legs, my heart. She studied me like a sword-dancer seeking weaknesses in my defense, so as to cut me down an instant later.

  Briefly, a muscle ticked in her jaw. “You don’t have a family. Or else—you don’t care a whit about them.” There was no room for inquiry in her tone. She was utterly convinced.

  “No family.” I agreed, divulging nothing more.

  Contempt flickered at the edges of her tone. Not quite pronounced enough to offer insult, but plain enough to me. “Maybe if you did, you’d understand.” It was tightly said, clipped off; she turned and swung up into her saddle and settled the reins into place. “Don’t judge—don’t devalue—what you can’t understand, Sandtiger. A sword-dancer should know better.”

  My hand shot out and caught one of her reins, holding the dun in place. “Bascha, I do know better. And I know better than to devalue you.” That much, I gave her. “But I also know when a woman’s being a fool to give herself over to emotionalism when she would do better to rely on a man’s proven experience.”

  “Would I?” she demanded. Both hands clenched on the reins. For just a moment I thought she might swear at me some vile Northern oath, but she didn’t. She simply withdrew into silence long enough to collect her thoughts, and then she sighed a little. “In the North, kinship ties are the strongest in existence. Those ties are power and strength and continuation, like the birth of sons and daughters to each man and woman. It’s bad enough when a single life is lost—boy or girl, ancient one or infant—because it means the line is broken. Each life is precious to us, and we grieve. But also we rebuild, replant, replace.” The dun shook his head violently, rattling bit and shanks. Automatically she soothed him with a hand against his neck. “My whole family was killed, Tiger. Only my brother and I survived, and Jamail they took. I am a daughter of the North and of my family, and I will do what I must to return my brother home.” Her eyes were steady; her tone more so, even in its quietness. “I will go on regardless.”

  I looked up at her, so magnificent in her pride and femininity. And yet there was more than femininity. There was also strength of will and a perfect comprehension of what she intended to do.

  “Then let’s go,” I said curtly. “We’re wasting time standing out here in the heat jawing about it.”

  Del smiled a little, but she knew better than to rub it in.

  Besides, it was only a battle. Not the entire war.

  Five

  “Look!” Del cried. “Trees!”

  I looked beyond her pointing arm and saw the trees she indicated. Tall, spindly palms with droopy lime-colored fronds and spiky cinnamon trunks.

  “Water,” I said in satisfaction. “See how the fronds are green and upright? When they’re brown and burned and sagging, you know there isn’t any.”

  “Did you doubt it?” Her tone was startled. “You brought me here, knowing there might not be any water?”

  She didn’t sound angry, just amazed. I didn’t smile. “In the Punja, water is never guaranteed. And yes, I brought you here knowing there might not be any water, because you took care to impress upon me how dedicated you are to finding your brother.”

  Del nodded. “You think I’m a fool. A silly, witless woman.” Not really a challenge. A statement.

  I didn’t look away. “Does it really matter what I think?”

  After a moment, she smiled. “No. No more than it matters what I think of you.” And she rode onward toward the oa
sis.

  This time the water was clear and sweet. We watered the horses after testing it, then filled all the botas. Del expressed surprise at finding such luxury in the Punja: the trees offered some shade and there was grass, thick Punja-grass; hummocky, pale green, linked together by a network of tangled junctions. The sand was finer here, and cool; as always, I marveled at the many faces of the Punja. Such a strange place. It beckons you. It sucks you in and fools you with its countless chameleon qualities. And then it kills you.

  The oasis was big, ringed by a low manmade rock wall built to provide shelter against simooms. Palm trees paraded across the latticework of grass. The oasis was big enough to support a couple of small tribes and maybe a caravan or two for a couple of weeks at at a time, provided the animals weren’t given free rein to overgraze. Overgrazing can destroy an oasis entirely, and in the Punja not many people are willing to cut off another supply of food and water, even for their animals. What happens generally is that the nomads pitch camp for a week or two, then move on across the sands toward another oasis. That way the oasis recovers itself in time to succor other travelers, although occasionally one is destroyed by thoughtless caravans.

  The cistern wasn’t really a cistern, more like a waterhole. It was formed by an underground spring, bubbling up from a deep cleft in the ground. A second manmade ring of stones formed a deep pool more than a man-length across from lip to lip; a larger gods-made ring of craggy, tumbled stone jutted out of the sand like a wedge-shaped wall forming a haphazard semi-circle. It was within this larger ring the best grazing grew, tough, fibrous grass, lacking the sweet juice of mountain grass, but nourishing nonetheless.

  Some seasons I’ve seen the spring merely a trickle, hardly filling the pool to the lip of the ring of stones. And during those seasons I approach it with sword drawn, because occasionally other travelers grow incredibly attached to the oasis, desiring no others to intrude upon it. There have been times I’ve had to fight just to get a swallow. Once I killed a man, so I could water my horse.

  This time of year the spring runs high and fills the pool, lapping against the greenish rocks. And so Del and I, having unsaddled and watered our horses, shed our burnouses and sat in the thin shade of palms and rock ring and relaxed, enjoying the needed respite.

  She tipped back her head, baring her face to the sunlight. Eyes closed. “The South is so different from the North. It’s like you said—they’re as different in appearance and temperament as a man and woman.” She smiled. “I love the North, with its snow and ice and blizzards. But the South has its own crude beauty.”

  I grunted. “Most people never see it.”

  Del shrugged. “My father taught his children to look at all places—and at all people—with openness and compassion, and willingness to understand another’s ways. You should not judge by appearances, he said, until you understand what lies beneath the clothing or the skin. And even, perhaps, the sex of the individual.” A trace of wry humor threaded her tone. “That one’s more difficult, I think, judging by Southron customs. Anyway, I don’t pretend to understand the South yet, but I can appreciate its appearance.”

  I slapped at an insect attempting to burrow its way beneath the flesh of my thigh now bared by the absence of the burnous. I was mostly naked, clad only in the suede dhoti most sword-dancers wear; physical freedom is important in the circle. “Most people don’t call the Punja a pretty place.”

  Del shook her head, and the blonde braid snaked against her shoulder as a lizard ran across the rocks behind her. “It isn’t a pretty place. It’s desolate and dangerous and angry, like the snow lions in the mountains of the North. And, like them, it walks alone, trusting to its confidence and strength. The snow lion kills without compunction, but that doesn’t make it less alive.” She sighed, eyes still shuttered behind her lids with their pale yellow lashes. “Its ferocity is a part of it. Without it, a lion wouldn’t be a lion.”

  A good description of the Punja. I looked at her—head tipped back to worship the blazing sun—and wondered how so young a girl could already have such wisdom. That sort of knowledge take years of experience.

  And then, looking at her, I didn’t think about wisdom anymore. Just her.

  I got up. I walked over to her. She didn’t open her eyes, so I bent and scooped her up, carried her to the pool and dumped her in.

  She came up sputtering, spitting water, startled and angry. Wet fingers gripped the rock circle and hung on as she glared at me, hair slicked back against her head.

  I waited. And after a moment I saw the lines of tension wash from her face and the rigidity from her shoulders. She sighed and closed her eyes, reveling in the water.

  “Soak it up,” I told her. “You need to saturate the skin before we start on the next part of the journey.”

  She answered me by sliding under the water entirely. I watched the bubbles a moment, then turned away to my saddle to dig some cumfa meat out of my pouches.

  I heard the growl before I saw the beast. When it had come out of its lair in the rocks I have no idea, but it crouched against the grass and sand with all its black claws bared and stub tail barely twitching. Long fangs curved down from the roof of its mouth and embraced the powerful lower jaw. Green eyes glowed in its wedge-shaped, sand-colored head.

  A male. Full-fleshed and muscled. Sandtigers don’t grow to mammoth sizes; they don’t need to. They are, quite simply, small bundles of menace: short-legged, stub-tailed, practically earless. Their eyes are large and oddly unfocused before an attack, as if their minds are somewhere else entirely. But they never are. And the disarmingly weak glare—a prelude to the razor-sharp attack stare—can prove deadly, if you fall victim to it. Sandtigers, regardless of size, pack more power in hindquarters and haunches than a full-grown horse, and their jaws can break a man’s arm in a single bite.

  Seeing the tiger evoked enough memories to drown a man. Images flashed inside my skull. Another cat. Another male. Prepared to rake my guts from my abdomen. Or tear the flesh from my throat.

  It had been a long, long time since I had seen a sandtiger. They aren’t as common anymore. It’s one of the reasons my name is perfect for my profession—a sandtiger is considered by some to be a mythical beast, a figment of stories and imagination. But there’s nothing mythical about a tiger. There was nothing mythical about this one.

  Only about me.

  Singlestroke lay in harness, dumped on the ground with my saddle. I cursed my own stupidity in being so concerned about water I neglected personal protection. Carelessness such as that could prove deadly.

  I stood my ground, knowing that to move now merely invited attack. The tiger would attack regardless, no matter what I did, but I didn’t want to encourage it.

  Hoolies, but I didn’t want that. Not again.

  My hand slipped to my knife, closing around the hilt. Sweat made it slippery. I felt the knot tying itself in my belly.

  Gods, not now

  The slitted green eyes stared with the telltale dreamy, unfocused cast. But I saw the stare begin to change.

  I heard the slop of water behind me. “Stay in the water, Del.”

  She called something back in a questioning tone, but the tiger leaped, and I never did hear what she asked me.

  The knife was out of my sheath in an instant, jabbing toward the cat, but he was smarter than I expected. Instead of leaping for my throat, coming down on my shoulders and chest with all his compact weight, this one landed on my gut and expelled all my air.

  I felt the hind legs bunch up, claws spreading and opening as I went down under the impact. My knife dug in through toughened fur and hide, and I heard the tiger’s unnerving scream of pain and rage.

  My left hand was at the cat’s throat, straining to push its gaping mouth away from my vulnerable belly. My knife hand was slippery with feline blood. I smelled the stench of dead, rotted meat on the tiger’s breath and heard his snarls and tiny screams as he fought to sink elongated fangs into me. I fought just as hard to sink my
knife deeper, into something vital.

  One of the powerful hind legs kicked out, raking claws along my thigh. It scared me. But it also made me angrier. I already have enough sandtiger scars to show. I don’t need any more.

  Then I heard the cry of a female and realized Del and I had stumbled onto a cub-lair. A sandtiger is dangerous enough on its own, but a male with a mate is worse, and a female with cubs is the worst of all.

  And there was Del—

  I managed to roll over, forcing myself on top of the male. The position was unnatural to him and made him fight harder, but I plunged the knife in deeper and heard the horrible scream of a cat in mortal agony. It gave me no pleasure; it never does, but I had no time for recriminations. I thrust myself to my feet and turned to go after the female—

  —but Del already stood there, Northern sword gripped in both hands.

  Light ran down the rune-kissed blade. She stood poised before the female like a living sculpture, water running down arms and legs, hair slicked back, teeth bared in a challenge as feral as the cat’s. Had I not seen the rise and fall of her breasts to indicate she breathed, I might have thought she was a statue.

  Then I quit admiring her and moved.

  “No!” Del shouted. “This one is mine!”

  “Don’t be a fool!” I snapped. “A female is far more deadly than a male.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, and after a moment—looking at her—I understood the meaning of her smile.

  The female, in slow fits and starts, crept out of the black hole in the dark-green rocks. She was smaller than her mate but much more desperate. Somewhere back in the rocks were her cubs, and she would go to any lengths to keep them safe. Del would go down before her like a piece of fluff in the blast of a simoom.

  The cat pushed off the sand and leaped straight up, hind legs coiling to rake out at Del. I didn’t waste a second wondering if I could do it, I just did it. I launched myself as quickly as the cat and thrust a shoulder into her ribcage as we met in midair.

  I heard Del’s curse and knew she’d had to hold her swordstroke, that or risk lopping off my head. The cat went down with a cough and a grunt, the wind knocked out of her, then grunted again as I came down on top of her. I pushed my left forearm beneath her jaw, dragging her head up from the sand, and severed her throat with one stroke of my knife.