For a horrible moment I thought he might propose we compare, but he downed another squirt of aqivi and seemed to forget all about the subject. I breathed a deep sigh of relief that stopped short when I heard Del’s muffled snicker.
It also caught the shoka’s attention.
He peered at her out of black eyes that suddenly reminded me of Osmoon’s: small, deep-set, piggy, and full of clever guile. He reached out and flipped back the hood, revealing bright hair, pale face, and blue, blue eyes.
It was his turn to suck in a breath. “The Sandtiger rides with a woman of the Sun!”
The sun—or Sun—is their major deity. So long as he considered Del so blessed, our safety was more or less assured. I shot her a sharp glance and saw the limpid expression in her eyes and the faint polite smile curving her lips.
“The shoka wishes to see her better.”
I looked back quickly at the old man as I heard the belligerent note in his voice and saw how avidly his eyes traveled over the burnous-shrouded form.
“What do I do?” she muttered between her lips.
“He wants to see you. I think it’s safe; he believes you’ve been blessed by the Sun. Go ahead, Del—take the burnous off.”
She rose and pulled the crimson burnous over her head, dropping it at her feet in a bright pile of silk and gold tassels. She was dusty and droopy with exhaustion, but none of it hid her flawless beauty and magnificent pride.
The shoka stood up suddenly and reached out, spinning Del around before she could say a word. I was on my feet instantly, but all he did was look at the sword strapped to her shoulder.
I saw what he saw: how the alien shapes in the hilt seemed almost alive, squirming in the silver. A basket of serpents, tangled in living knots—a dragon’s mouth belching flame that became the draperies of a woman; the kilt of a fighting warrior—Northern knotwork with no beginning, no middle, no end—countless, nameless things, all set into the metal.
Inwardly I shivered, recalling the touch of that sword, and how cold, how cold the steel felt. How it tapped at my soul, seeking something I could neither give nor comprehend.
I saw how the shoka looked at the sword and then at Del. After a moment, he looked at me. “The woman wears a sword.” All friendliness was gone.
I cursed myself for forgetting to take the sword and harness from her, claiming both as my own. Flouting custom in the Punja can be deadly.
I sucked in a careful breath. “The Sun shines also in the North beyond the Punja,” I said clearly. “The Sun that shines on the shoka’s head also shines on hers.”
“Why does she wear a sword?” he demanded.
“Because in the North, where the Sun also shines, customs are different from those of the shoka and the Sandtiger.”
He grunted. I could feel tension radiating from Del. We stood almost shoulder to shoulder, but even two against one would result in our deaths. Killing a shoka would simply buy us a more painful, lingering death in the Hanjii stewpots.
He looked at her again. All of her. He chewed on the tip of his tongue. “The shoka has never painted a woman of pale skin.”
The thought of Del’s fairness marred with scars and dye made me sick. But I kept it from him. I actually managed to smile at him. “The woman belongs to the Sandtiger.”
His brows shot up. “Does the Sandtiger wish to fight the shoka of the Hanjii?”
Hoolies, he was asking for her. The Hanjii have an elaborate courtesy that circles around and around the issue until it finally comes close enough for you to figure out what they really mean. Inviting me to fight him for Del was his way of telling me he fully expected me to hand her over without argument, for no man willingly goes against a Hanjii warrior.
“He wants you to fight.” Del had just discovered it. And very calm she was, too, considering the fight would be to the death.
“Looks like he might just get it, too. I mean—part of the deal we struck is to make sure you get to Julah, not into an old man’s bed.” I grinned. “Ever had two men fight over you before?”
“Yes,” she said grimly, surprising me; but not surprising me at all, once I thought about it. “Tiger—tell him no.”
“If I tell him I won’t fight, it means I’m giving in to him,” I pointed out. “It means I’m making a gift of you to him.”
Del squared her shoulders and looked the shoka in the eye. Not a wise thing for a woman to do. And it got worse when she totally circumvented custom and spoke to him directly. “If the shoka wishes to fight over the Northern woman, he will have to fight the woman first.”
Plainly put, the shoka was flabbergasted. So was I, to be honest. Not only had she ignored the rules of common Hanjii courtesy, but she also challenged him personally.
His nose-ring quivered against his lip. Every sinew in his body stood up beneath his sun-darkened skin. “Warriors do not fight women.”
“I’m not a woman,” she said dryly, “I’m a sword-dancer as is the Sandtiger. And I will fight you to prove it.”
“Del,” I said.
“Be quiet.” She’d given up on politeness altogether. “You’re not stealing this fight from me.”
“By all the gods of valhail,” I hissed, “don’t be such a fool!”
“Stop calling me a fool, you stupid sand-ape!”
The shoka grunted. “Perhaps it would be better if the woman fought the Sandtiger.”
Del didn’t see the humor in that, especially when I laughed aloud. “I will fight,” she said clearly, “anyone.”
A gleam crept into the shoka’s black eyes. He smiled. That effectively banished my momentary good humor and Del’s irritation, and we exchanged frowning glances of consternation.
“Good,” he said. “The Sandtiger and the woman will fight. If the Sandtiger wins, the woman is his … and then he will fight the shoka of the Hanjii to see which of us may keep her.” His eyes drifted from my face to Del’s. “If the woman wins—” his tone expressed eloquent disbelief as well as elaborate courtesy “—she is obligated to no man, and given her freedom.”
“I have that already,” Del muttered, and I waved a hand to shut her up.
Hoolies, the shoka was smart. He knew I would win, thereby obliging his wish to fight me for Del. There was no way he believed Del capable of fighting me on a warrior’s terms, so he was certain of winning her in the end because the shoka would be fresh while I was not—and after I’d let him see my habits in the circle, which is an advantage every man likes to have. It would make his victory all the sweeter.
I looked at Del and saw the realization in her eyes. Then I saw a tightening of her face and defiant determination—and felt the first brush of fear.
I couldn’t throw the fight. To do so would damage my reputation; while I was certain I could survive the damage ordinarily, the shoka would be so insulted he might forget all about letting us live. We’d undoubtedly become dinner.
Besides, there is no way I’d deliberately lose to a woman. There’s such a thing as pride.
Del smiled. “See you in the circle.”
“Ah, hoolies,” I said in disgust.
Within a matter of minutes the news made the rounds of the camp. Everyone knew the Northern woman and the Sandtiger would meet in a circle for the sword-dancer. The Hanjii don’t have swords, but they do appreciate a good dance. And they’re masters with the knife. Once I’d defeated Del, I’d have to give up Singlestroke and fight the shoka with my knife, which isn’t my strongest weapon. I’m deadly enough with it, but the sword is my magic and I’ve always felt incredibly at ease with Singlestroke resting so comfortably in my hands.
Del hadn’t bothered to put the burnous back on. We stood outside the hyort in full view of the camp, and her fair coloring and unblemished skin were causing a lot of comment. Me they ignored altogether.
“I can’t throw the dance,” I told her quietly. “You know that. It has to be real.”
She slanted me an enigmatic glance. “I admire your modesty.”
“Del—”
“I dance to win,” she said evenly. “You need have no fear of damaging your name or your pride by matching a woman who will go down with the first stroke. The Hanjii won’t be disappointed.”
“Del, I don’t want to hurt you. But if I hold back too much, they’ll know it.”
“So don’t hold back,” she suggested.
“I just want to apologize in advance for any cuts and bruises.”
“Ah.”
I scowled at her. “Del, come on—be serious about this.”
“I am serious. I don’t think you are.”
“Of course I’m serious!”
She faced me squarely. “If you were truly serious, you’d stop talking and simply judge me as a dancer instead of as a woman.”
She had a point, much as I hated to admit it. Never before had I apologized for any injuries I might administer to an opponent. The whole thing suddenly struck me as ludicrous, so I ignored her altogether and stared grimly out at the gathering Hanjii.
Del started singing softly under her breath.
We were both tired and sunburned and sand-scoured and uncertain of the dance facing us. Del’s face was unreadable, but I could see it in her eyes. For all her proud talk, I doubted she’d ever gone against a man before.
As for me, I felt helpless and exasperated. I knew she’d fight me with all her strength and skill—expecting me to do the same—yet knowing I’d be hampered by the knowledge of her sex. It was an advantage for her. And I wasn’t about to give in to it.
She was still singing softly as the Hanjii warrior with the gold nose-ring led us to the circle drawn in the sand. Del unlaced her sandals and tossed them aside; I did the same. Both of us were unharnessed, having shed them in the shoka’s hyort along with our burnouses. And then she unsheathed her sword.
I heard startled exclamations, indrawn breaths, astonished mutters. Well, I couldn’t really blame the Hanjii. Cold, clean steel can startle anyone not accustomed to it. But then, Del’s sword was not precisely clean steel.
But cold? Yes. Unequivocally. She unsheathed that thing in the bright sunlight of the Punja, and the day immediately altered. It wasn’t just that she was a stranger from the North or a woman with a sword. It was as if the black cloud of a summer storm had shut away the face of the sun, banishing the heat.
Hot? Yes. Still was. But I felt the flesh tighten and rise on my bones, and shivered.
She stood just outside the circle. Barefoot, bare-legged, bare-armed. Waiting. With that unearthly sword held lightly in one hand.
I glanced briefly at Singlestroke. Blue-steel, glinting in the sunlight. Honed and polished and prepared, as Singlestroke always was. But—there was a difference. For all he was a formidable sword, he didn’t alter the tenor of the day.
Together we stepped into the circle and walked to the center, to the blood-red rug spread precisely in the middle of the circle. We set our weapons down carefully.
Singlestroke was inches longer and certainly heavier than her nameless Northern sword. No, not nameless—just unnamed to me. I thought the weapons as unevenly matched as we were.
Perhaps that’s what got the Hanjii so excited. They crowded around the circle like men wagering on a dog fight.
Del and I walked to opposite sides of the circle and stepped outside facing one another. It would be a foot race to the swords in the center, then the sword-dance proper, full of feints and slashes, footwork and flashing blades.
Her lips still moved in the song. And as I looked at her I was revisited by my dream: a Northern woman singing a Northern sword-song facing me across the circle.
I felt an unearthly tremor slide down my spine. Shook it away with effort. “Luck, Del,” I called to her.
She tilted her head, considering it. She smiled, laughed—
—and then she was racing for her sword.
Nine
Del’s sword was in her hands and slashing at my face before I got my hands on Singlestroke. I felt the breeze—oddly, in this heat, a cool one—as the Northern blade whipped over my head in a bizarre salute. By then Singlestroke was up and facing her, and she backed off. But the first blow had been struck, and it was hers.
I did not return it immediately. I moved away, slipping through the sand to the edge of the circle, and watched her. I watched how she held her sword, judging her grip; watched how her thighs flexed, muscles rolling; watched how she watched me.
And I watched the sword.
It was silver-hilted, the blade a pale, subtle pink; not the pink of flowers or women, but the pink of watered blood. There was an edge to it. Hard, honed, prepared, just as Singlestroke was. But my blade was plain. Runes like water ran down Del’s blade from the twisted, elegant crosspiece to the tip. In the sunlight, they glittered like diamonds. Like ice. Hard, cold, ice.
And for just a moment, as I looked at the blade, I could have sworn it was still sheathed; not in leather, but ice. Ice-warded against the heat of the Southron sun.
And the skill of a Southron sword-dancer.
Del waited. Across the circle, she simply waited. There was no tension in her body, no energy wasted in anticipation. Patiently, unperturbedly, she waited, assessing me as I assessed her; judging my skill with the eye of a student taught the rituals of the dance by a shodo. Or, in her language, a kaidin.
Silver. White, blinding metal tinged with salmon-pink, intensified by the sunlight. And as she swept the sword up to salute the beginnings of the dance, a salmon-silver line seemed to follow the motion of the blade like a shooting star trailing smoke and flame.
Hoolies, what was that sword?
But the dance was begun, and I had no more time for questions or imagery.
Del moved around the circle in a blaze of yellow hair, feinting and laughing and calling out encouragement in her Northern tongue. The muscles in her calves and forearms flexed, sinews standing up in ridges whenever she shifted her stance. I let her do most of the dancing while I judged her technique.
No doubt my performance disappointed the Hanjii for its lack of fire, but I was too busy trying to discover a weak spot in Del’s defense to give it a thought.
Like her, I stayed up on the balls of my feet, weight shifted forward, evenly distributed. I moved through the sand smoothly, but I don’t rely on the supple quickness that appeared to be her particular strength. My dance is one of strength and endurance and strategy. I’m too heavy for suppleness, too muscled for that light quickness, though far from being slow. But Del’s upright posture and amazingly precise blade patterns made me look like a lumbering behemoth.
Still, we were poorly matched. It wasn’t a proper sword-dance, because neither of us particularly wanted to dance against the other. At least, I didn’t want to dance against Del. She looked fairly well pleased by it, herself.
Singlestroke beat back her every advance with ease. I had a longer reach, longer sword; she was quicker but couldn’t get in close enough, so her advantage didn’t tip the odds in her favor. On the other hand, I was clearly hampered by not wishing to hurt her. I didn’t employ my strength and experience to overcome her utterly. We danced like a coy, teasing mare and a determined, frustrated stud; neither winning, neither losing, and both of us getting wearier by the moment.
Some sword-dance. The simoom had sapped us of energy, no matter what the demands for greater exertion under these bizarre circumstances. Pride notwithstanding, neither of us had the endurance to make a proper showing. We simply followed the rituals perfunctorily, without exhibiting the skills and techniques a shodo-trained sword-dancer ordinarily exhibits.
But then Del wasn’t really a sword-dancer, even if she did claim to be kaidin-trained. Southroner I am, but I’m also a professional sword-dancer; one of the responsibilities of the profession is keeping up to date on all sword-related customs.
And women weren’t part of them, even in the North.
But she was good. Incredibly good. Even slowed by fatigue and heat, even pressed as she was, her skill was
obvious. Her bladework was limited to a small area generally, pointing up the unexpected strength in her wrists and the differences in our styles. Tall as I am, my reach is much longer than that of most opponents. Singlestroke is correspondingly longer and heavier, therefore. Which gives me an advantage over many men. But not much of one over Del.
Rarely did she employ scything sweeps or thrusts that might overextend her balance; never did she exhibit the frustration that often leads men to attempt foolhardy patterns that do little more than tire them or leave them open to counterthrust. I used a few of my ploys, trying to force her into my style of fighting (which would, of course, jar her out of her own and make my victory easier), but she didn’t fall for my ‘suggestions’. She just danced.
Coolly, so coolly, she danced. Blocked, feinted, riposted. Parried. Thrust, tightly and with incredible forearm/wrist control. Caught my own blade again and again, twisting it aside. Smoothly, so smoothly, she danced.
Hoolies, but how the woman could dance!
Nonetheless, fatigue began to take its toll. Del’s face slowly flushed an alarming shade of red. It was already burned from the sun, and the rising color only confirmed she was on the edge of imminent collapse. The combination of sun and heat and sand would overcome her long before I could.
Especially as I was just as worn out as she was, and more than ready to call a halt to this farce.
Again and again Del dipped her head to scrub her brow against an arm, wiping away the sweat that threatened her vision. I was covered by it myself, aware of it trickling down my belly, my back, my brow. But I am more accustomed to it, and accustomed to ignoring it, and I didn’t allow it to distract me.
I worried about her. I worried so much I forgot about the object of the sword-dance, which is victory. Del’s blade twisted out from under mine and came up to nick the underside of my left forearm, spilling blood so fast it stained the taupe-gray sand vermilion.
For a moment I hesitated (which was stupid), then leveled my sword in renewed defense.
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