Sword-Dancer

by Jennifer Roberson

  “You’ve invited me into the circle,” I said blandly. “And you ask me to dance against an ensorcelled sword.”

  “It’s not—ensorcelled,” she said flatly. “Not exactly. I don’t deny there is power in this sword … but it must be summoned—much as your tiger had to be conjured.” Indirectly, she challenged me. “In this circle, against the Sandtiger, my sword will be a sword.”

  I looked down at my palm. Closed it to shut away the brand. But it didn’t shut away the memory of the pain or the power I had felt.

  My harness was at my right side. I pulled Singlestroke free of the sheath and pushed myself to my feet. “The circle will be small,” I said flatly. “The dance will be short and slow. I will not contribute to your death.”

  Del showed her teeth in a feral little smile. “Kaidin Sandtiger, you honor your ishtoya.”

  “No I don’t,” I assured her blandly, “I’m just humoring her.”

  Within weeks she was sleek and supple again, swift as a cat, though not swift as this cat. I held back in the circle, teasing her along because I didn’t want to overextend her; she knew it, I knew it, but there was little she could do about it. A couple of times she tried to push me, dancing faster, darting the shining sword at me in a barrage of intricate patterns and parries, but I beat her back with the strategies I had learned long ago. It wasn’t difficult. It would take time for her to regain her rhythm and strength.

  Our styles were incredibly different. It was to be expected of a man and woman, matched, but Del’s blade patterns were quicker and shorter, confined in a much smaller space. It took great strength and flexibility in the wrists themselves, as well as the arms and shoulders, and it proved she had indeed been properly trained. But by a shodo—or, in her tongue, kaidin? I doubted it. For one, she employed no ritual in her practice dance. She simply moved, moving well, except I could see no formal patterns. No signature. Nothing that indicated a formal apprenticeship. Nothing that exhibited the hallmark of a true master, no signature pattern that identified a sword-dancer as a former student of this shodo or that one.

  Still, with her yellow-white hair darkened by sweat and her long, supple limbs moving so smoothly in the circle, it was easy to imagine she had been taught by someone. And someone very good.

  But not good enough to dance against the Sandtiger.

  For real, that is.

  After a few short weeks spent walking, running, dancing, Del’s quickness and strength were restored. Sula’s alla oil kept her skin from tearing; natural health and vitality did the rest. Five weeks after our rescue from the sands, Del and I mounted the horses I claimed from the shukar and rode away from the Salset.

  As we headed south, Del studied me in blandness and unsettling candor. “The woman cares for you.”

  “Sula? She’s a good woman. Better than the rest.”

  “She must have loved you very much when you were with the tribe.”

  I shrugged. “Sula looked after me. She taught me a lot.” I recalled some of the lessons in the darkness and privacy of her hyort. Thinking of the heavy, aging woman now made me wonder how I could have desired her, but the flicker of disbelief faded quickly into comprehension. Even had Sula not been young and beautiful when I killed the sandtiger, her kindness and warmth would have made her special. And she had made me a man, in more ways than one.

  “I had nothing to give her,” Del said. “To thank her.”

  “Sula didn’t do it for thanks.” But then I saw the genuine regret in Del’s face, and subsequently regretted my curtness.

  “I feel wrong,” she said quietly. “She was deserving of a guest-gift. Something to acknowledge her kindness and generosity.” She sighed. “In the North, I would be considered a rude, thoughtless person, unworthy of courtesy.”

  “You’re in the South. You’re not rude, thoughtless or unworthy,” I pointed out. Then I grinned. “When do you plan on thanking me?”

  Del looked at me consideringly. “I think I liked you better when you thought I might die of sandsickness. You were nicer,”

  “I’m never nice.”

  She reconsidered. “No. Probably not.”

  I brought my horse up next to hers so we rode side by side. I’d been pleasantly surprised by the choice the shukar had made for us: both geldings were good ones, small, desert-bred ponies. I had a buckskin with a clipped black mane and tail; Del rode a very dark sorrel marked by a strip of white running from ears to muzzle. The vermilion blankets over our shallow saddles were a bit threadbare; the quality of the animals under the saddles and blankets was more important. But someone had cut the tassels off the braided yellow reins.

  “What do you plan on doing when we get to Julah?” I asked. “It’s been five years since your brother was stolen. That’s a long time, down here.”

  Del pulled at the azure burnous Sula had given her, settling it around her harness. Sula had given me one also, cream-colored, silk edged with brown stitching. Both Del and I had immediately cut slits in the shoulders for our swords. “Osmoon said his brother Omar was the trader who’d be able to tell me about Jamail going on the slaveblock.”

  “How do you know Omar is still in Julah?” I asked. “Slavers move around a lot. And how do you know he’ll be willing to tell you anything even if he is still in Julah?”

  Del shook her head. “I can’t know … not until we get there. But I have planned for certain instances.”

  My buckskin reached out to nibble on the cropped, upstanding mane of Del’s sorrel. I kicked free my right foot from the stirrup, stretched my leg between the horses, and banged a heel against the buckskin’s nose. He quit nibbling. “I don’t think you’ll make much progress, bascha.”

  “Why not?” She popped her reins a bit and rattled shanks against bit rings, suggesting to her sorrel he not seek redress from the buckskin.

  I sighed. “Isn’t it obvious—even to you? It’s true that here Northern boys are prized by tanzeers and wealthy merchants who have a taste for such things. But that isn’t the rule. Usually it’s Northern girls who are so highly prized.” I looked at her steadily. “How in hoolies do you think you’ll find anything out when every slave trader in Julah is going to be trying to steal you?”

  I saw the realization move through her face and eyes, tightening her skin minutely. A muscle ticked in her jaw. Then she shrugged. “I’ll dye my hair dark. Stain my skin. Walk with a limp.”

  “Are you going to be mute, too?” I grinned. “Your accent is Northern, bascha.”

  She glared at me. “I suppose you’ve already worked out a solution.”

  “As a matter of fact …” I shrugged. “Let me do the looking. It’ll be safer and probably quicker.”

  “You don’t know Jamail.”

  “Tell me what to look for. Besides, there can’t be that many Northern boys in Julah who are—what, fifteen? I don’t think it’ll be hard to track him down, provided he’s still alive.”

  “He’s alive.” Her conviction was absolute.

  For her sake, I hoped he was.

  “Dust,” Del said sharply, pointing eastward. “Is it another simoom?”

  I saw the billows of sand rising in the east. “No. Looks like a caravan.” I woke up my buckskin with heels planted into his flanks; his bobbing head indicated he was half-asleep. Hoolies, but I missed the stud. “Let’s go take a look.”

  “Isn’t that asking for trouble? After the Hanjii—”

  “Those aren’t Hanjii. Come on, bascha.”

  When we got within clear sight of the caravan, we discovered it was under attack, as Del had feared. But the attackers weren’t Hanjii, they were borjuni; although the desert bandits are extremely dangerous, they’re also generally very slow about killing their prey. They like to play with you first.

  I glanced at Del. “Stay here.”

  “You’re going in?”

  “We need gold if we’re to buy information in Julah. One way of getting it is to aid a caravan under attack; the leader is always incredibly gr
ateful and usually very generous.”

  “Only if you’re alive to collect the reward.” Del arranged her reins in one hand—her left. “I’m going in with you.”

  “Have you got sand in your head?” I demanded. “Don’t be such a fool—”

  She drew her sword with her right hand. “I really wish you’d stop calling me a fool, Tiger.” Then she slapped her Salset horse with the flat of the rune-worked blade and galloped straight toward the shouting borjuni.

  “God of hoolies, why did you saddle me with this woman?” And I went after her.

  Originally the caravan had been guarded by outriders. Most of these were dead or wounded, although a few of them still tried to put up a defense. The borjuni weren’t incredibly numerous, but then they don’t need to be. They ride quick, knee-trained horses that allow them to strike, wheel and leap away, wheeling back to finish what they have started. Never do borjuni stand and fight when they can slash and ride.

  I let loose with a bloodcurdling yell and rode smack into the middle of everything, counting on catching the borjuni off-guard. I did, but unfortunately the caravan outriders also were caught off-guard; instead of attacking while the borjuni were momentarily surprised, they stood and stared.

  Then Del shouted from the other side of the wagons and the melee broke out afresh. I caught glimpses of her streaking by on the sorrel horse, burnous snapping and rippling, sword blade flashing silver-white until it turned red and wet. For a moment I was astonished by her willingness to shed blood. The next moment I was too busy to worry about it.

  I wounded two, killed three, then came face to face with the borjuni leader. He wore shiny silver earrings and a string of human finger bones around his neck. His sword was the curved blade of the Vashni. It’s unusual to find a Vashni out of his tribe; they are fiercely loyal to one another, but occasionally a warrior leaves to make his own way.

  Unless, of course, he’s been exiled, which makes him doubly dangerous. He has something to prove to the world.

  The Vashni’s teeth were white and bared in a red-brown face as he came at me on his little Punja horse, curved blade slung behind his shoulder so he could unleash a sweeping slash at my neck, thereby severing skull from shoulders instantly. I ducked, but heard the whistling hiss as the blade swept over my head. Singlestroke was there when the Vashni swung back around to try again, and the warrior tumbled slowly from his horse in a tangle of arms and legs. Minus his head.

  I looked around for my next opponent and discovered there were none; the ones who remained were all dead, or nearly so. And then I saw Del, still engaging her final opponent.

  She was off her Salset horse. The sword was bloody in her hands as she stood her ground and waited. I saw the mounted borjuni come running, right hand filled with sword, left hand filled with knife. One way or another, he’d kill the woman on the ground.

  Except Del was unmoved by his ululating cry or the steadiness of his horse. She waited, and as he flashed by and lowered the sword in a scything sweep, she ducked it. Ducking, she cut at the horse’s legs and severed connective tendons.

  The horse fell out from under the borjuni. But the man was on his feet before he hit the ground, knife flying from his hand in Del’s direction. I saw her sword flash up, strike, knock the knife aside. And as he came at her, running on foot, the sword flashed up again.

  Borjuni steel and Northern blade never engaged one another. Calmly, Del dropped flat below his thrust, allowed him to overextend, rolled, came up with her blade at an angle and took him through the belly.

  It was only after the body fell that I knew I’d been holding my breath. I sucked air, then slowly rode over to Del. She wiped her sword on the clothing of the borjuni who lay dead in the sand and slid the blade home in its sheath.

  “You’ve done this before,” I observed.

  “This? No. I’ve never rescued a caravan.”

  “I mean: you’ve fought and killed men before.”

  She tucked loosened hair behind her ears. “Yes,” she agreed evenly.

  I sighed and nodded. “Seems like I’ve underestimated you all the way around … sorceress.”

  She shook her head. “No sorcery. Just simple sword-work.”

  The hoolies it was! But I let it go at that because a voice was shouting for our attention. “We’re being summoned. Shall we go?”

  “You go. I need to catch my horse. I’ll join you in a moment.”

  I rode over to the lead wagon and saluted a fat, high-voiced eunuch clad in jewels and silken robes.

  “Sword-dancer!” he cried. “By all the gods of valhail, a sword-dancer!”

  I dropped off the buckskin and wiped Singlestroke’s bloodied blade on the nearest corpse. I slid the sword home over my shoulder and said a brief word of greeting in Desert.

  “I am Sabo,” the eunuch explained, after exchanging customary courtesies. “I serve the tanzeer Hashi, may the Sun shine on him long and well.”

  “May it be so,” I agreed gravely. I glanced around and saw how many of his outriders the borjuni had killed. Of ten, only two were still alive, and they were wounded. Then I frowned. “Are you all eunuchs?”

  He looked away at once, avoiding my eyes; an acknowledgment of stupidity. “Yes, sword-dancer. Escort for my lady Elamain.”

  I stared at him in astonishment as Del rode up and dropped off her sorrel. “You’re escorting a lady across the Punja with only a bunch of eunuchs?”

  Sabo was shame-faced. Still he looked away from me. A gesture indicated a guilt willingly assumed; he would be held responsible, even if it hadn’t been his idea. “My lord Hashi insisted. The lady is to be his bride, and he—he—” Sabo’s eyes flicked briefly to my face, then away again. He shrugged. “You understand.”

  I sighed. “Yes. I think I do. He didn’t want the lady’s virtue compromised. Instead, he compromises her safety.” I shook my head. “It’s not your fault, Sabo, but you should have known better.”

  He nodded, triple chins wobbling against the high, gemcrusted collar standing up beneath his wine-colored robes. He was dark-skinned and black-haired, but his eyes were a pale brown. “Yes. Of course. But what’s done is done.” He smiled ingeniously, dismissing the shame at once. “And now that you’re here to help us, we need fear no longer.”

  Del’s smile was ironic. I ignored it. Sabo was playing right into my hands. “I imagine the tanzeer would be—pleased—to recover his intended bride.”

  Sabo understood. And he had a flair for dramatics. “But of course!” His pale brown eyes opened wide. “My lord Hashi is a generous lord. He will reward you well for this generous service. And I’m sure the lady herself will be just as grateful.”

  “The lady is grateful,” said the lady’s voice.

  I glanced around. She stepped out of a fabric-draped wagon, fastidiously avoiding the bodies scattered on the sand as she approached. She pulled her own draperies out of the way as she moved, and I saw small gold-tasseled blue slippers on her feet.

  Following the dictates of desert custom, she wore a modesty veil over her face. It fell from the black braids piled on top of her head pinned with enameled ornaments. But the veil was colorless as water and twice as sheer; she looked at me out of a flawless, dusky face and liquid, golden eyes.

  She dropped to the sand in a single practiced, graceful movement and kissed my foot, which was dusty and sweaty and no doubt incredibly rank.

  “Lady—” Startled, I pulled the foot away.

  She kissed the other one, then gazed up at me in an attitude of grateful worship. “How can this poor woman thank you? How can I say in words what I am feeling, to be rescued by the Sandtiger?”

  By valhail, she knew me!

  Sabo gasped in astonishment. “The Sandtiger! Gods of valhail, is it true?”

  “Of course it’s true,” the lady snapped, but softened it with a smile. “I’ve heard of the sword-dancer with the scars on his face, who wears the claws that scarred him.”

  I raised her with a blood-stai
ned hand. I felt dirty and smelly and unfit for such elegant duty.

  “My, my,” said Del.

  I glanced at her suspiciously, scowled, then turned back to the lady and smiled. “I am the Sandtiger,” I admitted modestly, “and I will be more than happy to escort you to the tanzeer whose good fortune it is to be engaged to a lady as lovely as you.”

  Del looked pretty amazed I’d managed to get my tongue around such eloquent words; so was I. But it had a nice effect on the blushing bride, for she blushed even more and turned her head away in appealing embarrassment.

  “The lady Elamain,” Sabo announced. “Betrothed to Lord Hashi of Sasqaat.”

  “Who?” asked Del, as I asked, “Where?”

  “Lord Hashi,” he replied patiently. “Of Sasqaat.” Sabo waved a be-ringed hand. “That way.” He looked at Del a moment. “Who are you?”

  “Del,” she said. “Just Del.”

  The eunuch looked a little disconcerted, perhaps expecting a little more out of a woman who rode with the Sandtiger, but she didn’t say anything else and didn’t appear to want to. Her eyes, I thought, looked suspiciously amused; I had the distinct impression she found all this gratitude rather funny.

  Elamain put a soft, cool hand on my wrist, which had borjuni blood on it. She didn’t seem to mind. “I wish you to ride with me to Sasqaat in my wagon. It will honor me.”

  Del’s brows rose. “Difficult to protect the caravan if he’s in the wagon, instead of outside guarding it.”

  Elamain flashed her a quick look of irritation out of those wide golden eyes. Next to her dark desert beauty, Del’s fairness made her look washed out. White-blonde hair straggled down her back, wisping into her eyes; dust and blood streaked her face. Her burnous was torn, stained. The two of them, standing so close, looked about as much alike as queen and lowliest kitchen maid—especially to a man who had been around unwilling women far too long.

  Elamain smiled at me. “Come, Tiger. Join me in my wagon.”

  Determined that Del wouldn’t have the last word (or that anything she might say could have the slightest effect on my decision and subsequent behavior), I shot her a bland look and smiled at the lady. “I would be honored, princess.”