Sword-Dancer

by Jennifer Roberson

  So did Theron. I could see it in his eyes. The grudge-match now was more than a simple determination of guilt or innocence. It had gone past collection of a blood-debt. It had slipped under the guard of his masculine pride and pricked him in the gut, just as her sword tip pricked him in the knuckles.

  Del was better than good. Del was better than Theron.

  Alien steel clashed, twisted, screeched. Blade on blade in the cacophony of the dance. Slide, slide, step. The belling of the steel. The hiss of bare feet against the grit of sand on top of hardpack.

  A latticework of ribbons glowing in the sunlight. Pattern here, pattern there; a tracery of flame. Salmon-silver, palest-purple, and all the colors in between.

  Sweat ran down their bodies. It lent a sheen to the pale apricot of Del’s tanned skin. Bare arms, bare legs, bared face with white-blonde hair tied back. I saw grim determination in her face. Total loss of awareness except for the dance she danced against a good opponent.

  Quite clearly, Theron fought to kill. In the circle, death is not mandatory. Victory is the thing. If a man is overcome and yields at the asking, a winner is declared. Often enough, the dance is little more than an exhibition, or a testing of sheer skill. I’ve danced for the joy of it before, against good and bad opponents. I’ve danced to kill as well, though the deaths have never pleased me. What pleases me is surviving.

  Del, I thought, would survive. Theron, I thought, might not.

  A breeze kicked up. It ruffled the thin layer of saffron sand. Increased to a wind. Lifted the sand and blew it into my eyes. Impatiently, I brushed the grit away.

  But the wind remained. Intensified. Ran around the circle like a child’s spinning toy. And then I saw how it centered itself as a whirlwind inside the circle: a dust-demon licking at feet. Licking, licking, growing, until even Theron and Del fell away from one another because the demon made them do it.

  Spinning, spinning, spinning, so fast the eye couldn’t follow. Mind couldn’t, no matter how hard I stared. And then the dust exploded in a shower of grit and film, and in the dust-demon’s place was a man.

  Sort of. Not really a—man. Rather, a being. Small. Neither ugly nor attractive. Just—a sort of formless shape with the barest suggestion of human features. It hung in the air between Del and Theron, floating in the circle.

  “I am Afreet,” it announced. “My master wants a sword.”

  Four of us merely gaped.

  “I am Afreet,” it repeated, a trifle impatiently. “My master wants a sword.”

  “You said that already.” The thing didn’t seem particularly dangerous, just a trifle odd. So I decided conversation wouldn’t do us any harm.

  Tiny features solidified in a tiny misshapen face. It frowned. It stared, much as we did.

  I saw hands form. Feet. Ears appeared, and a nose. But the thing was naked. Quite clearly, the thing was male. And abruptly, I knew what it was.

  “An afreet,” I said. “That isn’t a proper name, it’s a description of what it is.”

  “Then what is it?” Del asked in some distaste.

  “I am Afreet,” the afreet announced. “My master wants a sword.”

  Simultaneously, Theron and Del each took a single step back from the tiny floating being. I almost expected them to put their swords behind their backs, as if to hide them from view.

  Apparently the afteet did, too. It—he—laughed.

  And if you’ve ever heard an afreet laugh, you don’t much like the sound.

  “I am Afreet,” it began. “My master—”

  “We know, we know,” I interrupted. “Change your tune, little—”—pause—“—man. Who is your master, and why does he want a sword?”

  “My master is Lahamu, and Lahamu desires a sword of power.”

  “So he sent you out to get one.” I sighed. “Little afreet, you don’t frighten me. You’re only a manifestation of his power, not a measure of it. Go home. Go back to Lahamu. Tell him he can get his sword another way.”

  “Tiger,” Del said uneasily. “You’re not the one standing so close to him.”

  “He can’t hurt you,” I told her. “Oh, I suppose he could kick sand in your face or pull your hair, but that’s about the extent of it. He’s just an afreet. A busybody. Not a genuine demon.”

  “But this Lahamu is?” she demanded. “Not so wise to treat his servant badly.”

  “Lahamu isn’t a demon.” Alric, from the other side of the circle. “He’s a tanzeer. Rusali is his domain.”

  “A tanzeer with an afreet?” That sounded odd even to me. “How’d that come about?”

  “Lahamu dabbles in magic.” Alric shrugged. “He’s not the brightest man in the South, Tiger. He inherited the title, which means he doesn’t necessarily deserve it.” Alric eyed the afreet. “I’ve heard some odd stories about him, but I don’t think I’ll repeat them where little ears can hear them. Let’s just say he’s not known for his—judgment.”

  “Ah.” I scowled at the little afreet. “That means he’s after a magical sword.”

  The afreet laughed again. “A magical Northern sword, with magical properties. Power. Better than Southron swords only good in the hands of a dancer, or so my master says.”

  I nodded. “Lahamu fancies himself a sword-dancer too, does he?”

  “Told you.” That from Alric. “Maybe he wants to steal a little of your glory, Tiger.”

  The afreet glared at him. “Lahamu is many things.”

  This time I laughed. “Sorry, little afreet. No time for this right now. We’re a bit busy at the moment.”

  The tiny face glared. “My master wants a sword. My master will get a sword.”

  “How?” I asked gently. “Does he want you to steal one?”

  “Steal the dancer, steal the sword.” An afreetish grin showed pointed teeth. “But not the woman; the man.”

  Theron never had a chance. I saw his blade whip up as if to halve the afreet, but the whirlwind swallowed him whole. And with him his Northern sword.

  A thin veil of dust settled back to the ground. Alric and I blinked at one another across the circle. It was empty except for Del, who glared at me. “I thought you said that little—thing—couldn’t do anything.”

  “Guess I was wrong.”

  “Tell him to bring Theron back! Tell him I wasn’t finished with him.” Del frowned. “Besides, if Lahamu wanted a Northern sword so much, why take only one when he could have had two?”

  “I think I know the answer, but I don’t think you’ll like it much.”

  Her glance was level. “Why not?”

  “Because, being Southron, Lahamu probably doesn’t think much of women.” I shrugged. “Theron had more status.”

  Del scowled. Then she swore. Softly, beneath her breath.

  “Does it matter?” I asked, exasperated. “At least Theron’s out of your hair. You should be grateful to Lahamu for sending out the afreet.”

  “Grateful? For stealing my fight?” She scowled at me. “I wanted to take Theron—I wanted to beat him—”

  “Beat him? Or kill him?”

  Her chin rose. “You think I’m not capable of either?”

  “I think you’re capable of both.”

  Del stared at me a long moment. I saw the subtleties of changing expressions in her face. But then she turned away to step outside the circle, and I knew the dance was finished.

  But only the one against Theron.

  Nineteen

  Alric bought two horses and gear with the money I gave him, and three days later Del and I took our leave. I thanked the big Northerner and his wife for their hospitality, apologized for putting them out of their bedroom, hugged each of the little girls, and left it at that.

  Del’s farewell was a little more involved than mine, at least when it came to the girls. She picked each one up, whispered something in her ear, hugged her, kissed her, then set her down again. It was an odd dichotomy, I thought: woman with child; woman with sword.

  I mounted my blue roan gelding a
nd waited for Del to climb aboard the gray mare Alric had purchased. The mare was little, almost dainty-looking, and yet I took note of the deceptively wide, deep chest and long shoulders that marked endurance and good wind. My own blue roan was larger and rangier, almost clumsy-looking with his jug-head, gaunt flanks and big hips, but nothing really set him apart from other horses, at least in class distinctions. (If anything, he came out of a lower class entirely). Another horse had gnawed on his slate-gray tail, leaving it short and very ragged; not much of a flyswatter, now.

  I glanced at Alric and gave him a grimace that was half-scowl, half amusement. He knew what I meant. I’d given him enough money for excellent mounts, but he’d purposely chosen horses of unexceptional quality. The better to blend in with other people in Julah.

  Sighing, I recalled the bay stud. It would take me years to find another horse like him.

  The respite (if you could call it that) in Rusali had made the Punja pale in our minds. Out upon the sands again we quickly remembered the harsh reality; how lucky we were that the Salset had found us while we were still alive. Del pulled up her apricot hood and hunched her shouders against the heat of the sun; I rubbed at my sore shoulder and wondered how soon it would be before I could use it without pain. A right-handed sword-dancer can’t afford to be disabled very long, or he loses more than just a sword-dance.

  “How far to Julah?” Del asked.

  “Not far. Two or three days.”

  She twisted in the blanketed saddle. “That close?”

  I stood up in the stirrups a moment, trying to urge the roan out of a jagged, rambling trot into a more comfortable long-walk. At this rate, he’d rattle my mouth completely clean of teeth. “As I recall, Rusali is a bit northwest of Julah. Of course it all depends on the mood of the Punja, but we should be within a couple of days’ ride.” I gritted my teeth and stood up again, removing my backside from the pounding of the shallow saddle. “Fool horse—”

  Del slowed her gray mare. No longer competing, my roan dropped into a more comfortable walk beside her. “Better?” Del asked calmly.

  “I’m trading in this sandtiger-bait as soon as we get to Julah.” I saw the dark-tipped ears twitch toward me. “Yes, you.” I looked at Del. “Well, have you decided what your plans are once we reach our destination?”

  “You asked me that once before.”

  “And you never really told me.”

  “No,” she agreed, “and I don’t know as if I feel like telling you now, anymore than I did then.”

  “Because you don’t know.”

  She slanted me a gloomy scowl. “I suppose you have a plan.”

  “Matter of fact …” I grinned.

  Del sighed and tucked a wisp of sunbleached hair behind her right ear. The silver hilt of her Northern sword—her jivatma—shone in the sunlight. “I should have known … all right—what is it?”

  “I’m going to become a slave trader,” I explained. “One who just happens to have a gorgeous Northern bascha in his possession.” I nodded. “This trader is no dummy. He realizes full well what a big market there is for Northern boys and girls. And—since it isn’t always easy to steal them—he’s decided to breed them.”

  “Breed them!”

  “Yes. So, since he’s got a prime breeder on his hands, he needs to match her with a Northern male.”

  Pale brows knitted over her nose. “Tiger—”

  “He can’t be too old, because she’s not,” I pointed out. “He should be young and strong and virile and as good-looking as she is. That way the children are more likely to be attractive. What I need is a duplicate of her, except a male.” I waited expectantly.

  Del stared at me. “You intend to use me as bait, to flush my brother into the open.”

  “Bang on the head, bascha. I’ll offer a deal to the man who has him: pick of the litter, so to speak. He can have the first child of the mating in addition to my gold, so he can start his own kennel of Northern slaves.”

  Del stared down at her braided gentian reins. Fingers picked at the cotton.

  “Del—?”

  “It might work.” Her tone was subdued.

  “Of course it will work … so long as you go along with my suggestions.”

  “Which are?” A pair of direct blue eyes fastened themselves on my face.

  I took a careful, delaying breath. But there wasn’t anything for it but honesty and baldness. “You’ll have to be my slave. A genuine slave. That means wearing the collar and serving me as a docile slave, submissive and silent.”

  After a moment, her mouth twisted. “I don’t think I’d be very good at that.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed drily, “but it’s the only chance we have. You willing to take that chance?”

  She looked away from me, pushing rigid fingers through the dark-gray stubble of the mare’s roached mane. The apricot hood spilled from Del’s head and lay tumbled against her shoulders. The once butter-yellow tint of her hair had been almost completely swallowed by the platinum-white of sunbleaching, but it was still glossy as cornsilk in its single braid.

  “Del?”

  She lookled back at me steadily, taking fingers from the shaven mane. “What would happen if we simply went in looking for a Northern boy of fifteen?”

  I shook my head. “For one thing, they’d want to know why I wanted to buy him specifically. For another, if they found out about you, they’d make me an offer. If they learned you’re a free Northern woman, they’d simply steal you.” I didn’t smile; it wasn’t amusing. “But—if you’re a slave already, they’ll simply try to talk me into selling you. And I, naturally, will refuse every offer.”

  “You like money,” she pointed out. “You like money a lot.”

  “But I wouldn’t dream of selling you,” I retorted. “At least, not until you’ve paid me in the manner to which we’ve agreed.”

  “You don’t get that until we find my brother.”

  “And we won’t be able to do that unless we give this a try.”

  Del sighed, teeth gritted so hard the muscles in her jaw stood up. “You’d take my knife away from me, then … and my sword.”

  I thought about that sword in my hands again. I thought about what Alric had told me about quenching its thirst in the blood of an enemy.

  Or the blood of an honored an-kaidin.

  “Yes,” I told her. “Slaves don’t generally carry knives and swords.”

  “And you’ll put a collar around my neck.”

  “It’s customary.”

  She swore. At least, I think she swore. I needed Alric to translate. “All right,” she agreed at last. “But—I think I’m going to regret this.”

  “Not with me as your owner.”

  “That’s why.”

  The first blacksmith we found in the outskirts of Julah was more than happy to make a collar for Del. I already had her sword—harnessed and sheathed—strapped to my saddle and her knife stuck in my belt; she resembled a rather recalcitrant slave as she sat on the sand and waited to have her neck put into iron.

  I watched the blacksmith at his anvil, hammering the circlet into shape with speed and skill. He’d taken one look at Del and said he’d waste no time: a bascha like her would surely be worth considerable money: I didn’t want to risk losing her. Del, only half-understanding his rough dialect and vulgar Southron slang, glared at him balefully as I told him to hurry it up.

  His teeth were stained yellow from beza nut. He spat out a stream of acrid juice and saliva. “Why’nt you collar her before?”

  “I bought her off a man who believed slaves had a right to dignity.”

  He snorted, spat again; hit the beetle he’d been aiming for. “Stupid,” he told me. “No slave’s got a right to dignity.” He hammered a bit more. “Better have a chain, too; from the looks’ve her, I’d say she’d try’n hightail it out’ve here first chance.”

  “Fine.” My teeth were tightly shut.

  “Then tell her to get her rump over here.”

/>   I gestured. Del came, slowly. The blacksmith took a good, long look at her and said something that would have earned him her knife in his gut, if she’d understood him. But the tone got through to her. She went red, then white, and her eyes turned dark with anger.

  There was nothing I could do. Slaves are less than nothing in the South, and therefore open to insults of all kinds. Del would be a target for nearly any manner of abuse; so long as the blacksmith didn’t actually hurt her, there was little I could do.

  “You saying that for her benefit, or mine?” I asked lightly.

  He glanced at me, dull red seeping into his broad, forge-flushed face. “She don’t speak Southron?”

  “Some. Not the filth you’re spewing.”

  He got ugly. So did I. He reevaluated my size, weapons and the sandtiger claws hanging around my neck.

  “Tell her to kneel.” He spat again. The dead beetle was flipped over onto its back, legs splayed.

  I put my hand on Del’s right shoulder and pressed. She knelt after a momentary hesitation.

  “Hair.” He spat.

  Del knelt in the sand, apricot burnous billowing in the wind of the bellows. Her head was bowed submissively, but I could tell from the tension in her body she didn’t like the posture one bit. Well, neither did I.

  After a moment I swallowed, knelt on one knee and lifted the braid out of the way, sliding callused fingers over smooth skin. I could feel her trembling. Her eyes lifted briefly to mine, and I saw bleakness and fear and darkness in them.

  It came to me to wonder, more strongly than ever before, just what the raiders had done to her.

  The blacksmith slipped around her neck the hinged iron collar with its length of chain. The lock was fitted through loops, then closed. He handed the key to me.

  Del: collared and chained like a dog. At least with the Salset, I hadn’t known that humiliation.