Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 (25 page)

This

is all there is."

She perched herself on the edge of my fragile bed, observing my cramped position. "If you had to get out of that quickly, I don't think you could."

"I'm not going anywhere quickly. What I'm doing is taking a bath." I scratched

an itching ear. "What are you doing here? I mean, didn't you rent two rooms for

the express purpose of being apart?"

Del ignored the gibe. "I brought you some clothes," she said, and dumped out the

bundle she carried.

I tried to straighten; couldn't. "What clothes?" I asked suspiciously, envisioning more wool. "What have you done, Del?"

"I bought supplies," she answered. "Including Southron garb. Dhoti--here--and burnous. See?"

I saw. Suede dhoti, as mentioned, a russet-colored robe with leather belt, and a

dull orange silk burnous to wear over it all. Also a pair of soft leather riding

boots. "How do you know my size?"

"I know you snore, I know you drink, I know you like cantina girls... I know many things about you." Del allowed the silk to slide out of her hand.

"You're

going to shave, aren't you?"

"I'd planned on it, yes. Why? Do you want me to keep all this hair?"

She tipped her head to one side. "You've worn a beard for so long I've forgotten

what you look like without one."

"Too long," I muttered. "Too much time, too much hair, too much wool." I tried

to reposition myself in the cask, barked my shin on sharp wood. "I thought you

said you had no money. How did you buy all this stuff?"

"I told them you would pay." Del shrugged elegantly as I sputtered a protest.

"The shopkeepers know you, Tiger. They are honored by your business. They said

they would be most happy to wait for you to pay them--so long as it was later today."

"I don't exactly have a whole lot of money, bascha... and less, now, than before." I crammed buttocks against wood, hissed as a splinter bit. "You can't

go all over Harquhal promising people coin in my name. I might not have any."

Del shrugged. "I'm sure you can win more. Other sword-dancers are arriving daily... I think most if not all of them would be happy to meet the Sandtiger in

a circle."

"I'm in no shape to meet anyone in a--ouch." I swore, worked a splinter free, shifted position. Eventually pulled my legs out and draped them over the rim.

Cooling water sloshed across my belly.

Del surveyed my posture. "You're dripping water on the floor."

"I can't help it--my knees were cramping up." More comfortable now, I ran a string of brown soap across my chest, loosening wool-bound hair. "So, you think

we can win some coin, do you? Even though we're both out of condition?"

"We wouldn't be out of condition if you'd get in a circle." Del smiled blandly.

"I've asked you how many times?"

"No." I scrubbed more vigorously and snagged a hair beneath a fingernail, snapping it right out of my chest. "Ouch--Del, do you mind? Can I have my bath

in private?"

She stood up, slid out of her harness, set Boreal on the bed. "If you're going

to shave," she said, "let me do it. You'll cut your own throat."

"Never have before... and I've been shaving this face longer than you've been alive."

Del lifted one shoulder. "I used to shave my father. He wasn't much older than

you." Without my permission--and ignoring my muttered oath--she came over to the

stool beside the cask and picked up my knife, freshly honed to scrape a jaw clean of beard. "Soap your face," she suggested.

Hoolies, it's not worth arguing... I dutifully lathered up, then tipped my head

back as ordered. Tried not to screw up my face as Del set blade to flesh.

"Hold still, Tiger." Then, as I held still, "Do these scars hurt any more?"

"The sandtiger scars? No, not any more. Not for a long time." I paused. "But if

you cut them, I think they might."

"I'm not going to cut them." Del sounded absent-minded as she concentrated on shaving between the claw welts, which didn't go far toward making me feel any safer. "They're getting whiter and thinner with age," she observed. "But they must have hurt badly when the cat first striped you."

"Like hoolies," I agreed. "Then again, I was in no shape to really notice. He got me other places, too, and his claws weren't budded. The poison made me pretty sick for a couple of weeks. I was lucky to survive."

"Which you did because of Sula."

Yes, because of Sula. Because of the Salset woman who wouldn't let me die.

She

had gone against the suggestion of the shukar and the rest of the tribe that the

troublesome chula be allowed to die. Because they all knew that in killing the

sandtiger, I'd also gained my freedom.

I stirred. Sula brought back memories I preferred to forget. "Are you done?"

"Not even half begun."

Her laced braid hung forward over one shoulder, swinging as she worked. The ends

of it brushed my chest.

It was, rather suddenly, intensely difficult to breathe. I shifted, sat a bit more upright, shoved myself down again. "Del, do you think--"

"Just hold still."

She had no idea how difficult that was, in view of the circumstances. "You said

you wouldn't play games."

She blinked blue eyes. "What?"

"Games," I said in frustration. "What do you think this is?"

"I'm shaving you!"

"Give me back my knife." I leaned forward, caught her wrist, stripped the knife

free with my left hand. "If you think I haven't lived thirty-five or thirty-six--or however many years it is!--without learning a few female tricks,

you're younger than I thought."

Which, once said, didn't make me much happier. I sat in cool water and glared,

holding a wet knife dripping soap and bits of beard.

Del stood with hands on hips. "And if you think I would tell you I wanted two rooms, and then tease you like this--"

Frustration made me testy. "Women do that sort of thing all the time."

"Some women, perhaps. Not all of them. Certainly not me."

I scratched violently at my scalp. "Maybe not. Maybe not on purpose, but it doesn't disguise the fact--"

"--that you have no self-control?"

I glared. "You could take it as a compliment."

She thought about it. "I could."

"So? Can I shave my own face?"

Someone knocked on the door.

"Go away," I muttered, but Del turned her back on me and went to open the door.

A stranger stood there. A Southroner. He wore a sword in harness.

"Sandtiger?"

he asked.

Warily, I nodded. Wishing I had my sword in hand instead of on the stool; feeling foolish for wishing it. But a naked man often feels foolish. Or at least

vulnerable.

He grinned, showing white teeth in a swarthy face. "I am Nabir," he said.

"I'd

like to dance with you."

Nabir was young. Very young. Maybe all of eighteen. And I'll wager his knees didn't ache.

"Ask me tomorrow," I growled.

A frown creased his brow. "I won't be here tomorrow. In the morning I leave for

Iskandar."

"Iskandar. Iskandar! What's in Iskandar?"

Nabir appeared somewhat taken aback by my outburst. "The Oracle says the jhihadi--"

"--is coming to Iskandar; that I know. I think everybody knows." I scowled at the boy. "But why do you care? You don't look religious."

"Oh, I am not." He made a quick, dismissive gesture. "I am a sword-dancer.

That's why I'm going."

I scratched idly at my scars, now bare of beard. "Why is a young, admittedly nonreligious sword-dancer going to Iskandar? There's nothing to do there."

"Everyone's going," he said. "Even the tanzeers."

I gazed blankly at Del. "Tanzeers," I echoed.

"Ajani," she said intently.

Frowning, I looked back at Nabir, waiting so patiently. "You said everyone is going... sword-dancers, tanzeers--who else?"

He shrugged. "The sects are going, of course, even the Hamidaa and khemi. And they're saying some of the tribes as well: the Hanjii, the Tularain; also others, I think. They want to see the Oracle foretell in the flesh."

"Power shift," I murmured. "The tanzeers'll never let him survive, unless he works for them." I straightened in the cask and waved a hand at Nabir. "Go down

to the nearest cantina--I forget its name--and have a drink on me." I arched a

brow. "And tell Kima I sent you."

"Will you meet me?" Nabir persisted. "It would be an honor to dance with the Sandtiger in the circle."

I looked harder at his face--his young, still-forming face--and also at his harness. His new, stiff harness, squeaking as he moved.

"In a year," I told him. "Now go have that drink."

Del closed the door behind him, then turned to me. "He's young. New. Untried.

He

might have been worth it for the practice. And at least you wouldn't hurt him;

some other sword-dancer might, just to initiate him."

"I can't take the risk, bascha. If I step into a circle, it will be against someone good. Someone up to the challenge of dancing against Chosa Dei."

Del's unspoken comment was loud in the little room.

I shook my head. "Someone who isn't you."

"There will have to be someone," she said. "Several someones, in fact. You are

badly out of condition. If you had to dance to the death--"

"I'm not stupid enough to hire myself out to kill anyone at the moment. And besides--"

"Sometimes you have no choice."

"--and besides--" I smiled "--you're out of condition, too."

"Yes," Del agreed. "But I intend to dance just as soon as I find an opponent."

I watched her move toward my bed. "What--right now?"

"It makes no sense to waste time." Del retrieved harness and sword and slipped

it on as she headed to the door. "Perhaps Nabir will do... no, don't get up--you've still got half your face to shave."

"He's a boy!" I shouted, sloshing awkwardly in my cask.

Del's tone was bland. "Not so much younger than me."

Five

Del was right: she knew me very well. The suede dhoti fit in all the right places without chafing, as did the soft horseman's boots--I've always been partial to sandals, but these were very comfortable--and the dull orange burnous

poured into place like water over the belted desert robe. I was a Southroner again.

But I didn't waste much time admiring the clothing. I grabbed up my sword in its

borrowed sheath and left the inn quickly, calling back over my shoulder to the

innkeeper that someone else could have the water now. By the time he started to

answer, I was out of the door.

It's not hard to find a sword-dance, especially in a border town like Harquhal

that thrives on competition. All you have to do is look for the largest gathering of people--particularly men in harness--and you will find what you're

looking for.

I found Del very easily, since she's the kind of woman who draws attention.

She

waited quietly within the human circle, the gathering of men and women waiting

to see the dance. Someone was carefully drawing a circle in the dirt, taking pains to make the line uniformly deep. It didn't really matter--in a sword-dance, the true circle is in your mind since lines are quickly obscured by

displaced dust and dirt--but it was all part of the ritual.

Her expression was unaggressive, as was her posture. But Del is very tall for a

woman--tall even for Southron men--and her posture is very erect. Even standing

quietly by the circle she invited shrewd assessment from everyone waiting to watch. Especially with a Northern sword riding in harness across her back.

I looked for Nabir and found him waiting across the circle from Del. All his hopes were in his face as was his Southron arrogance. He had no doubt he would

beat the Northern woman; I was only surprised she'd gotten him to agree.

Then again, when you're young and proud and new, any dance is welcome. No doubt

Nabir thought it worth the trouble to dance against a woman since he was assured

of a victory before so many watching sword-dancers, some of them his heroes.

I almost felt sorry for him.

I did a rapid, precise assessment. He was shorter than Del by four fingers, which probably didn't please him, and he lacked the hard fitness that would come

with maturity and experience. He wasn't soft, but neither was he mature. He still had some growing to do. He was, I judged, seventeen, eighteen, maybe nineteen. Which meant many things, all of them important to a sword-dancer, particularly one with a vested interest in the opponent.

I am a seventh-level sword-dancer, which translates, in my case, to seven years

worth of apprenticeship. But the seven years--with accompanying rank--is never a

sure thing. Only those apprentices showing a certain amount of promise are even

passed to the fourth level, let alone the seventh; Nabir, by age alone, couldn't

be much more than a second-year apprentice, possibly a third. Because the rank,

though denoted by the term year, has little to do with time as measured by the

seasons. An apprentice's "year" is completed only when particular skills are learned, and that can take much longer than twelve months.

I had finished seventh-level in seven years. It was very symmetrical. A source

of pride. Something for the stories, for the legend. But now, looking at Nabir,

I wondered what his reasons were for becoming a sword-dancer. Unlike mine, I thought, fueled by hatred and a powerful need for freedom. That need had been more than physical. It had also been emotional. Mental. And it had been enough

to make me the Sandtiger.

Whom Nabir had wanted to meet.

Not for the first time I wished for a true harness-and-sheath. I stood there holding a scabbarded sword in the midst of other sword-dancers properly accoutered, feeling oddly out of place. Lacking, somehow. But it wasn't just the