Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 (28 page)

sectioned off from the sea to the Northern border, and to the east and west as

well."

"Sectioned off," she echoed. "Is there no free land left at all?"

Abbu shrugged. "Domains exist where the land is worth having. There is water, or

a city, or an oasis, or mountains--a place worth having becomes a domain.

What

no one wants is free."

"The Punja," I said. "No one rules the Punja. Except the tribes, maybe... but they have more respect for the land. They don't divide it up and sit on it.

Nor

do they give in to the rule of any man proclaiming himself a tanzeer. They just

go with the wind, blowing here and there."

"Much like a sword-dancer." Del turned her cup on the table. "So, the Oracle--who gains disciples among the tribes--offers threat to the tanzeers."

"By rousing the tribes, yes," Abbu agreed.

"But the Oracle is only a mouthpiece," I said. "It's the jhihadi who offers the

true threat. Because if the stories were to come true--that sand will be turned

to grass--it means all of the South would be worth having. Each man would be a

tanzeer unto himself, and the authority of those petty princes holding the present domains would collapse."

"So they will try to kill him." Del's tone was matter-of-fact. "No matter who he

is, no matter why he's come; even if it's all a lie--the tanzeers will have him

killed. Just in case."

"Probably," I agreed.

Abbu smiled a little. "First they would have to find him."

"Iskandar," Del said. "Isn't that where he's supposed to appear?"

Abbu shrugged. "That's what the Oracle says."

"You're going," she pointed out.

Abbu Bensir laughed. "Not for the Oracle. Not for the jhihadi. I'm going for the

dancing. I'm going for the coin."

Del frowned. "Coin?"

Abbu nodded. "Where there are people gathering, there will be wagering. Where there are tanzeers, there will be employment. Easier to find both in one place

rather than scattered across the South."

"In uplander, a kymri," I explained. "We don't have many here in the South...

but Abbu is right. If this Oracle rouses enough people, they will all go to Iskandar. So will the tanzeers. And so will sword-dancers."

"And bandits?" she asked.

"Borjuni, yes," Abbu agreed. "Even whores like Kima."

"I want to go," Del said.

I sighed. "Seems as good a place as any to learn something of Ajani's whereabouts."

But Del wasn't looking at me. She was looking at Abbu. "And I want you to teach

me."

I nearly choked on aqivi. "Del--"

"Tomorrow," she declared.

Abbu Bensir merely smiled.

Seven

"Why?" I asked, standing in the doorway. "What are you trying to prove?"

Del, inside her tiny room at the inn, barely glanced at me as she sat down on the edge of her slatted cot to pull off boot and fur gaiter. "Nothing," she answered, unwrapping leather garters.

"Nothing? Nothing?" I glared. "You know as well as I do you don't need Abbu Bensir to teach you anything."

"No," she agreed, peeling gaiter from boot.

"Then why--"

"I need the practice."

I stood braced in the doorway, watching her tug off the boot. She dropped it to

the floor, then turned to the other boot. Once again, she started with the gaiter. Her bare right foot was chafed at the edges; the rest of it was white.

"So," I said, "you're using him for a sparring partner."

Del unlaced the garter. "Is he as good as he says he is?"

"Yes."

"Better than you?"

"Different."

"And was it you who put that scar on him?"

"No."

She tilted her head slightly. "So, he is a liar."

"Yes and no. I didn't give him the scar itself, but I did provide the reason for

making it necessary."

Del looked up at me. "He doesn't hate you for it. He could--another man might--but he doesn't."

I shrugged. "We've never been enemies. Just rivals."

"I think he respects you. I think he knows you have your place in the South--in

the pecking order of sword-dancers--and he has his."

"He is an acknowledged master of the blade," I said. "Abbu Bensir is a byword among sword-dancers. No one would be foolish enough to deny him that to his face."

"Not even you?"

"I've never considered myself a fool." I paused. "You're really going to spar with him?"

"Yes."

"You could have asked--"

"--you?" Del shook her head. "I did ask you. Several times."

"I'll spar," I said defensively. "Just not with my jivatma. We'll go find some

wooden practice swords--"

"Steel," Del said succinctly.

"Bascha, you know why I don't want--"

"So you don't have to." She stripped gaiter free of boot. "So I'll use Abbu Bensir instead."

"But he thinks he's teaching you."

"He may think whatever he likes." Del tugged at her boot. "When a man won't do

what you want him to in the way you want him to, you find new names for the same

thing. If it satisfies Abbu Bensir's pride to believe he is teaching the gullible Northern bascha, let him. I will still get my practice. I will still improve my fitness." She looked at me squarely. "Which is something you need, too."

I ignored that; we both knew it was true. "How long is this to go on?"

"Until I am fit."

Frustration boiled up. "He only wants to get you into his bed."

Del rose, began to unhook her harness. "I am having a bath brought for me. If you truly believe I would be the kind to tease you, you would do well to leave."

On cue, one of the innkeeper's sons rolled the cask from out of my room. It was

empty, of course, which meant Del had paid extra for clean water. But she had no

money.

Frustration rose another notch. "Am I paying for this, too?"

Del nodded.

I glared. "Seems like I'm paying for an awful lot, yet getting nothing for it."

"Oh?" Pale brows rose. "Is courtesy and generosity dependent upon how soon and

how many times I will go to bed with you?"

I moved aside as the boy rolled the cask through the doorway. I waited impatiently for him to drop the cask flat and depart; once he had, I turned back

to Del.

I stood directly in front of her now, halting as she turned from the cot to match me stare for stare. Barefoot, she gave up an extra finger's-worth of height to the five additional I always claimed. But it didn't diminish her.

I drew in a steadying breath. "You're not making this any easier."

Del shut her teeth. "I'm not trying to make it anything. I'm trying to end my song."

I tried to keep my tone even. "How many men have you killed?"

Del's eyes narrowed. "I don't know."

"Ten? Twenty?"

"I don't know."

"Guess," I suggested.

She opened her mouth. Shut it. Then gritted between her teeth: "Perhaps twenty

or so."

"How many in a circle?"

"In a circle? None. All have been in defense of myself." She paused. "Or in defense of others. Even you."

"And some for plain revenge. Ajani's men; you've killed some of them, haven't you? A few months ago?"

"Yes."

"And did each of those deaths require such intense focus?"

Del's mouth flattened. "I know what you are saying. You are saying I am wrong to

require such behavior, such focus; that if I have already killed, one more death

will be no less difficult."

I shook my head. "I'm saying I think you might be punishing yourself. That by demanding such rigorous behavior of yourself, you think you can make up for the

deaths of your kinfolk."

The innkeeper's son banged the bucket of water as he brought it through the door, slopping water over the rim. Whatever Del might have said died before it

was born, and I knew nothing would come of it now. The moment was gone.

"Soak well," I suggested flatly. "I have to go pay all your debts."

Mutely, Del watched the boy pour water into the cask. If she looked after me, it

was too late. I was out of the room. Out of the inn. And very much out of temper.

It took me three cantinas to find him. Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe he was shy. Or maybe he just wanted to do his drinking in a quieter, smaller place, lacking the huva stink and clamor of the cantina Kima worked.

But I did find him. And, having found him, I stood in the dimness of dusk inside

the door and watched him from afar.

Nabir was, I decided, a handsome, well-set-up boy. In time he would grow into his potential and offer decent skills to anyone in the circle. Probably decent

company, too, although at the moment he was plainly black of mood. More out of

sorts than I'd been, if caused by the same woman.

He slouched on his stool at a table in the back of the common room, hitched up

against the wall. His head was thrown back indolently, but there was nothing indolent about him. He was scowling. Black hair framed a good if unremarkable face; thick black brows met in a self-derisive scowl over the bridge of his nose. It was a straight, narrow nose, with only the suggestion of a hook.

More

like mine, in fact, than Abbu's, which displayed--or had once--the characteristic hook of a bird of prey. In some desert tribes, the hook of a man's nose denotes greater prowess as a warrior; don't ask me why. One of those

fashions, I guess, like the Hanjii with their disfiguring nose-rings, or the Vashni with their necklets of human finger bones.

Before him on the table lay the harness and sword. It was at that he scowled so

fiercely. Next to it sat a jug of liquor and a cup, but he drank nothing.

Just

sat and scowled and sulked and considered giving up his new profession.

I made my way through the tables and paused as he glanced up. I saw the recognition, the acknowledgement, the dilation of dark brown eyes. He sat up so

hastily he nearly overset his stool, which would have damaged his pride even more.

I waved him down when he would have risen, and sat down on another stool.

"So,"

I said, "quitting already?"

Anger flared, died; was replaced by humiliation. He couldn't meet my eyes.

I kept my tone conversational. "It's difficult, getting started. You don't know

if anyone will dance with you, so you don't ask. And then when you summon up enough courage to ask an acknowledged master, a seventh-level sword-dancer--because, you think, losing to him will be expected, and therefore

easier--he refuses. You leave wondering if anyone will ever dance with you--anyone other than another former apprentice only just getting started--and

then a woman comes to you and says she will dance with you." I shifted on the stool. "At first you are insulted--a woman!--and then you recall that she was the woman with the Sandtiger; a woman who carries a sword and goes in harness,

just as you do. You see she is tall and strong and foreign, and you think she should be in a hyort somewhere cooking food and nursing a baby; and you think you will put her in her place. In the name of your hard-won sword and your prickly Southron pride, you accept the woman's invitation." I paused. "And you

lose."

"I am ashamed," he whispered.

"You lost for one reason, Nabir. One." I leaned forward and poured liquor into

his cup: aqivi. "You lost because she won."

Lids flickered. He stared briefly at me, then looked back at his rejected sword

and harness.

I drank. "You lost because you could not divide yourself from the arrogance of

your sex, and from the knowledge of hers."

He frowned.

I put it more plainly yet. "She won because she was better."

Color swept in to stain his swarthy desert face. "How can a woman be better--"

"--than a man?" I shrugged. "It might have something to do with her training, which began before yours. Formal training, that is; but she, like you, played with wooden swords when she was a child."

His jaw clenched. "I am a second-level sword-dancer."

I sipped. Nodded. "Something to be proud of. But I ask you this: why did you leave before you accomplished the other levels? There are seven, you know."

Dark eyes glittered. "I was ready to leave."

"Ah. You wearied of the discipline." I nodded. "And you kept hearing the song of

coins going to other sword-dancers instead of yourself."

Black brows dove between his eyes. "There is no dishonor in leaving when I did.

There are those who leave after a single year."

I nodded. "And most of them are dead."

His chin came up. "Because they accepted an invitation to dance to the death."

"So will you."

He shook his head. Black hair caught on the dropped hood of his indigo burnous.

"I am not so foolish as to think I am good enough for that."

"But that's where the real money is." I shrugged as he stared intently.

"Tanzeers always pay handsomely when they want someone killed."

"I'd rather--"

"--avoid it; I know. But what happens when a sword-dancer is hired to kill you?"

Eyes widened. "Me?"

"Of course. If you serve this tanzeer--" I flicked my left hand, "--then that tanzeer--" my right hand, "--will eventually desire you to be put out of his way. And so someone like me, or someone like Abbu Bensir--or someone like Del--will be hired to invite you into a circle where the dance will end in death."

"I can refuse." But his certainty was fading.

"You can refuse. Several times, in fact. But then you will get the reputation of

a coward, and no tanzeer will hire you for anything." I shrugged. "Kill or be killed."

Nabir frowned. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Oh, maybe because I'd hate to see you quit a profession you might be suited for." I sipped again. "All you need is a little practice."

He blinked. "With--you?"