Sword-Maker(70)

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 style, which was a badge of our profession. It was also convenience; I’d rather carry a blade across my back than have to lug it around by hand.