Sword-Maker(72)

But did I have anything in my pouch equal to a Hanjii nose-ring? “No,” I answered truthfully; I never lie about money. People can get hostile.

Abbu pursed his lips, then shrugged. “Ah, well, another time—unless you still have that bay stud—?”

“The stud?” I echoed. “I still have him, yes—but he’s not part of the stakes.”

Light brown eyes assessed me. “Growing sentimental in your old age, Sandtiger?”

“He’s not part of the stakes,” I repeated quietly. “But I will offer you something of value … something you’ve been wanting for more than twenty years.” I smiled as color crept into his swarthy face. “Yes, Abbu, I’ll meet you in a circle—if the woman loses.”

“If the woman loses—” He very nearly gaped. “Are you sandsick? Do you want to give the wager away?” Eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why do you bet on the woman?”

I nodded toward the circle, where Del and Nabir were bending in the center to place blades on the ground. “Why don’t you watch and find out?”

Abbu followed my own gaze. As I had, he assessed Nabir as a potential opponent. But he didn’t assess Del as anything but a potential bedmate.

All to the good for me.

Abbu flashed me a glance. “We are not friends, you and I, but I have never thought you a fool. Yet you wager on a woman?”

I smiled blandly. “Someone has to, or there would be no bet.”

Abbu shrugged. “You must want to meet me very badly.”

I didn’t answer. Nabir and Del had stripped out of footwear and harness, positioning themselves outside the circle directly opposite one another. It was to be a true dance, a dance of exhibition; a dance of bladeskills matched for the joy of competition. There was no need for anyone to die, which is the true nature of the dance. Shodos taught no one to go out in the world and kill. They taught only the grace and skill necessary to master a Southron sword; that most of us later hired ourselves out was a perversion of the true dance. It was also one of the few ways of earning a living in a land comprised of hundreds of tiny domains ruled by hundreds of desert princes. When power is absolute, you find your freedom—and a living—any way you can.

Abbu Bensir was right: we had never been friends. When I had been accepted as an apprentice, he was a sixth-level sword-dancer already hiring himself out. He had agreed to spar with wooden swords as a favor to the shodo, but he had been stupid enough to be careless, believing too implicitly in skills learned years before. He was older than I and complacent; he had nearly died of it.

Since then we had met from time to time, as sword-dancers do in the South. We had behaved very much like two dogs who recognize strength and determination in one another; we had circled each other warily, repeatedly, judging and testing by word and attitude. But we had never entered the circle. He was an acknowledged master, if unimaginative; I had, after seven years of apprenticeship and more than twelve of professional sword-dancing, established a reputation as a formidable, unbeatable opponent. Bigger, stronger, faster in a land of quick, medium-sized men. And I hadn’t yet lost a dance that required someone to die.

Of course, neither had he

Which meant he wanted me badly. Now I was worth the effort.

“She is magnificent,” Abbu murmured.

Yes, so she is.

“But much too tall.”

Not for me.

“And hard where she should be soft.”

Strong instead of weak.

“She is made for bedding, not for the circle.”

I slanted him a glance. “Preferably your bed?”

“Better mine than yours.” Abbu Bensir grinned. “I’ll tell you if she was worth it.”

“Big of you,” I murmured. “In a manner of speaking.”

He might have replied, but the dance had begun. He, like me, watched attentively, assessing posture, patterns, styles. It’s something you can’t avoid when you watch others dance. You put yourself in the circle and judge how you would have done it, criticizing the others. Nodding or shaking your head, swearing under your breath, muttering derisively. Occasionally bestowing praise. Always predicting the victor and how badly the other will lose.

My belly clenched as I watched. There was no doubt in my mind whatsoever that Del was the superior sword-dancer—far superior—but she was, to me, all too obviously out of condition. She was slow, stiff, awkward, employing none of her remarkable finesse. Her blade patterns were open and sweeping, which is alien to the woman whose true gift is subtlety. Her stance lacked the lithe, eloquent power so often overlooked by men accustomed to brute strength in opponents. She gave Nabir none of the Del I knew, and yet she would beat him badly. It was obvious from the start.