Which gave me grounds for relief.
Abbu was glowering. “The boy is a fool.”
“For dancing with a woman?”
“No. For giving in too easily. See how he defers to her? See how he allowed her to direct the dance?” Abbu shook his head. “He’s afraid to hurt her, and so he has given her the circle. He has given her the dance. And all because she’s a woman.”
“You wouldn’t?” I asked as blades clanged in the circle. “Are you telling me you could ignore her sex and simply fight her, dancer to dancer?”
Abbu glowered more darkly.
I nodded. “So I thought.”
“And you?” he challenged. “What would the Sandtiger do? He was a woman himself for half his life—”
I closed my hand on his wrist. “If you are not very careful,” I began, “our dance will be right now. And this time I will open your throat with steel instead of wood.”
A roar went up from the crowd. It had nothing to do with Abbu and me, but with the outcome of the dance. Which meant Del had won. They’d have cheered for Nabir; for her, they’d award only silence once they were over their shock.
Abbu, swearing, jerked his wrist free. “You are soft,” he accused. “Do you think I can’t see it? Your color is bad, your bones too sharp, the look in your eye is dull. You are not the Sandtiger I saw dance eighteen months ago. Which means you are old, sick, or injured. Which is it, Sandtiger?” He paused. “Or is it all of them?”
I showed him all my teeth. “If I am sick, I’ll get better; injured, I will heal. But if I am old, you are older; look in a mirror, Abbu. Your life is in your face.”
I didn’t exaggerate. His swarthy face was sharply graven at mouth and eyes, and there was gray in his dark brown hair. The nose had been broken at least once, retaining a notch across the bridge that had, in my apprenticeship, boasted a Punja-bred hook. He was, I knew, past forty; in our profession, old. And he looked every year of it.
But then, so do I. The desert is never kind.
Del, in the circle, said something to Nabir. Knowing her, it was something diplomatic. Something to do with victory in the future; she is not a woman to grind a man’s pride in the dirt unless he demands it. And Nabir hadn’t, not really. Oh, he’d been certain of his victory, but then I’d known a certain other young sword-dancer who’d felt much the same upon receiving his blued-steel, shodo-blessed sword. And who’d lost his first dance to an experienced sword-dancer who had no time to humor the whims and pride of an arrogant young man; I’d deserved to lose. And I had.
Now, so had Nabir.
He took it badly, of course. So had I. It remained to be seen if Nabir would learn from the loss or let it fester in his spirit. Admittedly he had more to flagellate himself with—he’d lost his first dance to a woman—but if he was smart he’d think twice about underestimating his opponent. Too many variables entered into a dance, certainly more than sex. And if Nabir didn’t learn how to deal with them, how to adapt, he’d be killed the first time he entered a circle to dance to the death.
When the boy refused to answer Del, she turned away and walked out of the circle. She still wore blue wool tunic and trews, now stained with sweat; she needed to switch to Southron clothing. A lifted arm scrubbed dampness from her face and stripped it free of loosened hair. Her movements were stiff, lacking grace. She bent, scooped up harness and boots, let the crowd fall back from her. She was flushed, a little shaky, obviously tired. But she hid the magnitude of it from everyone save me.
I was so glad to have the dance over I didn’t think about anything else.
“The boy was a fool,” Abbu declared.
“Yes.”
“And I a fool for risking so much on him.”
I smiled. “Yes.”
Abbu pulled the Hanjii nose-ring from his pouch. “I pay my debts, Sandtiger. I won’t have it said I don’t.”
“Now I don’t need to, Abbu.”
He glared at me sourly as he handed over the nosering, then stared past at Del’s retreating back. “There is much she could learn, if a man took the time to teach her.”
A man had. Men had, Northerners all, an-kaidin from Staal-Ysta. And a bandit named Ajani. But I said nothing of it to Abbu Bensir, who wouldn’t understand.
“Oh, I don’t know, Abbu—seems to me she’s already learned a lot.”
“She could be better. Faster, smoother …” He flicked an expressive hand. “She is a woman, of course, with a woman’s failings, but there is talent in her. Promise. And she is tall enough and strong enough …” Then he shook his head. “But it would be folly to teach a woman. To attempt to teach a woman.”