Sword-Maker(74)

“Why?”

He was very sure of himself. “She would cry the first time her shodo spoke to her harshly. She would give up the first time she was cut. Or she would meet a man and lose all interest. She would cook his food, keep his hyort, bear his children. And she would set aside the sword.”

I raised eyebrows in nonchalant challenge. “Isn’t that what a woman’s for? Cooking food, keeping a hyort, having a man’s children?”

Still frowning, Abbu glanced at me impatiently. “Yes, of course, all of those things—but have you no eye, Sandtiger? Or do you see nothing but the woman, instead of the woman’s skill?” His gaze was very level. “When I saw you dance the first time—your first real dance, not when you nearly killed me—I knew what you would be. Even though you lost. And I knew there would be two names spoken in the Punja, instead of just mine.” He hitched one shoulder. “I was willing to share, and so I do. Because I am not a blind fool. Because I acknowledge talent when I see it, even in a woman. So should you.”

This was not the Abbu Bensir I remembered. He had always been supremely certain of his talent, technique, presence. But then, he was an excellent sword-dancer. He did have superb technique. And certainly he had presence, ruined nose and all; shorter than I, and slighter, with more distinctly Southron features, Abbu Bensir nonetheless still claimed the unspoken ability to dominate those around him.

But he’d never been known for his humility or fairmindedness. Certainly not when it came to his dealings with women. He was, after all, Southron, and the women he knew were cantina girls, or silly-headed serving-girls in the employ of various tanzeers or merchants.

He certainly didn’t know any woman worth the time to instruct in the ways of handling a sword. I doubt the idea had ever occurred to him, any more than it had to me—prior to meeting Del. But I had met Del, and I’d changed. Would Abbu Bensir do the same?

Not if I had anything to say about it. Better to let him remain the arrogant Southron male.

“I recognize talent when I see it,” I told him. “I acknowledge it. Are you forgetting I wagered on her?”

“You did it to provoke me,” Abbu declared. “We are oil and water, Sandtiger … it will always be so between us.” He stared past me, watching the crowd slowly disperse. Then his eyes flickered back to me. “You have the nose-ring, Sandtiger. Now I will have the woman.”

He brushed by me easily as he turned, black gauze underrobe rippling. He wore a harness and blade, Southron blade, glinting in the sunlight. An old, honorable sword, attended by many legends.

I watched him go, striding away in the fluid gait of a man well-content with his life. A man who, I was certain, entertained no doubts of himself.

Or of the woman he followed.





Six




By the time I reached the cantina, Abbu Bensir had already cornered Del. Well, not cornered exactly; she was sitting in a corner, and he was sitting with her.

She sat with her back to the wall, just as I always did. This allowed her to see me as I approached, although she gave no indication of it. It also allowed me to approach without Abbu knowing, since his back was to me. So I took advantage of it, pausing just behind him. Listening to his approach.

“—you could become much better,” he said confidently. “With my help, of course.”

Del didn’t answer.

“You must admit,” he went on, “it’s unusual to find a woman with your potential and dedication. Here in the South—”

“—women are treated as slaves.” Del didn’t smile. “Why should I be yours?”

“Not my slave, my student.”

“I’ve already been an ishtoya. I’ve already been an-ishtoya.”

Now he was confused. “I am Abbu Bensir. Any Southron sword-dancer can tell you who I am, and what I am capable of. Any Southron sword-dancer … all of them know me.”

For the first time since my arrival, Del looked at me. “Do you know him?”

Abbu sat upright, then twisted his head around. Saw me, scowled, sent me a silent message to leave, then turned back to Del. “Ask anyone but him.”

I grinned. “But I do know you. And what you’re capable of.”

“Which is?” Del asked coolly.

Abbu shook his head. “He will not give you a fair answer. He and I are old rivals in the circle. He will not bespeak me well.”

“And you’re a liar,” I said pleasantly. “I’d tell her the truth, Abbu: that you’re a superb sword-dancer with much to teach anyone.” I paused. “But I’m more superb than you.”

Del very nearly smiled. Abbu merely glared. “This is a private table.”