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?”
“With me.”
“But—I’m not good enough for you.”
At the moment, he probably was. But I didn’t tell him that. “You were good enough to ask me to dance, weren’t you?”