Nabir finished and looked at me expectantly, dusty blade in hand.
“Sandals,” I suggested. “Or were you going to give me yet another advantage?”
Again he colored. I knew what he felt—couldn’t he remember anything in front of the Sandtiger?—but holding him by the hand wouldn’t help him one bit. He had to get over being too impressed by me, or it would hurt his concentration.
Although, I’ll admit, the boy’s regard made me feel good. It’s always nice to know someone is impressed by what you’ve accomplished.
Even if Del wasn’t.
Nabir stripped out of his sandals and dropped them outside the circle, along with his indigo burnous, cream-colored underrobe, belt. In leather dhoti he was mostly naked suddenly, showing a lean Southron frame beneath dark Southron flesh. Tendons flexed visibly as he moved, since every bit of skin was stretched taut. Lean as he was, there was still an undulating section of muscle between shortribs and the top of his dhoti.
I frowned thoughtfully. “What tribe are you?”
He stiffened visibly. Color moved through his face, staining cheekbones, setting dark eyes aflame. “Does it matter?”
There was belligerence in his tone. I shrugged. “Not really. I was only curious … you just don’t fit any of the tribes I know. And yet there is tribal blood in you—”
“Yes.” He cut me off. “I have no tribe, Sandtiger … none that will have me.” Jaws clenched tautly. “I am a bastard.”
“Ah, well, some of the best people I know are bastards.” I grinned. “Myself included—maybe. Hoolies, at least you know.”
Nabir stared at me across the circle he’d drawn so carefully. “You don’t know if you’re true-born or bastard?”
“It happens,” I said dryly. “Now, shall we get about our business?”
Nabir nodded. “What’s first?”
“Footwork.”
“Footwork! But I learned footwork nearly two years ago!”
“Didn’t learn much, did you?” Then, more kindly, “Or maybe you’ve just forgotten.”
It did exactly as I expected. It shut the boy up.
Practicing something as rudimentary as footwork was good for us both. It’s one of the basics in sword-dancing, part of the foundation that must be laid down if you’re to learn anything, or progress. Clumsiness makes for a sloppy sword-dancer and little future; it also makes for a dead one, and no future at all. There just isn’t any sense in skimping on the essentials when a few extra hours a day spent practicing footwork can mean the difference between survival and death.
But it had nonetheless been a long time since I had broken the practice routine down far enough to include footwork techniques. Del and I, prior to the dance on Staal-Ysta, had sparred together every day, or very nearly; footwork was not one of the things we practiced because, for us, it came naturally after so many years. It was all part of the sparring. But Nabir required a new attitude, and one way of developing one is to start all over again.
Well, in a manner of speaking. I couldn’t spend that much time with him. I’m a sword-dancer, not a shodo; I didn’t have the years to invest. Hoolies, I didn’t even have the days. Del would be pushing to move on to Iskandar as soon as she felt sparring with Abbu no longer necessary
Which meant I needed to get as much out of the practice sessions with Nabir as I could. And that meant working a lot harder than I was used to, even in good health.
By the time I called a halt, both of us were dripping. Harquhal is a border town, not a desert town; it was only just spring, even in the South, and the temperature was still mild. But we sweated, and we stank; I’d need another bath.
He stood in the center of the circle, nodding weary satisfaction. Hair was pasted to his scalp, except where it curled damply against his neck. “Good,” he gasped. “Good.”
Well, maybe for him. I hurt.
“I am remembering some little things the shodo taught very early. The sort of things he said could mean the difference between a thrust through the ribs or a cut on the side.”
Good for him, I thought ironically. I’d had both nearly three months before. And from the same sword.
Speechless, I nodded. I stood hands on hips, wooden sword doubled up in one fist, trying not to pant.
“So Sandtiger, is this the new—ishtoya?”
Broken male voice, not Del’s. I turned abruptly and wished I hadn’t. Saw Abbu Bensir standing outside the circle. Next to my clothes, and the Northern jivatma sheathed in cadda wood, leather, and runes.
So, he’d learned a Northern word between yesterday and today. No doubt he expected me to react. So I took great care not to.