Sword Breaker-Sword Dancer 4 (36 page)

"Begone!" Chosa shouts, and points imperatively to the nearest hunch-shouldered mountain.

A rent appears in it: gaping mouth curls awry. Deep inside, it glitters.

"Go there," Chosa commands. "Go there and live your life without sun or sand or stars."

"Go THERE!" Shaka points: north, away from himself. A thin ruby haze issues from his fingers and encapsulates Chosa Dei. "There!" Shaka repeats. "Inside his own new-made mountain--"

And Shaka Obre is gone, sucked through the gaping mouth into the fastness inside the mountain, a necklet of pockets and hollows riddling the new-made mountain.

"You see?" Chosa says. "You don't have the proper magic."

And then he also is gone, escorted by brilliant wards to the far fastness of the new north, so different from the south.

That once was a single land, lush and green and fertile.

I twitched, then slackened again. Saw the patterns and whorls and grids, and the hustapha's gnarled hand slapping flat against spit-dampened sand.

Inside me, Chosa stirred.

Lines drawn in the sand--

The hand thrust itself into my groin and closed. I bucked, tried to shout; realized I was gagged. Realized I was stretched spine-down on a splintery wooden bench in a small, slant-shadowed room that boasted a single slot of a window, with arms and legs pulled taut to the floor, chained to rings. All I wore was a dhoti; little shield against Sabra's hand. I twisted away as best I could even as she laughed.

"Do you want to keep them?" she asked. And squeezed a little harder. "What should I do with you, to repay you for his death?"

I could make no answer through the gag. It was leather, once dampened, now dried into painful stiffness. There was more in my mouth: a hard, smooth roundness that threatened to make me retch.

Sabra let go. Black eyes were pitiless. "I could do much worse."

Undoubtedly she could. Undoubtedly she would.

Del. With Umir.

Sabra laughed as I tensed. Iron rattled dully, sweeping me back to Aladar's mine. Sweat bathed my face. This was Aladar's daughter.

"I had a brother," she said lightly. "He would have inherited. But when he was nine--and I was ten--I had him murdered. It was done with perfect skill, and no one ever knew.

But none of the harem girls ever bore a boy again ... or else they gave them away, so no more accidents would occur."

She had put off the black burnous and turban and wore a long-sleeved, calf-length white linen tunic instead, draped over baggy carnelian trousers. Tiny feet were leather-shod; the toes were tipped in gold. Sleek black hair hung unbound to her knees, rippling as she moved. On the bench, I tensed.

She was dusky Southron perfection, exquisite elegance. No wasted motion. No wasted thought. A lock of hair brushed my ribs, then slid downward toward abdomen. I nearly choked on the gag.

"He expected to live longer," she said. "He expected to have other sons. But all he had were girls, and I the oldest of all. The others were unworthy."

A small hand touched the fissure Del's sword had left in my ribs. Paused. Traced the scar, much as Del herself had so many times before. But the gesture now was obscene. I wanted to spit at her.

Reflectively, Sabra said, "You must be hard to kill."

I swallowed convulsively. Then wished I hadn't, as the gag tickled my throat.

Wished I had my sword.

My--sword?

Sabra's hand lingered, still tracing the scar. Then drifted to the others, including the ones on my face. "Very hard to kill."

What had happened to Samiel? I recalled with clarity what had become of Umir's men when they had tried to touch him before. Had Sabra left the jivatma lying in the street?

"I hated him," she said. "I was glad you killed him. But I can't tell anyone that. There are appearances ... I should thank you, but I can't. It would be a weakness. I dare not afford a weakness. I am a woman tanzeer--the men would pull me down. They would rape me to death." The hand moved away from my face to my ribs once more, finger-walked each one, then crawled to the edge of my dhoti. Nails stirred coppery hair, slipping beneath the leather. "Would you rape me, Sandtiger?"

Is that what Abbu did?

Small teeth were displayed for so briefly. "Should I castrate you, so you can't?"

Hoolies, the woman was sandsick.

Fingers found the thong drawstring. "He bought you for me, you know. That silly Esnat of Sasqaat. He wanted to impress me, so I would consider his suit. So I would marry him." Quietly, Sabra laughed. "As if I would marry a man when I have a domain of my own."

The memory awoke. Esnat of Sasqaat, Hashi's heir, hiring me to dance so he could impress a woman. He'd told me her name: Sabra. But I hadn't known her, then. I'd known nothing at all about her.

Esnat, you don't want her. The woman would eat you alive.

Sabra undid the thong, loosened it. Yanked the dhoti aside, unheeding of my flinch. "It would interest Abbu," she said thoughtfully, "to see how you compare."

Hoolies, she was sandsick!

Sabra laughed softly. "In the circle, you fool; is this all you think about? Like every other man?" She flipped the dhoti back over my loins contemptuously. "Men are predictable.

Umir. Abbu. You. Even my own father. They think with this, instead of with their heads.

It is so easy to make a man do whatever I want him to do ... when one doesn't care about these--" she touched genitals once more "--or these--" now she caressed her own breasts "--it's so easy to get what you want. Because you have no stake in the flesh."

Black eyes shone brightly. "Sleeping with a man is such a small matter. But it binds him more certainly than anything else could--and then he does what I tell him."

I wondered about Abbu.

Sabra thrust fingers into her hair and scooped it back from her face, unconsiously seductive for a woman who didn't care what a man's response might be. Or maybe she knew, and did care; the woman was unpredictable, even as she claimed men otherwise.

She let the hair fall, sheeting down her back. "I don't care about the jhihadi," she continued calmly. "He meant nothing to me, nor his Oracle. But it was useful, that death.

And the Oracle's. It inflamed all the tribes and made you easier prey." She smiled, stroking her bottom lip with a long fingernail. "Once my people killed the Oracle, they whispered it came of you and the woman, using blackest sorcery. So the Oracle couldn't unmask you; you destroyed him to keep him from it. So now you are hated for that, too." Sabra laughed throatily. "Clever, am I not? It made them all angrier. It made it all very easy."

The Oracle. Dead. Del's brother. Dead again?

"Jhihadi-killer," she said. "Murderer of my father."

I had killed neither man. But now it didn't matter.

Sabra shrugged. Silken hair rippled. "Eventually, I would have had him assassinated so I could have the domain. You saved me some trouble. If I could reward you, I would. But there are appearances." She tossed a curtain of hair behind a slender shoulder. "Rest the night, Sandtiger. In the morning you will dance."

Sweat trickled from temples.

She moved close again, dragging fingernails across my bare chest. Beneath it, flesh rippled. It wasn't from desire, but increasing trepidation. The woman unsettled me.

"Abbu wants you," she told me. "He said he always has. When I asked him what he wanted as payment for his assistance, he said he wanted the dance. The final dance, he said. The true and binding test of the shodo's training."

A tiny spark lighted. Abbu and I were rivals, but never enemies.

"I agreed," Sabra said. "But there must be provisions."

The newborn spark went out.

Aladar's daughter left.

Thirty-eight

Near dawn, men came. One of them was Abbu Bensir, who had put off his sword. He waited silently just inside the door as the others unlocked the manacles, took away the gag, bound up the crusted knife slice in my right arm, left me food and drink.

They departed, closing the door. Abbu remained behind, leaning against the wall. He wore a bronze-brown burnous, a weave of heavyweight silk and linen that shone oddly metallic, even in poor illumination. It was far better than his usual garb, which was generally understated; I knew it had to be Sabra.

Light from the narrow slot of a window slanted across the room. He shifted out of its path so he wouldn't have to squint. "For the dance," he said, nodding toward the food.

I sat on the splintery bench, relying the dhoti thong, and didn't say a word.

"She has your sword, too. I told her what it was... she wanted it, of course. So she had Umir bring Del. The bascha didn't like it much, but she sheathed it for us. She said something about it was better for us to have it than some innocent child in the street."

I made no answer.

The husky voice was calm. "You know it has to be settled, one way or another."

I flexed the forearm, tightening and relaxing a fist to test flesh and muscle. The wound stung, as expected, but the bleeding had stopped, and the binding would protect it. It wouldn't interfere.

"It's how legends are made, Sandtiger. You know that. To all the young sword-dancers, it's what you are."

I lifted my head finally and looked at him directly. My voice croaked from disuse; my mouth hurt from the gag. "Does it matter so much to you?"

Abbu's shoulders moved in a shrug beneath the burnous. "What is there, save the legend? It's what people buy when they hire a sword-dancer. The man, the skill, the legend."

"You could have asked," I told him. "We could have had our own private dance, just the two of us, and settled it once and for all. No need for all of this."

He smiled, creasing a Southron face nearly ten years older than my own. Light glinted briefly on threads of silver in dark hair. Older, harder, wiser. Legend in the flesh, much more so than I. "What benefit in asking, Sandtiger? I meant to once, and found you beset by what Del claimed was Chosa Dei. Could I ask then?" He made a dismissive gesture. "And when you were recovered, you had no time for a true dance, according to the codes. There was Sabra, and all the others, hunting the murderer. And I knew you would never stop, never enter a circle against me, unless I forced your hand."

Dim light shadowed his features. I saw the steady, pale brown eyes, the seamed scar bisecting his chin, the quiet readiness. He was and had always been something I was not: a man secure in himself. A man so good at what he did it colored all his life.

In the circle, I was as good. Possibly even better, though we couldn't know that yet. But I was not and had never been secure within myself.

I just didn't tell anyone.

Abbu waited in silence. That he respected me, I knew: he had put off his sword. I thought it unnecessary. I had been chained all night. As quick as he was, I could attempt very little before he could counter me.

I looked into his face and saw banked expectancy.

Belly tautened abruptly "It was you," I declared. "She was a day, two days behind. And then suddenly she was here, waiting at Fouad's."

He grinned. "There is a disadvantage to being a legend, Sandtiger. People begin to expect things. When we realized you and Del had left Quumi, I told Sabra--and Umir, once we met up with him at the oasis--that you were bound for Julah. I didn't know why, but I knew where. It's where you always go: Fouad's. So I suggested they double up on mounts and water and beat you here to Julah, so the trap could be laid."

I recalled Fouad's unfeigned friendliness, his courtesy toward Del. "Fouad?"

Abbu hitched a shoulder. "You have no idea how determined Sabra is. She is--not like other women. What Sabra wants, she gets. Julah is her domain; she is free to do as she likes, and to any person who happens to strike her fancy: man, woman, child. You know what Aladar was like--I heard what he did to you. The daughter is worse. The daughter is--different. Fouad would have been a fool to refuse her."

"What happens to Del?"

He shrugged. "She's Umir's, now. He'll do whatever he likes."

I sought something in his face. He had known, admired, desired Del. "Doesn't that bother you?"

Abbu Bensir laughed his husky, broken laugh. "Have you no faith in the bascha? Umir underestimates her--I know better. He beds boys, not women... and he wants merely to collect her. Collectors cherish their icons." He shifted against the wall, rubbing absently at the notched bridge of his nose. "Del is hardly helpless. I doubt he'll keep her long."

"Which brings us back to me." I picked up the cup of water, drank.

"It's simple, Tiger. We dance."

I nodded thoughtfully as I lowered the cup. "Sabra mentioned certain provisions."

Something jumped briefly in the flesh beneath one brown eye. "She promised me the dance. I didn't ask for provisions, merely the chance to settle it according to the codes.

Nothing more than that."

I grunted. "Sabra may have other ideas."

"Sabra is ruthless," he agreed. "Far more ruthless than Umir, but--"

"But you trust her."

His mouth thinned. He pushed himself from the wall and walked to me, then around me, peering briefly out the slit serving as window. I heard his step behind me; the rasp of his broken voice, distinct and oddly tight. Each word was emphasized, and very deliberate:

"Listen to me."

I didn't say a word.

Silence. Then, very quietly, with infinite clarity: "Sabra needs to show her power to all the male tanzeers, as well as the men of her domain. To prove herself. To hold them all with whatever means it takes, because she is a woman. She will do whatever she has to do. Left to her own desires, she might have had you flayed alive--have you ever seen that done?" He didn't wait for me to answer. "A man trained by our shodo, a seventh-level sword-dancer, deserves to die in the circle."

"Don't do me any favors." I set the cup down. "Once, we might have settled this in a circle where death was not required."

"Once," Abbu agreed. "In Iskandar... but a horse interfered. And also in the Punja, but then Chosa Dei interfered. And now it's much too late." Steps gritted again as he came around to face me. No more amusement. No more quiet goading. He was perfectly serious. "It will be quick, and clean, and painless. It will be an honorable death."