Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 (29 page)

"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?"

"But I knew I would lose. I just thought--" He sighed. "I just thought that if I

was seen in a circle with the Sandtiger, it might help my name a little. I knew

I would lose, of course, but I'd lose to the Sandtiger. Everyone loses to you."

"Arid you'll lose in practice, too," I pointed out. "But at least you'll learn a

little something." And I'd get my conditioning back. "So, shall we begin tomorrow?"

Slowly, Nabir nodded. "What about--" He broke it off, thought about it, began again. "What about the woman? Is she truly a sword-dancer?"

I grinned. "If you're concerned your reputation--and pride--has been dealt too

harsh a blow to survive, I wouldn't worry about it. Del's beaten me."

"You?"

"Only in practice, of course." I rose, put down his cup. "Thanks for the aqivi.

I'll see you first thing in the morning."

He pushed himself to his feet. "Sandtiger--"

"Oh, yes--you won't be needing that." I pointed to his blade. "We'll be using wooden swords."

He blinked. "Wooden? But I haven't sparred with wooden blades since my first year."

"I know; me neither--and it's a considerably longer time for me than for you."

I

shrugged. "I'd hate to get carried away and cut your belly open. At least with a

wooden sword, all I can do is break a few ribs." I grinned at his stricken expression. "Now go find yourself a woman--maybe that pretty little cantina girl

across the way who's been eyeing you so much--and forget about Northern baschas."

"She's beautiful," he blurted.

I didn't need to ask which woman he meant; I've seen that expression before.

"First lesson," I said. "Forget about such things. When you're in the circle, even against a woman--" I paused, "--even a woman like Del--you have to think about the dance. And only about the dance."

"It isn't a woman's place to be in a circle."

"Maybe not." I didn't feel like giving him any of Del's arguments against that

line of reasoning; it would take too long. "But if you meet one there, are you

willing to die just because she has breasts instead of gehetties!"

"Gehett--" He figured it out. It was enough to startle him into thinking about

it. After a moment he nodded. "I will try not to think of the woman. I will try

not to see the woman. I will try to do as you."

Hoolies, I wish when I was in the circle with Del I could only see the woman.

Like Abbu Bensir. Like Nabir. Like all the other men who'd seen--or met--her in

a circle.

Because then I'd forget the blood.

Eight

We met out in the open, away from the center of town. I wanted privacy for the

boy's sake, and for my own; one needn't tell the competition one isn't what one

should be.

"Draw the circle," I told him.

Nabir's dark eyes widened. "Me?"

I nodded solemnly. "The privilege of rank," I said, "is that you can have others

do tedious things like digging in the dirt."

He waved a hand. "No, no--I only meant... I thought you would do it to make certain it was right."

"It's not too terribly difficult to draw a circle," I said dryly. "I think a second-level sword-dancer can manage it."

Which reminded him, as I meant it to, that he had some status of his own; as a

matter of fact, if there was a first-level apprentice here, Nabir could assign

the task to him.

But there wasn't. So Nabir took wooden sword in hand and asked me what size circle I wanted.

"Practice," I answered. "No sense in dancing our legs off yet." Especially since

even a practice circle seven paces in diameter would test me. "We'll move to a

sparring circle next, and then a full-fledged dancing circle once I think you're

ready."

He opened his mouth. "But--" And broke it off. So, his discipline wasn't completely eroded.

"I know," I said. "You were going to tell me you danced in a dancing circle yesterday. So? You lost. We'll do it my way."

Nabir flushed, nodded and proceeded to draw a meticulous circle in the dirt.

He

knew the dimensions as well as I--seven long paces in diameter for a practice circle, ten for sparring, fifteen for a full-fledged dancing circle--and had a

steady hand, which meant his line didn't waver very much. It's one of the things

a first-year apprentice learns: how to draw a clean circle. It helps to fix the

confines in the mind, which is where the true circle must exist if an apprentice

is to succeed. It sounds easy. It isn't.

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.

"New sword, new harness," I said lightly.

"Poor old Singlestroke ..." Abbu shook his head. "It must have been a great blow. After all, it isn't often a chula wins his freedom, let alone a shodo-blessed sword. And then to have it broken ..." Again he shook his head.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Nabir stiffen as he heard the word chula. I lifted a single eloquent shoulder. "The new sword's better."

"Is it?" Abbu glanced down at the hilt, exposed above the lip of the danjac hide

sheath. "Northern, from the look of it. And here I thought a desert-bred Punja-mite like yourself would never carry a foreign sword."

"We all change," I said offhandedly. "We get older, a little wiser... we learn

not to judge people and things by homelands, language, gender."

"Do we?" Abbu grinned. "So we do. Yes, Sandtiger, the woman is much better than

I expected. But there is still much I can teach her."

"Wait till she warms up." I showed him my teeth. "Better yet, wait until she sings."

Abbu wasn't listening. He was staring thoughtfully at my midriff, bared by the

shedding of underrobe and burnous. Like Nabir, I wore only a dhoti. It hid nothing at all of the knurls, nicks, and scars gained from nineteen years of dancing. Nothing of the lash marks from sixteen years of slavery. And nothing at

all of the stripes earned from a dying sandtiger who had, in that dying, given

me my freedom.

But Abbu Bensir had seen all of it before, since a sword-dancer wears only a dhoti in the circle. My story was no secret, nor was the evidence hidden, since

I wore it in my skin.

No, he'd seen all that before. What he looked at now was something he hadn't seen: the ugly, livid scar tissue left behind by Boreal.

He flicked a quick glance at my face. "I see," he remarked thoughtfully.

"Let me guess," I said dryly. "Now you plan to invite me into a circle."

Abbu shook his gray-dusted head. "No. When you and I meet, you will be the man I

saw eighteen months ago. I want no unfair advantage because you are recovering

from--that." He frowned, locking black brows together. "I've seen men dead of less."

I arched brows. "Big of you."

It was Abbu's turn to display teeth. "Yes." Then the frown came back. He looked

again at the healing wound. "You went north," he said. "I heard you went north."

"To the North; yes." I shrugged. "Why? I don't know a sword-dancer yet who stays

put in one place."

Abbu flipped a dismissive hand. "No, no, of course not. But I have heard stories

about Northern magic... about Northern swords..."He scowled at me in consideration. "Steel cuts," he said quietly. "It doesn't burn. It doesn't blister. It doesn't eat skin away."

It hadn't burned. It had frozen. In a way I'd been very lucky. Boreal's banshee-bite had eaten away enough outer flesh to leave a depressed knot the size of a man's fist, but the icy steel had also frozen blood and inner tissue,

preventing significant blood loss. The jivatma had missed anything vital, thank

valhail. But had Del cut into me with a Southron blade, even missing the vitals,

I'd have bled to death in the circle.

"Does it matter?" I asked. "It's healing."

"Don't you understand?" Abbu persisted. "If a sword could do that in the circle--"

"No." I said it flatly, leaving no room for doubt. "It's best if the circle is

left as we learned it."

"A sword-dancer with a blade capable of doing that would be worth his weight in

gold, gems, silks..." Abbu shrugged. "He could name his price."

"Maybe found a domain of his own?" I grinned. "Believe me, Abbu, you don't want

to pay the price of lugging around a Northern jivatma."

He looked down at my belongings once more: at the visible hilt of a foreign sword. At the alien runes looping the sheath from split lip to brass-footed tip.

"Jivatma" he breathed, pronouncing the syllables oddly. "I heard her say that word. Only once. But once said, it was loud." Abbu looked away from the sword and back at me with effort. "As one sword-dancer to another--as a student who shared the teachings of your shodo--I ask permission to make the acquaintance of

your sword."

It was stilted, formal phraseology. It was also a ritual performed by every sword-dancer who wanted to touch another sword-dancer's weapon. Killers we may

be, more often than not, but the true dance is founded in elaborate courtesy.