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  Sword-Dancer

  Jennifer Roberson

  DAW BOOKS, INC.

  DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, FOUNDER

  375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

  ELIZABETH R. WOLLHEIM

  SHEILA E. GILBERT

  PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 1986 by Jennifer Roberson O’Green.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Kathy Wyatt.

  Map by Elizabeth T. Danforth.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 684.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-64740-0

  First Printing, September 1986

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA,

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.

  SWORD-DANCE, DEATH-DANCE!

  The circle was drawn in the sand. The swords lay in the center. A two-handed Southron sword, with gold hilt and blued-steel blade. A two-handed Northern sword: silver-hilted, rune-bladed, singing its siren song of ice and death.

  A woman, standing near the circle. Waiting. White hair shining. Blue eyes calm. Gilded limbs relaxed. Waiting.

  A man: sun-bronzed, dark-haired, green-eyed. Tall. Powerfully built. Except that even as he stood there, waiting to start the dance, his body changed. Lost weight. Substance. Strength. It melted off him until he was a skeleton with a bit of brown hide stretched over the bones.

  He put a hand out toward the woman. The woman who sang his deathsong….

  DAW titles by Jennifer Roberson

  THE SWORD-DANCER SAGA

  SWORD-DANCER

  SWORD-SINGER

  SWORD-MAKER

  SWORD-BREAKER

  SWORD-BORN

  SWORD-SWORN

  CHRONICLES OF THE CHEYSULI

  SHAPECHANGERS

  THE SONG OF HOMANA

  LEGACY OF THE SWORD

  TRACK OF THE WHITE WOLF

  A PRIDE OF PRINCES

  DAUGHTER OF THE LION

  FLIGHT OF THE RAVEN

  A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

  THE GOLDEN KEY UNIVERSE

  THE GOLDEN KEY

  (with Melanie Rawn and Kate Elliott)

  ANTHOLOGIES

  (as editor)

  RETURN TO AVALON

  HIGHWAYMEN: ROBBERS AND ROGUES

  For Russ Galen of the

  Scott Meredith Literary Agency,

  because too often authors forget

  to acknowledge their agents.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  One

  In my line of work, I’ve seen all kinds of women. Some beautiful. Some ugly. Some just plain in between. And—being neither senile nor a man with aspirations to sainthood—whenever the opportunity presented itself (with or without my encouragement), I bedded the beautiful ones (although sometimes they bedded me), passed on the ugly ones altogether (not being a greedy man), but allowed myself discourse with the in-betweeners on a fairly regular basis, not being one to look the other way when such things as discourse and other entertainments are freely offered. So the in-betweeners made out all right, too.

  But when she walked into the hot, dusty cantina and slipped the hood of her white burnous, I knew nothing I’d ever seen could touch her. Certainly Ruth and Numa couldn’t, though they were the best the cantina had to offer. I was so impressed with the new girl I tried to swallow my aqivi the wrong way and wound up choking so badly Ruth got off my left knee and Numa slid off my right. Ruth commenced pounding on my back awhile and Numa—well-meaning as ever—poured more aqivi and tried to tip it down a throat already afire from the stuff.

  By the time I managed to extricate myself from both of them (no mean feat), the vision in the white burnous had looked away from me and was searching through the rest of the cantina with eyes as blue as Northern lakes.

  Now it so happens I haven’t ever seen any Northern lakes, being a Southroner myself, but I knew perfectly well those two pools she used for eyes matched the tales I’d heard of the natural wonders of the North.

  The slipping of the hood bared a headful of thick, long hair yellow as the sun and a face pale as snow. Now I haven’t seen snow either, being as the South has the monopoly on sand, but it was the only way to describe the complexion of a woman who was so obviously not a native Southroner. I am, and my skin is burned dark as a copper piece. Oh, I suppose once upon a time I might have been lighter—must’ve been, actually, judging by the paler portions of my anatomy not exposed to daylight—but my work keeps me outdoors in the sun and the heat and the sandstorms, so somewhere along the way my skin got dark and tough and—in all the necessary places—callused.

  Oddly enough, the stuffiness of the cantina faded. It almost seemed cooler, more comfortable. But then it might have had more to do with shock than anything else. Gods of valhail, gods of hoolies, but what a breath of fresh air the woman was!

  What she was doing in this little dragtail cantina I have no idea, but I didn’t question the benevolent, generous fate that brought her within range. I simply blessed it and decided then and there that no matter who it was she was looking for, I’d take his place.

  I watched in appreciation (sighing just a bit) as she turned to look over the room. So did every other male in the place. It isn’t often you get to look on beauty so fresh and unspoiled, not when you’re stuck in a dragtail town like … Hoolies, I couldn’t even remember its name.

  Ruth and Numa watched her too, but their appreciation was tempered by another emotion entirely—called jealousy.

  Numa tapped me on one side of the face, trying to get my attention. At first I shook her off, still watching the blonde, but when Numa started to dig in her nails, I gave her my second-best sandtiger glare. It usually works and saves me the trouble of using my best sandtiger glare, which I save for special (generally deadly) occasions. I learned very early in my career that my green eyes—the same color as those in a sandtiger’s head—often intimidate those of a weaker constitution. No man scoffs at a weapon so close to hand; I certainly don’t. And so I refined the technique until I had it perfected, and I usually got a kick out of the reactions to it.

  Numa whimpered a little; Ruth smiled. Basically, the two girls are the best of enemies. Being the only women in the cantina, quite often they fight over new blood—dusty and dirty and stinking of the Punja, more often than not, but still new. That was unique enough in the stuffy adobe cantina whose walls had once boasted murals of crimson, carnelian, and lime. The colors—like the girls—had faded after years of abuse and nightly coatings of spewed or spilled wine, ale, aqivi … and all the other poisons.

  My blood was the newest in town (newly bathed, too), but rather than sentence them to a catfight I’d taken on both of them. They seemed content enough with sharing me, and this way I kept peace in a very tiny cantina. A man does not make enemies of any woman when he is stuck in a boring, suffocating town that has nothing to offer except two cantina girls who nightly (and daily) sell their virtue. Hoolies, there isn’t anything else to do. For them or me.

  Having put Numa in her place (and wondering if I could still keep the peace between the two of them), I became aware of the presence newly arrived at my table. I glanced up
and found those two blue eyes fixed on me in a direct, attentive stare that convinced me instantly I should change the errors of my ways, whatever they might be. I’d even make some up, just so I could change them. (Hoolies, what man wouldn’t with her looking at him?)

  Even as she halted at my table, some of the men in the cantina murmured suggestions (hardly questions) as to the status of her virtue. I wasn’t much surprised, since she lacked a modesty veil and the sweet-faced reticence of most of the Southron women (unless, of course, they were cantina girls, like Ruth and Numa, or free-wives, who married outlanders and gave up Southron customs.)

  This one didn’t strike me as a cantina girl. She didn’t strike me as a free-wife either, being a bit too independent even for one of them. She didn’t strike me as much of anything except a beautiful woman. But she sure seemed bent on something, and that something was more than a simple assignation.

  “Sandtiger?” Her voice was husky, low-pitched; the accent was definitely Northern. (And oh-so-cool in the stuffy warmth of the cantina.) “Are you Tiger?”

  Hoolies, she was looking for me!

  After losing a moment to inward astonishment and wonder, I bared my teeth at her in a friendly, lazy smile. It wouldn’t do to show her how much she impressed me, not when it was my place to impress her. “At your service, bascha.”

  A faint line appeared between winged blond brows and I realized she didn’t understand the compliment. In Southron lingo, the word means lovely.

  But the line smoothed out as she looked at Ruth and Numa, and I saw a slight glint of humor enter those glacial eyes. I perceived the faintest of twitches at the left corner of her mouth. “I have business, if you please.”

  I pleased. I accommodated her business immediately by tipping both girls off my knees (giving them pats of mutual and measured fondness on firm, round rumps), and promised substantial tips if they lost themselves for a while. They glared at me in return, then glared at her. But they left.

  I kicked a stool from under the table and toed it in the blonde’s general direction. She looked at it without comment a long moment, then sat down. The burnous gaped open at her throat and I stared at it, longing for it to fall open entirely. If the rest of her matched her face and hair, it was well worth alienating all the Ruths and Numas in the world.

  “Business.” The tone was slightly clipped, as if to forestall any familiarity in our discussion.

  “Aqivi?” I poured myself a cup. A shake of her head stirred the hair like a silken curtain, and my mouth went dry. “Do you mind if I drink?”

  “Why not?” She shrugged a little, rippling white silk. “You have already begun.”

  Her face and voice were perfectly bland, but the glint in her eyes remained. The temperature took a decidedly downward dip. I considered not drinking at all, then decided it was stupid to play games and swallowed a hefty dose of aqivi. This one went down a lot smoother than the last one.

  Over the rim of my cup, I looked at her. Not much more than twenty, I thought; younger than I’d judged on first sighting. Too young for the South; the desert would suck the fluids from her soft, pale body and leave behind a dried out, powdery husk.

  But gods, she was lovely. There wasn’t much of softness in her. Just the hint of a proud, firm body beneath the white burnous and a proud, firm jaw beneath the Northern skin. And eyes. Blue eyes, fixed on me levelly; waiting quietly, without seductiveness or innuendo.

  Business indeed, but then there are degrees in all business confrontations.

  Instinctively, I straightened on my stool. Past dealings with women had made me aware how easily impressed they are by my big shoulders and broad chest. (And my smile, but I’m sparing with that at first. It helps build up the mystique).

  Unfortunately, this one didn’t appear to be impressed much one way or another, mystique or no. She just looked at me squarely, without coyness or coquetry. “I was told you know Osmoon the Trader,” she said in her husky Northern voice.

  “Old Moon?” I didn’t bother to hide my surprise, wondering what this beauty wanted with an old relic like him. “What do you want with an old relic like him?”

  Her cool eyes were hooded. “Business.”

  She had all the looks, but she wasn’t great shakes at conversation. I shifted on my stool and let my own burnous fall open at the throat, intending the string of claws I wear around my neck to remind her I was a man of some consequence. (I don’t know what kind of consequence, exactly, but at least I had some.)

  “Moon doesn’t talk to strangers.” I suggested. “He only talks to his friends.”

  “I’ve heard you are his friend.”

  After a moment, I nodded consideringly. “Moon and I go back a ways.”

  For only an instant she smiled. “And are you a slaver, too?”

  I was glad I’d already swallowed the aqivi. If this lady knew Moon was involved in the slave trade, she knew a lot more than most Northerners.

  I looked at her more sharply, though I didn’t give away my attentiveness. She waited. Calmly, collectedly, as if she had done this many times, and all the while her youth and sex disclaimed the possibility.

  I shivered. Suddenly, all the smoky interior candlelight and exterior sunlight didn’t seem quite enough to ward off an uncommon frosty chill. Almost as if the Northern girl had brought the North wind with her.

  But of course, that wasn’t possible. There may be magic in the world, but what’s there is made for simpletons and fools who need a crutch.

  I scowled a little. “I’m a sword-dancer. I deal in wars, rescues, escort duty, skirmishes, a little healthy hired revenge now and then … anything that concerns making a living with a sword.” I tapped the gold hilt of Singlestroke, poking up behind my left shoulder in easy reach. “I’m a sword-dancer. Not a slaver.”

  “But you know Osmoon.” Bland, guileless eyes, eloquently innocent.

  “A lot of people know Osmoon,” I pointed out. “You know Osmoon.”

  “I know of him.” Delicate distinction. “But I would like to meet him.”

  I appraised her openly, letting her see clearly what I did. It brought a rosy flush to her fair face and her eyes glittered angrily. But before she could open her mouth to protest, I leaned across the table. “You’ll get worse than that if you go near Old Moon. He’d give his gold teeth for a bascha like you, and you’d never see the light of day again. You’d be sold off to some tanzeer’s harem so fast you couldn’t even wish him to hoolies.”

  She stared at me. I thought maybe I’d shocked her with my bluntness. I meant to. But I saw no comprehension in her eyes. “Tanzeer?” she asked blankly. “Hoolies?”

  So much for scaring her off with the facts of Southron life. I sighed. “A Northerner might say prince instead of tanzeer. I have no idea what the translation is for hoolies. It’s the place the priests say most of us are bound for, once we leave this life. Mothers like to threaten their children with it when they misbehave.” Mine hadn’t, because as far as I know she died right after dropping me into some hole in the desert.

  Or simply walked away.

  “Oh.” She considered it. “Is there no way I could see the trader neutrally?”

  The white burnous opened a little wider. I was lost. Prevarication fell out of my mind entirely. “No.” I didn’t bother to explain that if Moon got his hands on her, I’d do my best to buy her for myself.

  “I have gold,” she suggested.

  All that and money too. A genuine windfall. Benignly, I nodded. “And if you go flashing any of it out here in the desert, my naive little Northern bascha, you’ll be robbed and kidnapped.” I swallowed down more aqivi, keeping my tone idle. “What do you want to see Moon for?”

  Her face closed up at once. “Business; I have said.”

  I scowled and cursed into my cup and saw she didn’t understand that either. Just as well. Sometimes I get surly and my language isn’t the best. Not much opportunity to learn refinement in my line of work. “Look bascha—I’m willing to t
ake you to Moon and make sure he doesn’t fiddle with the goods, but you’ll have to tell me what you want to see him for. I don’t work in the dark.”

  One fingernail tapped against the scarred wood of the liquor-stained table. The nail was filed short, as if it—and the others—weren’t meant to be a facet of feminine vanity. No. Not in this woman. “I have no wish to hire a sword-dancer,” she said coolly. “I just want you to tell me where I can find Osmoon the Trader.”

  I glared at her in exasperation. “I just told you what will happen if you see him alone.”

  The nail tapped again. There was the faintest trace of a smile, as if she knew something I didn’t. “I’ll take the chance.”

  What the hoolies, if that’s the way she wanted it. I told her where to find him, and how, and what she should say to him when she did.

  She stared at me, blonde brows running together as she frowned. “I should tell him ‘the Sandtiger plays for keeps’?”

  “That’s it.” I smiled and lifted my cup.

  She nodded after a moment, slowly, but her eyes narrowed in consideration. “Why?”

  “Suspicious?” I smiled my lazy smile. “Old Moon owes me one. That’s all.”

  She stared at me a moment longer, studying me. Then she rose. Her hands, pressed against the table, were long-fingered and slender, but lacked delicacy. Sinews moved beneath the fair skin. Strong hands. Strong fingers. For a woman, very strong.

  “I’ll tell him,” she agreed.

  She turned and walked away, heading for the curtained doorway of the cantina. My mouth watered as I stared at all that yellow hair spilling down the folds of the white burnous.

  Hoolies, what a woman!

  But she was gone, along with the illusion of coolness, and fantasizing about a woman never does much good besides stirring up desires that can’t always be gratified (at least, not right away), so I ordered another jug of aqivi, called for Ruth and Numa to come back, and passed the evening in convivial discourse with two desert girls who were not part of any man’s fantasy, perhaps, but were warm, willing, and generous nonetheless.