Sword-Sworn Read online

  There was only one thing worth having. And Umir knew it. “The freedom to leave my domain unchallenged.”

  I nodded. “That’ll do.”

  His tone became aggressive. “But anyone may challenge you outside my domain.”

  “Of course. But that’s not your concern. And I truly believe anyone who witnesses me killing the best of the best here in your homemade circle may think twice about challenging me anywhere.”

  His lips thinned. “You are overconfident.”

  “‘Over’? Don’t think so. Confident, yes.” I gifted him with a friendly smile. “I am the Sandtiger.”

  “You truly believe you can intimidate everyone?”

  It wasn’t false confidence or bluster. I’d done it before. Many times. It was one of my most effective weapons. I was bigger, quicker, stronger and more agile than anyone else I’d met in the South. I was simply better.

  I smiled and said nothing.

  “I wonder,” Umir murmured, “what Abbu Bensir will say?”

  Simply better—except possibly for Abbu Bensir. We hadn’t settled that yet. I stopped smiling. “If Abbu’s here,” I said, scowling, “why have a contest at all? Offer him the job and put us in your circle.”

  Umir studied a ring, admiring its beauty in the sunlight. “But that would deprive me of the entry fees.”

  I had to laugh. No wonder Umir the Ruthless was one of the wealthiest men in the South. He charged sword-dancers to step into a circle against one another when they did it all the time for free, just to hone their skills.

  A faint glint of amusement appeared in Umir’s pale eyes. “I hope you do understand, Sandtiger, that my goal here is to find the best out of many. I’m not interested in death. Only in the unique. Your presence here, under the peculiar circumstances of elaii-ali-ma, offers uniqueness. All of the men who lose my contest will go out and find other employment, possibly even with tanzeers as wealthy as I. But I offer something no one else can.”

  I knew what that was, but he detailed it anyway.

  Dusky color stained his dark skin, and pale eyes glowed. “The opportunity to kill the Sandtiger in front of other sword-dancers, thus plucking the greatest of thorns from their pride and adding unassailable luster to one man’s reputation. His name will be spoken forever with reverence. Tales will be told. He will go to his death one day secure in the knowledge he avenged the tarnished honor of Alimat and killed one of the greatest sword-dancers the South has ever known.”

  “And just when do you plan to serve dessert?”

  Umir smiled. “In ten days.”

  Ten days. In ten days Del could be dead. Ten days was too long. Ten hours was too long. Even though Nayyib was with her. “How about now?” I asked.

  Umir nearly laughed aloud. “I think not.”

  “I’m serious. Give me a sword, and call for the dance right now.”

  “You are half-dead with exhaustion; do you think I can’t see it? You can barely stand up.” He shook his head. “I will not present a farce. Ten days, Sandtiger. After you have rested and recovered. Then you may prove to me if you’re as good as you claim.” He gestured to his servants. “Escort him to the bath chamber, then to his room. See that he is fed.”

  I dropped all pretenses, all facades. “Wait,” I blurted sharply, as Umir began to turn away. “The Northern woman,” I said, “the one you wanted so badly…”

  He paused.

  “She’s ill,” I told him. “Possibly dying. If you let me go to her—send any number of men with me you wish, tie me up, keep me on a leash, put chains on me if you like—I swear to return and take part in your contest.”

  Umir studied me consideringly. Then, with delicate disdain, he said, “I do not accept worthless oaths from men with no honor.”

  I was tired enough and dirty enough that a bath among the enemy—with the enemy’s servants watching—did not unduly disturb me, especially since my wrists were finally untied and the nooses lifted from my neck. Nor did I fear drinking the watered wine servant-guards offered as I soaked in the huge hip-bath. I was too thirsty. And for all Umir had imprisoned me—and had done so before—he’d never actually tried to harm me. If he was offering the Sandtiger on a platter to his guests as a fillip to his contest, he would indeed want me fit enough to provide proper entertainment. His reputation depended on it. He was ruthless when it came to dealing for prized acquisitions—kidnapping Del was an example—but not a killer.

  So, knowing I needed to be in the best physical condition possible if I wanted to survive—minor motivation—I took advantage of his hospitality and came out of the bath markedly cleaner and feeling more relaxed than I had in days. Upon being dried by female servants and anointed with scented oil, I was presented with a soft linen dhoti and a fresh house-robe of creamy raw silk and a russet-colored sash, but my leather dhoti and sandals were missing. Then the male servants escorted me barefoot down a cool, tiled corridor to a wooden door boasting a rather convoluted locking mechanism on the corridor-side latch. They gestured me in, and in I went. I knew better than to try Umir’s servants. They were very large men, and I was on the verge of turning into a boneless puddle of flesh.

  The room clearly had been built to house a prisoner. The edge of the door was beveled so it overlapped the jamb; there was no crack into which a knife or some other implement might be inserted in an attempt to lift the latch. Nor was there any bolt or latch-string in evidence. Just planks of thick wood adzed smooth, studded with countersunk iron nailheads impossible to pry out. The door could only be opened from the corridor, and even a concerted effort on my behalf to knock down the door with brute strength would result only in bruised flesh and, possibly, broken bones. No thanks.

  Nor was there a window. Just four blank walls with a row of small holes knocked through mudbrick up near the roof in the exterior wall, well over my head, and an equally blank adobe ceiling. The floor was also adobe, lacking tiles or rugs. A large nightcrock—in this case, daycrock, too—sat unobtrusively in one corner. The only piece of furniture in the room was a very high, narrow bed. Next to the bed, on the floor, was set a large silver tray containing cubed goat cheese; mutton pie baked in flaky pastry; a sprig of fat, blood-colored grapes; a small round loaf of steaming bread accompanied by a bowl of olive oil; and a pewter cup, plus matching tankards of water and wine. Not to mention a folded square of linen with which to blot my mouth upon completion of the meal. Umir believed in manners.

  Ten days. I wondered whether that included today or began tomorrow. I wondered it all through the meal, the entire water tankard, half of the wine, and as I fell backward onto the bed. Umir had even provided a pillow and coverlet. Then I didn’t wonder anything at all. I fell fast asleep.

  In the echoes of the dream, I saw old bones. Heard a woman’s voice.

  And took up a sword.

  TWELVE

  I WOKE UP not long after dawn to the sound of sword blades. For a moment I was disoriented, aware of unfamiliar smells, light, and the fabric beneath my body. Then I remembered.

  Swearing, I crawled out of Umir’s so-called guest bed and sat hunched on the edge, scrubbing at creased face. I’d been shaved the day before during my bath, so the stubble was short instead of its usual three or four days’ worth of growth.

  Swords clashed outside. In the pallor of the morning, I glanced up at the line of airholes cut through mudbrick near the ceiling. Apparently the exterior wall of my room faced Umir’s circle off the back of the house. But obviously I was not to be allowed sight of the matches or of the individual who might be given the honor of killing me.

  The door latch rattled. The door itself was thrown open. Had I intended to move, I wouldn’t have had time to get off the bed. As it was, I just sat there, scowling at my unannounced visitor.

  Umir. I stopped scowling and presented him with a blandly noncommittal expression of nonaggression.

  Then the two large men who’d shadowed me yesterday came into the room, and even as I began to stand up they grabbed
my arms and jerked me onto my feet. So much for Umir’s hospitality.

  “Already?” I asked.

  The two men clamped grips on my wrists and extended my hands. Umir approached. His expression was outraged. “It is true!” he cried, staring at my hands. “I believed Rafiq was exaggerating.”

  Ah. The infamous missing fingers.

  “I shall have to reduce his payment,” he declared grimly.

  My eyebrows leaped up. “Just how much are two fingers worth compared to an entire person?”

  Umir glared at me. “I expected all of you to be delivered. Whole in body. Those were my orders.”

  I wanted to laugh; the whole topic was unbelievable. “Not that Rafiq and I are friends, Umir, but he didn’t do it. This happened a few months ago.”

  “I heard nothing of it!”

  “It didn’t happen here.” Hoolies, what did it matter?

  He swung away, took two steps, swung back. His pale gray eyes were fierce. “Can you still dance?”

  I suppressed a smile. “According to the rite of elaii-ali-ma, I am not allowed—”

  He cut me off with a shout. “Can you still dance?”

  “What, afraid your plan for me as reward will be ruined?”

  Umir took one step toward me and swung. I ducked most of the blow, but the flat of his hand still caught me across the rim of my ear. The servants tightened their grips even more as I tried to lunge at Umir, holding me back.

  “Try me,” I said between my teeth. “Put a sword in these hands and try me—or why not ask Khashi if I can hold a sword?”

  Umir’s expression was blank. “Khashi?”

  “A sword-dancer,” I told him. “We had a little contretemps in Julah. Except he’s dead now, so he’s not here to tell you anything about who won and who lost.”

  Color began to steal back into his face. “He’s dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “You killed him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he any good?”

  I attempted a shrug made unsuccessful by the grips of the servants. “Apparently not, since I won. But I suspect that depends on your point of view.”

  Umir bent down and peered closely at my hands. I found the critical examination highly offensive, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. So I just gritted my teeth and waited.

  “Are they still painful?” he asked curiously, the way one might ask a guest if he wants more wine.

  It took effort not to bellow at him, to retain some measure of decorum. “Explain why this matters to you.”

  Umir seemed surprised as he straightened. “Of course it matters. Your physical well being affects the quality of the entertainment I’ll be offering.”

  I shook my head and began to say something, but Umir abruptly grabbed both my hands and squeezed.

  This did not particularly endear my host to me.

  After a moment he released them. Umir debated something internally. Then he nodded. “The plans are unchanged.” And he turned and strode out of the room.

  When I was locked in again, I loosed a lengthy volley of curses in every language I spoke, which was significant after my sojourn at Meteiera, and wished I had numerous breakable items I could hurl at the door and walls as I paced furiously, waiting for the pain to fade.

  Of course such actions would merely trigger even more pain in my Umir-abused hands, so it was just as well I didn’t have that recourse. And I wasn’t about to use the slops jar to vent my frustration, because then I’d have to live with the rather messy results.

  Eventually I ran out of curses. The pain diminished. I threw myself onto the bed, hands resting on my chest, and contemplated the blank ceiling overhead, thinking fiercely focused thoughts of such things as sword-dances and sword-dancers, broken oaths, missing fingers, idiots like Umir, absent baschas. And the discipline I’d learned atop the Stone Forest.

  Outside, in Umir’s circle, sword blades rang. I heard voices raised in cheerful insults, vulgar suggestions, the occasional compliment.

  I frowned. There was one voice that sounded familiar.

  I heard it again. The frown dissipated. I recalled sparring matches in one of Rusali’s dusty alleys. With swords and without.

  Inspiration. Motivation.

  I swung out of bed, pulled it away from the wall, turned it on edge, studied the legs. With care I sat on one, my own legs gathered under me. I bounced slightly, and felt the answering crack. Smiling, I stood up, smashed a foot against the leg, and was pleased to see it break off from the frame in one piece. I was left with approximately three feet of wood. One end was slightly jagged, but that didn’t matter. The other end, adzed smooth at the bottom, afforded me a functional grip.

  I set the bed upright again, swinging it around so the legless corner was not obvious to the eye of a visitor, and pushed it once again against the wall. Then I stripped out of house-robe to the linen dhoti. Took up the broken bed leg. Closed my hands upon it. Then, courting patience and self-control, I began the practice forms I had first learned twenty-three years before at Alimat.

  I had worked up a good sweat when I heard the latch rattle. Hastily I slung the leg under the bed and donned the house-robe again, though I didn’t have time to tie the sash. I thought it best not to sit on the bed with only three legs, so I stood in front of it as if I’d just risen. By the time the door opened, I wore a suitably expectant expression. Especially since I wondered if Umir was coming to inspect any other portions of my anatomy.

  A woman entered with breakfast. Even as she set the tray on the floor, they locked her in. Rather than seeming startled or dismayed by her predicament, she merely stepped aside from the tray and made a graceful gesture inviting me to eat.

  She was beautiful in the way of the loveliest of Southron women, small in stature and delicately made, with huge dark eyes, expressive face and hands, and dusky skin set off by blue-black hair hanging loose to her waist. She wore luxurious silks of a brilliant blue-green, and gilded sandals. That she was here for my pleasure was obvious; she wore neither headdress nor veil, and did not affect the extreme modesty of other Southron women. But neither was she overt in any way. Umir’s taste in all things ran to elegance and understatement. Rumor claimed the tanzeer did not like to bed women or men, but took his pleasure in acquiring and owning those things he found intriguing and unique. Sometimes this included people. This woman was definitely unique.

  Once upon a time I would not have questioned her presence in his house or her role. I would merely have enjoyed her. Traveling with Del had made me aware of certain Southron customs that were not judged acceptable by other cultures. Traveling with Del had also filled a place in my soul I hadn’t known existed; I certainly wasn’t blind to other women, nor was I gelded or dead, but appreciation now found outlets other than taking attractive women to bed, be it in my mind or in reality.

  Thus I gazed upon this lovely Southron woman and asked, “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

  Startled out of her poised serenity, she blinked. The faintest of blushes rose in her cheeks. She gestured again, more insistently, to the tray containing breakfast.

  “Later,” I said. “Umir sent you?”

  She nodded, lids lowering long enough to display long dark lashes against her cheeks.

  “Were instructions given?”

  She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Her voice was low and perfectly modulated. “I am to do what you wish and be what you wish.”

  “Is being here in Umir’s house what you wish?”

  The dark brows arched. “But of course. How not? It is better by far than it might be.”

  That was likely true. But still I heard Del’s voice in my head, arguing the point. “Given a choice, would you leave?”

  She was clearly baffled by my line of questioning. “My family was well paid. They live in comfort now. But I live in even greater comfort. Why would I wish to leave?”

  “And when you are instructed to do what a
man wishes, and be what that man wishes, don’t you ever ask yourself if it’s worth it?”

  Unexpectedly, she laughed. “Do you?”

  My turn to be baffled. “What?”

  “When you hire a woman for the night, do you ever ask yourself if it’s worth it?”

  I hadn’t hired a woman since meeting Del. But even before that, when I’d celebrated victories with women and liquor, or with women and no liquor, it had never once occurred to me to ask myself if it was worth it. It was simply what I did. And there were always women who wanted me to do it.

  She saw the answer in my face and smiled. “So, you see. We are not so very different.”

  But I was. Now. Yet there was no possible way to explain it to her. “Thank you for bringing breakfast,” I said, “but I’ll eat alone.”

  She was smiling, certain of me. “And afterwards?”

  “Afterwards, I will also be alone.”

  That surprised her. “You don’t wish my company?”

  It was undoubtedly an insult, but I tried to soften it. “I choose my own companions.”

  A wave of color rose in her face. “Umir believed I would please you.”

  “What would please me, and Umir knows this, is to be given my freedom.”

  She studied me a moment longer, as if expecting me to change my mind. When I said nothing else, merely waited quietly, she finally accepted it for the truth. She turned at once to the door, rapped on it sharply, and slipped out without a backward glance when the guard opened it.

  I listened to the latch being locked behind her. Then I walked to the nearest wall, turned, slid down with my back planted against it. Once upon a time…

  But I regretted no part of my decision.

  I sighed, thumped my head against the wall, shut my eyes. I could hear Umir’s sword-dancers. But all I could think about was Del as I had last seen her, left to the ministrations of a stranger while I was here, waiting to meet a man who would do his best to kill me.

  Nine days, or eight. I should have asked Umir.