Sword Born ss-5

by Jennifer Roberson

  "No," the man said, and cuffed me yet again.

  Three times was more than I let anyone whack me, given a choice. So I ducked, rolled, came up with one of his ankles in my hands. Twisted, yanked the leg up, avoided the off-balanced sweep of his sword, cranked the ankle back on itself and dumped him on his butt.

  Of course, they stopped all that pretty quickly. Someone threw Del facedown onto the sand and sat on her, one hand knotting up her hair in a powerful grip while the other oh so casually set the knifeblade across the side of her neck; three other men landed on top of me. By the time we’d sorted all of that out, I was scummed with sand once more, and grass, and my belly was turning backflips. I discovered myself on my knees — again — while two of the larger men gripped my wrists one-handed and yanked my arms out from my sides, blade edges balanced lightly but eagerly on sand-dusted ribs, muscle, and scar tissue now standing up in rigid washboard relief, since the renegadas had me all stretched out in the air as if I were a hide to be dried in the sun.

  Del, sprawled face-down, managed to turn her head in my direction. Slowly. Carefully, so as not to invite repercussions. She spat out sand, a piece of grass. "Nice move," she commented briefly. "Forgive me if I don’t thank you."

  "He deserved it." I smiled benignly at the big, tanned man who sat on his rump in the sand, cursing, nursing a twisted ankle. Like the woman, he had an accent; none of the others had spoken. I noticed for the first time that he was bald, or shaved his head. Also that the head was tattooed. "And don’t do it again."

  He arched incredulous eyebrows. The woman burst out laughing. Like the others, she carried a sword. Like the others, she was tanned and tattered by wind, salt, and sun. Her hair, trailing down her back in a tangled half-braided tail, was a flamboyant red. The eyes beneath matching brows were hazel. And every bit of visible skin on face, arms, and legs was thickly layered in freckles.

  "Better not," she said to the tattooed man. "He is a dangerous fool, this fool."

  "With a weak belly," he growled.

  Well…yes.

  Del, cheek pressed hard against the ground, asked, "Do jhihadis have weak bellies?"

  "I’m glad everyone here is having such a good time at my expense," I complained. "And what in hoolies do you people want, anyway? As you can see by the state of what remains of our clothing, we aren’t exactly weighed down with coin. Or jewels. Or even weapons." I glared at the woman. "And just how did you find us, anyway? We didn’t leave any tracks." In fact, we’d been extremely careful about that, and neither Del nor I were precisely bad at being careful. We’d traded sand for grass as soon as possible, and moved with deliberation rather than carelessness.

  The red-haired woman grinned, crinkling sun-weathered skin by pale eyes. Her teeth were crooked. "There is only one place with good water," she said simply. "We knew any other survivors would come here. So we sailed around the island, hopped overboard, and waited." She flicked an amused glance at Del. "And so you came, and here we are. Dancing this dance."

  She didn’t mean that kind of dance, although I’d just as soon she did. Because then I’d have a sword. But for the moment I focused on something she’d said. "Other survivors?"

  She jerked her chin up affirmatively. "The man cursing us — and crying — about his lost ship."

  "Ah. The captain." I indicated Del with a tilt of the head. "You can let her up, you know, before the fat man suffocates her." Most of the meaty bulk sitting atop Del’s spine appeared to be muscle, not fat, but an insult is worth employing any time, regardless of the truth. "I don’t think either of us is going anywhere."

  "But you are," the woman said lightly. "You are coming aboard our ship."

  "Thanks anyway, but I’d just as soon not. The last one I was on had an accident."

  The man I’d dumped got up. He tested his sore ankle, shot me a malevolent green-eyed glance from under bronze-brown brows — which were neither shaved nor tattooed, but were, I noted with repulsed fascination, pierced with several silver rings — then scowled at the woman. "Well?"

  She considered him. Considered me. "Yes. He is nearly as big as you. It will be less trouble."

  "Good." The man took three strides across the sand and smashed a doubled fist into the side of my jaw. "Oh, dear," he cried in mock dismay, "I have done it again!"

  Fool, I said inside my head, not definitively certain if I meant him or me — and then the world winked out.

  I came to, aware we were on a ship again, because after two weeks I was accustomed to the wallowing. I lay there with my eyes shut and my mouth clamped tightly closed, tentatively asking my body for some assurances it was going to survive.

  It was. Even my stomach. For a change.

  This ship smelled different. Handled differently. Moved with a grace and economy that reminded me of Abbu Bensir, a sword-dancer of some repute who was smaller than I, and swift, and very, very skilled. A man whom I’d last seen in the circle at Aladar’s palace, which had become Aladar’s daughter’s palace, when I had shattered every oath I’d sworn, broken every code of an Alimat-trained, seventh-level sword-dancer, and become something other than I’d been for a very long time.

  We’d settled nothing, Abbu and I, after all. He still believed he was best. I believed I was. And now it would never be settled, that rivalry, because I could never dance against him to settle it. Not properly. Not where it counted. Because he would never profane his training, his sword, his honor, by accepting a challenge, nor would he extend one.

  Of course, at this particular moment, none of that really mattered because my future might not last beyond the balance of the day.

  "You there?" I croaked.

  I heard movement, a breath caught sharply. Then, "Where else would I be?"

  Ah. She was alive. I cracked an eyelid, opened the other. Rolled my skull against the decking so I could look at her. She sat across from where I was sprawled on my back on the deck of a tiny cabin, her spine set against the wall. There were no bunks, no hammocks. Not even a scrap of blanket. No wonder my bones ached.

  "How long?"

  "Not long. They lugged you on board, dumped you in here, pulled up the anchor, and off we sailed."

  "The door bolted?"

  "No."

  "No?" I shot her a disbelieving scowl. "Then what in hoolies are you doing in here?"

  Del smiled. "Waiting for you to wake up."

  I put a hand to my jaw, worked it gingerly. I could still chew, if carefully — so long as they bothered to feed us. I undertook to sit up and managed it with muffled self-exhortations and comments to the effect that I was getting too old for any of this.

  "Well, yes," Del agreed.

  I jerked upright. "The stud!"

  She poked a thumb in the air, hooking a gesture. "Back there."

  I scratched at sand-caked stubble and scars. "How’d they get him on board? I figured he’d never go anywhere near a ship again —"

  "They didn’t. ’Back there’ means — back there. The island."

  I

  "They left him there?!"

  Del nodded solemnly.

  "Oh, hoolies…" That image did not content me in the least. Poor old horse, poor old lame horse, poor old lame and battered horse left to fend for himself on an island —

  "With fresh water," Del said, "and grass."

  She never had liked him much. "Don’t you dare tell me —"

  "— he’ll be fine," she finished. "All right. I won’t. But he will be."

  "We’ll have to get back there and find him," I said gloomily. Then I frowned at her. "Are you all right? Did they hurt you?"

  Del’s expression was oddly amused, but she did not address the reasons. "I’m fine. No, they didn’t."

  "Did any of those men —"

  "No, they didn’t."

  "Did any of the men waiting here on board ship —"

  "No, they didn’t." Del arched pale brows. "Basically they’ve pretty much just ignored us."

  "Nobody ignores you, bascha." I tri
ed to stretch some of the kinks out of my spine, winced as drying scrapes protested. And Del had her share, as well. "How’s your arm?"

  "Sore."

  "How’s the rest of you?"

  "Sore."

  "Too sore to use a sword?"

  "Had I one, I could use it."

  Had she one. Had I one. But we didn’t. "Well, I guess now you can say that for the first time in your life a man took you seriously."

  That set creases into her brow. "Why?"

  "Because the minute I moved, that fat man sat on you. No one was about to let you try a move on anyone." I displayed teeth in a smug grin. "How’s it feel to be treated like a man, instead of dismissed as no threat at all?"

  "In this case," she began, "it feels annoying."

  "Annoying?"

  "Because if they’d ignored me, assuming I was incapable of defending you or myself because I am a woman, I might have been able to accomplish something." She rested her chin atop doubled knees. "I think it has to do with the fact their captain is a woman."

  "She’s their captain?"

  "Southroner," she murmured disparagingly. "There you go again. And here I thought I’d trained you out of that."

  Dangerous ground. I retreated at once. "Well, did they say anything about what they wanted us for?"

  Del’s eyes glinted. She knew how and why I’d come to change the topic so swiftly. "Not yet."

  "Well, we’re not tied up, and the door isn’t bolted — what say we go find someone and ask?"

  "Lead on, O messiah."

  This messiah led on. Slowly.

  The red-haired woman was indeed the captain of the ship. She explained that fact briefly; explained at greater length, if succinctly, that despite what we might otherwise assume, it was perfectly permissible for either Del or I or even both of us to try to kill her, or her first mate — she indicated the shaven-headed, ring-browed, tattooed man standing a few paces away, smiling at me — or any of the other members of her crew because, she enumerated crisply: first, if we were good enough to kill any of them, they deserved to die; second, if we tried and failed, they’d simply heave us over the side; and third, if we somehow managed, against all odds and likelihoods, to succeed in killing every single one of them, where would we go once we had?

  The first point annoyed me because it presupposed we weren’t good enough to kill any of them. The second part did not appeal to a man who could not swim, and now had no horse to do it for him. The third point depressed that same man because she made perfect sense: Del and I couldn’t sail this ship. And unless we killed every man aboard once we killed their captain, we wouldn’t even get a chance to try to sail this ship.

  An idea bloomed. I very carefully did not look at Del.

  The woman saw me not looking, saw Del not looking back, and laughed. "That is why he is chained up," she said, grinning broadly, "in a locked cabin."

  Del and I now exchanged looks, since it didn’t matter. So much for the captain of our former ship, who likely could tell us how to sail our present one. If we killed everyone else first, starting with this captain and her colorful first mate.

  "You can try to get him out, I suppose," the woman said musingly, "but we would immediately kill him, which would undoubtedly upset him, and then where would you be?"

  "Where are we?" I asked, irritated. She wasn’t taking any of this seriously.

  "Oh, about five days’ sail from Skandi," she answered, "and a lot more than that from wherever you came from." True. "Now, to business: Who in this world would pay coin to keep your hides whole?"

  Promptly, Del and I pointed at one another.

  "No, no," the woman declared crossly, "that is unacceptable. You cannot pay her ransom"— this was to me —"because you have nothing at all to pay with; and she cannot pay your ransom"— a glance at Del —"because she does not either." She arched coppery brows and indicated the ocean beyond the rail. "So, shall I have you heaved over the side?"

  "How about not?" I countered, comprehending a distinct preference for staying put on deck.

  "Why not?" The woman affected melodramatic puzzlement. "You have no coin, you have no one but one another to buy your hides, and you are no use to anyone at all as sailors." She paused. "What would you do with you?"

  The tattooed sailor grunted. "Shall I tell you, captain?"

  "How’s your ankle?" I asked pointedly.

  "How is your jaw?" he asked back.

  "Boys," Del muttered in deep disgust, which elicited a delighted grin from the — female — captain.

  "No, I want them to tell me." She rode the deck easily as the boat skimmed wind-ruffled waves, thick tail of hair whipping down across one delicate shoulder. "If they can."

  "I’m sure I can think of something," I offered. "Eventually."

  "Well, when you do, come back and see me." The woman flapped an eloquent hand. "Now, run along and play."

  FOUR

  I settled on fat coilings of heavy rope and looked at Del, who stood at the stem of the ship with her back to the rail. Wind whipped her hair into a shrouding tangle until she caught and braided it, then stuffed the plait beneath the neckline of her tunic.

  We consulted quietly, but with precision. "So, what do we know, bascha?"

  "There are eight men, and one woman."

  All eight men and the woman were busy sailing the boat through roughening waters and a potential storm, judging by the look of the sky; we’d made certain before taking up our present positions no one was close enough to hear. "And three prisoners."

  "One of whom could sail this ship, but is chained and locked into a cabin." She paused. "While the other two are seemingly without recourse."

  "Seemingly, yes. For the moment." I considered the odds. "Eight men, one woman. Nine swords we know about, probably more; double the number of knives and assorted stickers, I’d bet."

  "And any number of things with which to bash us over the head," Del added.

  "Yes, but those items are just as available to us." I patted the top coil of rope, thinking of chains and hooks and lengths of wood. "We can improvise almost anything."

  She crossed her arms, swaying elegantly with the motion of the ship. "An option," she agreed, though she did not sound convinced. "And?"

  "And…" I tongued the inside of my cheek where the splinter had pierced it. "Men are frequently taken by you, my Northern bascha. If the captain were male —"

  "She isn’t."

  "No, but —"

  "She also isn’t so stupid as to be taken in by false advances."

  "How do you know?"

  "A woman who captains her own ship — and a crew of eight males — is likely immune to such blandishments as a man might devise, who hopes to win her favor merely to serve himself." Del caught her balance against the rail. "She is a killer, Tiger. She would not have survived to captain a ship — and this crew of eight males — if she lacked wisdom or ability."

  "But she might be taken unawares," I countered, "with just the right man. Command gets lonely after awhile."

  "She might," Del conceded eventually, "and you do have a full complement of what some women call charm —"

  "You certainly seem to."

  "— so it’s likely worth a try."

  I contemplated her expression. Inscrutable. "Well?"

  Del’s mouth twisted briefly. "I saw you looking at her. I think you would not be opposed to undertaking this option."

  I opened my mouth, shut it. Began again. "If she were ugly, she wouldn’t believe it."

  "An attractive woman is more accustomed to such things, and therefore is prepared for unwanted advances. And defeats them."

  I knew a little about that myself. "But if the woman carries a sword, knife, and whatever else she might have hidden on that body, a lot of men wouldn’t consider making any advances at all." Not if he wanted to keep his gehetties.

  "Which means it is left to the woman," Del said. "As it was left to me."

  I jerked upright. "What?"

&
nbsp; "It was."

  Bruises, stiff muscles, and various scrapes protested my too-hasty motion. "Gods of valhail, woman, you were cold as a Northern lake when we met!"

  "When we met, I wanted only a guide."

  "That’s what I mean. Ice cold. That was you."

  "Arrogant," she said. "A braggart. A man who believed women belonged only in his bed."

  I relaxed again, leaned against elbows propped on rope and stretched out reef-scoured legs. "All I ever claimed was to be the best sword-dancer in the South. Being honest isn’t arrogant, and mentioning it from time to time serves a purpose in the right company. As for believing women belong only in my bed, well…" I cleared my throat. "I think it’s fair to say there are indeed times when a woman in my bed is a worthwhile, um, goal." I waggled eyebrows at her suggestively. "Wouldn’t you agree?"

  "Which is why it was I who had to convince you to get into mine."

  "You did not —"

  "Oh, you put on a good show, all that bragging you did about being the infamous Sandtiger, feared by men and beloved by women —"

  "Hey!"

  "— but when it came right down to it, when it came to the doing, you were reluctant."

  "Was not."

  "Were so."

  I considered mentioning ten or twenty names I could rattle off without stopping to think about it, just from the year before Del showed up, but decided even as I opened my mouth that names of women were not truly the issue, and if I named them, I might get myself in trouble. "If I was reluctant — and that’s not an admission I was, mind you — it was because you’d been very clear about wanting only a guide." I sniffed. "For a woman who rarely explains anything, you were definitely clear on that point."

  "That is my point," she said. "When I let you know there could be more between us, you ran the other way."

  "Did not."

  "Did so."

  Impasse. Finally I asked, "What does any of this have to do with getting off this boat? In one piece?"

  "Your plan seems to entail seduction."

  "I said it was an option, yes. And it is. One of the oldest in whatever book you care to read." Which meant it might not work; then again, it had been used with success enough times to end up in the book.