Sword-Breaker

by Jennifer Roberson

  Umir spread a hand across the brilliant lining. “Beads,” he whispered softly. “Hundreds and hundreds of beads, colored glass and gold and brass… and feathers, all the feathers, from a hundred thousand birds not even known to the South…” He smiled fatuously, caressing the sunset lining gently as a man caresses a woman’s breast. Beads glittered, rattled. Delicate feathers fluttered. “Worth three domains,” he repeated. “And now a woman to wear it.”

  Deftly, Umir slipped the hood. It, too, was lined with beads of glass, and myriad vivid feathers. But I didn’t care about that. Now her face was naked for everyone to see. Behind me, I heard the rustle; the murmur of Southron men looking upon a Northern woman.

  She was blonde once again, and the skin was honey-fair. She wore white also beneath the burnous: a Northern-style tunic of soft-worked, pristine suede cut to mid-thigh. Legs and feet were bare, emphasizing her pronounced, powerful grace as well as Umir’s victory; no Southron man ever saw so much of a woman—or displayed her so blatantly—unless he slept with that woman, or paid money for her.

  Del did not smile. She didn’t so much as blink. But then, she didn’t have to. She was, in the sunlight, daylight to Sabra’s night. Steel to Sabra’s silk. And everyone there knew it, including Aladar’s daughter.

  Especially Aladar’s daughter.

  A small but worthy revenge.

  Forty

  Sabra stood in a welter of cushions beneath a gauzy sunscreen. “You will swear,” she declared, leaving no room for question. “Swear the oaths of Alimat, that you will honor all the codes as your shodo taught you to.”

  I slanted a sidelong look at Abbu, standing next to me. “Don’t you just love these people who think they know everything?”

  One corner of his mouth twitched, which told me a thing or two. He might be in Sabra’s pay as well as in her bed, but he didn’t necessarily approve of her overacting.

  Sabra’s black eyes glittered. “I know what I know.” She put out a slim, beckoning hand. A small, short-bladed knife was set into her palm. “Elaii-ali-ma,” she said coolly, “as I’ve taken pains to learn.”

  My amusement dropped away. A second more intent glance at Abbu showed me companion consternation in the faint frown and tautening mouth. I assumed he’d taught her the things she knew about Alimat and oaths. But what she touched on now was a private, personal thing only rarely ever addressed once the ritual was done, and then very obliquely.

  She spoke now for the two of us, quietly and with conviction. “I am Aladar’s daughter in all things, save one: I am alive. One day I will die, by assassin or murderer if I do not take certain measures, but for now I am alive. For now I am tanzeer, irrespective of gender. Aladar’s power is mine—” She paused, marking our attentiveness satisfied, she continued, “—as are all his resources, including certain scrolls extolling the virtues of many things, and spelling out the magic necessary to accomplish every goal.” Behind the sheer crimson veil with its weight of golden tassels her young face was coolly tranquil, frightening in itself. “That magic, that power, is knowledge. Because of the scrolls and my father’s prescience, I have that in abundance… and so the power is mine. I choose to wield it now to put order into your lives.”

  Abbu shifted weight slightly. “Sabra—”

  Black eyes blazed abruptly. “You will be silent, Abbu Bensir. We have begun elaii-ali-ma.”

  I stirred in defense, shaking my head. “Only the shodo—”

  “In this, I am the shodo.”

  Abbu and I exchanged a look. Then Sabra made a gesture. Massive eunuchs with knives in their hands stepped up behind us both, impressing upon us—even in silence—that we should mind our manners.

  Clearly, Abbu’s role had altered. He didn’t look very happy. But then, neither was I.

  If Abbu grew very unhappy… anticipation fluttered. The two greatest sword-dancers should quench even Aladar’s daughter, who was, I thought grimly, becoming more of a threat with every passing moment.

  Not stupid, Aladar’s girl. And very dangerous.

  “Elaii-ali-ma,” she repeated, “is required to seal the circle against outside profanation. To seal the dancers inside, until the dance is done.”

  “We know what it is,” I muttered.

  Abbu nodded agreement. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “Then give me your blood,” she ordered.

  I displayed my cloth-wrapped forearm. “Already gave my share.”

  “Then this will take little effort.” She gestured sharply, and two eunuchs grabbed my arm. One of them tore the bandage free and bared the five-inch slice Sabra had put there herself.

  Before I could protest, the little knife flashed out. I swore as it cut in at an angle across the crusted slice. Fresh blood welled. Sabra dipped fingers into it, then dabbed three dots onto Abbu’s forehead. “By the honor of your shodo; by the codes of Alimat: you will not step out of the circle until the dance is finished and one of you lies dead. If you revoke this, if you renounce your personal honor and the honor of your shodo, you are henceforth denied the grace of a shodo-blessed sword-dancer’s circle, whether true or of your own making.”

  A muscle ticked in Abbu’s jaw. “According to the codes, which I swore to live by thirty years ago before the shodo himself, I accept the dance. It shall be as you require, in accordance with all the oaths.”

  She nodded once, then put out a hand. Without the aid of eunuchs, Abbu bared his forearm and watched dispassionately as Sabra sliced into it. He bled less than I had, since he was lacking a prior wound. For myself, I still dripped sluggishly; Abbu’s blood ran in a single runnel until Sabra put fingers in it.

  Three dots on my brow, too, beneath the disheveled hair. “For you, the same,” she declared. “Do you understand the oath?”

  “I suppose I could say no—” But I broke it off abruptly, no longer disposed to humor her in any fashion. “There is one little thing. You mentioned certain provisions.”

  “Ah.” Sabra smiled. “You might call it incentive. I want the dance to be the best there has ever been, with neither man holding back out of old friendships and rivalries. Such things can hamper the effort.” Black lashes lowered briefly, then she looked at Abbu Bensir. “You are to kill him,” she said clearly, “as artistically as you can. I want it to last a long time. Cut him to bits, if you like… carve him apart like rarest meat—but do not waste my time with protestations of loyalty, or a personal need to be merciful by killing him with one stroke.” Her tone went soft, languid. In another woman I’d have said it belonged in bed; I began to wonder if this meant as much to her, or perhaps even more. “I think you know me well enough now to realize what might happen if you don’t do as I say.”

  She was dead serious. Abbu didn’t even blink, but the line of his mouth went tight and pale. He didn’t look at me, because I don’t think he could. He had accepted the dance in accordance with his oaths. Regardless of Sabra’s bloodthirsty designs upon it, he couldn’t forsake the dance, or he would forsake everything he lived for. And Abbu wasn’t the type.

  I opened my mouth to comment, but Sabra was now staring at me. “Hear me,” she said quietly. “I am vengeful and vindictive. I am everything they—and you—have said of me; do you think I’m unaware?” She gripped the knife in one hand, dark knuckles turning pale. “I don’t care about you… not about either of you. Do you understand? I want this for myself, and I will have it my way.”

  I stared back at her, offering nothing. She was in complete control, with the hirelings—and large, attentive eunuchs—to back her up.

  She bared small teeth. “I could kill you out of hand, before every man here—and that woman; would that satisfy you?” When I gave her no answer, she went on without inflection. “Well, it does not satisfy me. I prefer a greater effort.” She held out the knife; one of the eunuchs took it from her. “Hear me, Sandtiger, as I tell you my provisions: Abbu Bensir is to kill you. But you are to kill him.”

  I nodded sagely. “That’s the way a dance
to the death usually works: each man tries to kill the other.”

  Sabra smiled coolly, unperturbed by my insolence. “If you kill him, I will free you.”

  I wanted to spit, but didn’t; settled for laughing out loud. “I don’t believe you for a moment! The entire point of this dance is to execute me.”

  “Is it?” She shook out a fold in her veil. “No, I think not. It’s merely to entertain me—and to prove to all the others I am worthy of my station.”

  I gritted teeth so hard my jaw protested. “Then why—”

  She laughed lustily in amusement, tossing her turbaned head. “You fool—I want a good dance. I want a dance of passion: two men within a circle, servicing one another with steel instead of with flesh.” The amusement faded abruptly, replaced by avid intensity. “Kill him, and you go free. But if he fails to execute you, he shall be killed in your place. I will see to it myself.”

  “You said that already.”

  Sabra’s eyes glinted. “If you fail to entertain me, if you prevaricate to goad me—or dally to conserve your strength—I will stop this dance at once and do worse than have you killed.”

  I laughed. “What is worse?”

  “First, I will geld your horse.”

  It caught me completely off-guard. “My—horse?”

  “Then I will castrate you—and throw you into the mine.” Sabra smiled complacency. “I have your horse. I have your sword—even the magical sword—and also I have you. I learned when I was a child men value their maleness most of all, and that of living possessions… you will lose yours if you fail to entertain me sufficiently, and be left to die in the mine.” A tiny, malicious smile. “I believe you know the mine. You visited it once before.”

  I tasted metal in my mouth. “Leave my horse alone.”

  It was sufficient to make her laugh. And then the laughter died. “You will accept the dance according to the codes you swore to obey. You will uphold the binding vows you made before your shodo.”

  Oh, hoolies, bascha—and you thought your codes were tough!

  I shrugged false negligence. “What else can I do?”

  “Complete the ritual!” she snapped.

  Hoolies, she does know it all.…

  Once again I shrugged. Then said the words she wanted so much, the words Abbu had said as they applied to me, and knew the circle sealed.

  Along with my future. But I don’t know as that mattered so much anymore; Abbu, given his way, would make it very short.

  Or excruciatingly long, depending on your viewpoint.

  I bared my teeth at Sabra. “I’ll see you in hoolies.”

  Sabra smiled back. “You’ll see it before I do.”

  Forty-one

  Sabra herself took Abbu’s sword and Singlestroke out to the circle. Abbu and I both watched, but neither of us saw. We didn’t have time for it.

  I had loosened up as best I could in the room before being brought out into the courtyard. It wasn’t enough after a night spent chained up with no food or water until morning, but I’d done what I could. Overall, I was physically prepared: my once-sore knee was sound, the scar tissue was stretched, shoulders and thighs were loose. And although I didn’t like gravel much, it wouldn’t bother me; the soles of a sword-dancer’s feet are always toughened from years of dancing barefoot.

  I felt pretty good, save for the nagging sting of the freshly reopened slice in my forearm and the smaller cut Sabra had added. But I’d forget all about them once the dance began. You can’t afford to think about anything save the dance itself once you’ve been set into motion.

  I glanced sidelong at Abbu. His eyes were very clear, his expression perfectly calm, betraying no concern with what was about to happen. The Southron body was in good proportion, and the flesh was taut, lacking the telltale signs of liquor or huva abuse. He was older, but still exceedingly fit, with no excess weight or softness or dullness. I knew better than to hope he wasn’t as prepared; Abbu Bensir had not lived this long—or defeated so many men—by being lazy about preparation.

  But he was older. Older than me, of course, but also old; at least for a sword-dancer. It had to be in his mind. And although he’d said more than once I’d changed over the last couple of years; that the North had altered intensity and fitness, a glance at me now would dispel that. (And he had more than glanced, though he’d been very casual about it.) Between my getting sharper from being on the run, and the assistance of Chosa Dei in restoring a battered body, I was hardly a poor opponent. And I was a younger one.

  I smiled. Shook out long, muscled arms; flopped big hands. Laughed a little, very softly, as I briefly worked broad shoulders, tweaking thick neck from side to side. “Should be interesting,” I murmured. “Too bad we didn’t get a chance to lay a wager.”

  “I did,” he retorted. “I’ll let you guess which way I bet.”

  I snickered. “Wise money goes on me.”

  “Not with that sword.”

  “I don’t need a sword.”

  He smiled grimly. “Do you plan to dance with your tongue?”

  “I outweigh you by nearly one hundred pounds.”

  Abbu nodded sagely. “Should slow you down.”

  “Never has before.”

  He watched blood-colored, silken Sabra kneel to lay out his sword. “I’m as fit as I ever was.”

  “I’m as fit as I was at seventeen years old, when I shattered your guard and nearly crushed your throat—does it still hurt? Or ever bother your breathing?—except now I’m a little older, a little wiser—” I paused, “—and a whole lot better.”

  Abbu made no answer.

  I drew in a breath, laughing softly. “Who does she think she is—ordering us to entertain her? Hoolies, Abbu—we’ve done nothing but entertain for—what?—fifty years between us?” I snickered again. “I figure we ought to be pretty flashy for—oh, two engagements?—and then we’ll begin to dance.” I paused. “Dance dance, I mean… the kind from which legends are made.”

  Abbu’s gaze was steady as he looked at me. “He told me one day it would come to this.”

  “Who?”

  “The shodo. At Alimat, one day. When I watched a clumsy chula pretend to be a man.”

  I laughed outright. “Save the games, Abbu. It’s not your style—and anyway, you already told me you were one of the first to suggest I might be better than good.”

  He shrugged. “You are. But so am I. I am Abbu Bensir.” Very slowly, he smiled. “I am the legend against which others measure themselves. Even Sandtigers.”

  Politely, I disagreed. “You’re old,” I said gently. “Old men are slower than young ones, and prone to make mistakes once tired limbs begin to fail. You’re a legend, all right… but the light of that legend usually begins to dim along with an old man’s vision.”

  Abbu’s mouth tightened.

  Before he could respond, I jumped in again. “I’m glad you helped her out so much, telling her all our secrets regarding oaths, and whatnot. Another kind of dance—the normal sort of dance—would have been much too boring. At least this way we get a chance to show Sabra—and everyone else—just what kind of men we are.” I shrugged. “After all, how many sword-dancers can brag about being trained at Alimat? How many of us actually swore the proper oaths?” I nodded. “All that secrecy serves no purpose… after all, there’s no sense in trying to live up to a single shodo’s expectations. Who cares?” I shrugged. “It’s a good thing you brought it all out into the open.”

  The Southron face darkened. “I said nothing—”

  But Sabra’s return cut him off. “Go to the circle,” she snapped curtly, and sat down upon her cushions.

  Abbu gazed blankly at her, still too bound up in what I’d said, and the need to tell me the truth. “Wait—”

  “No.” She pointed. “Waste no more time.”

  “Sabra—”

  “Go,” she hissed, “or I’ll have you carried out there!”

  Laughing quietly, I turned and walked out to the circle. I st
opped this side, letting Abbu walk all the way around, still thinking about what I’d said. I wanted him to think about it as long as he could. A fractured concentration can come in very handy—so long as it isn’t yours.

  I nodded. Assumed stance, arms hanging slack at my sides. I focused eyes, ears, body, narrowing my concentration to just one thing: the opening maneuver. I knew the parameters of the circle, the placement of Sabra’s cushions, the positions of eunuchs and onlookers. Had already judged how fast I could run in gravel, how many steps to the swords, how soon I could scoop mine up.

  Poised, I waited in stillness, quietly gathering strength and the sheer physical power that had served me so many years. If she wanted entertainment—

  I laughed without making a sound.

  Hoolies, what a farce. A single initial parry between Abbu Bensir and me would offer more entertainment than she had a right to see.

  I nodded again, still smiling. Focused on the sword. Refused to look beyond Abbu to Del, who stood across from me in the shade of Umir’s sunshade. I saw the blur of blinding samite, but didn’t look at it. Instead, I thought about the dance. Thought about Abbu. Thought about the move I’d made so many years before, that had nearly crushed his throat.

  Sabra’s voice: “Prepare!”

  I grinned across at Abbu. “Did you teach her that, too?”

  “Dance!” Sabra shouted.

  I was already moving.

  But so was Abbu.

  A true circle for a true dance—as this one was—is fifteen paces in diameter. That means a man can cross one in fifteen strides; seven and a half, to the center. But there’s one thing a lot of Southron sword-dancers forget, when they dance against me: my legs are longer than theirs.

  Abbu, as expected, took seven and a half strides to the center of the circle. I took five.

  I tore the sword from the ground. “Entertain us,” I said, and laughed to see his face.

  Singlestroke lay in the gravel. I had taken his sword.