Sword Bound

Chapter 16

I LOOKED AT MAHMOOD. “I think you’d best move on. It seems we have business, and you’re close to this Marketfield anyway. I’ll find you later for our payment and Neesha’s horse.”

The merchant nodded vigorously and called out orders to his drivers. Del and I let the caravan roll on; Neesha held his place upon the roan mare; and once the caravan passed, the three of us gathered together in the midst of the paved street. There was no mistaking what we were, anymore than we could mistake the other sword-dancer for what he was.

He was blond, hair to his shoulders, tall, broad-shouldered. His burnous was a faded green. As expected, the grip and hilts of a sword jutted up from behind his back.

“Northerner,” Del observed. “But young. Nineteen?”

Quietly I told Neesha, “A choice. Give over the mare or fight him for her.” I paused. “Oh, wait—there’s another possibility: Offer to buy her, even though he doesn’t own her. We’ve got the coin.”

Neesha looked at me. I discovered he was smiling. Not a mouth-stretching, happy smile, but a smaller, subtler one. I had the feeling he wasn’t giving up the mare. Or buying her.

Del, to my right, quietly backed her horse a few steps, rode behind me and fell in on Neesha’s left side. It was a silent solidarity and very clear to anyone looking on. Including the Northern-born sword-dancer.

Heedless of the opposition we offered, he strode swiftly across the street and grabbed the roan mare’s near rein. He stared up at Neesha, plainly angry. “This is Kirit’s horse. What are you doing with her?”

Well, there were several possible answers. Kirit sold her to Neesha, lost her in a wager, or was killed. By me. I wondered which Neesha would offer.

Mounted, my son looked down at the man. His tone was delicately shaded with something akin to sympathy, which I found curious. “Was he your friend?”

That was not what I expected. Apparently neither had the Northerner.

“Is,” he corrected. “Kirit is my friend. Unless you say otherwise.”

“I’m very sorry,” Neesha said quietly. “Your friend met with an accident.”

Hmm. Was Neesha going to lie his way out of a confrontation?

“An accident,” the young man echoed. “What kind of accident would result in the loss of his mare?” He flicked a glance at the sword rising above Neesha’s shoulder, then met the rich, honey-brown eyes of my son. “Did you kill him?”

Silence. Well, there was no help for it. “No,” I said. “I killed him.” I glanced sidelong at Neesha, who looked disappointed. “Well, I can’t help it. He asked.”

Naturally the young man’s attention shifted to me. He released the mare’s bridle, took a step toward the stud. The stud didn’t like it. He snaked out his head and snapped at the sword-dancer, who leaped back with alacrity, swearing.

“Sorry,” I said lightly. “My horse is picky about who his friends are.”

The Northerner attempted to recover his composure by yanking his burnous into order. His eyes, a grayish blue, now were empty of fear. Now were full of anger. “Was it a challenge?” he asked curtly. “Or murder?”

It truly caught me by surprise. “Murder? Why in the name of the gods would I wish to murder him?”

The reply didn’t amuse him. “Then I challenge you.”

He didn’t know who I was; he didn’t say anything about it, didn’t look or act like he knew. I was, obviously, just a stranger, a sword-dancer like any other. It was rather refreshing. “Well,” I said, “I don’t think you want to do this. Really. You shouldn’t. It would not be a good thing.”

“My name is Darrion,” he said. “I challenge you.”

I winced. “You might want to think again.”

“I challenge you.”

“Who was the better of you?” I asked. “You? Or Kirit?”

He lifted his chin. “I.”

I sighed. “Darrion, please reconsider. Kirit and I engaged in a death-dance, as might be obvious. It was fair. He lost. There was no trickery, no murder, no anger in me. It was a sword-dance.”

“A death-dance.”

“Well, yes. Kirit made the challenge, and that’s what he insisted on.” I shrugged. “I did give him the option to ride away.”

“He would never do such a thing!”

I nodded. “And so he is dead.”

Darrion flicked a hard glance at Del. This time he registered what she was. He saw her. “Northerner.”

“Yes,” she replied. Then added, “Trained on Staal-Ysta.”

In its way, the statement was a brag. Not everyone was admitted to the island.

“Sword-singer,” Darrion said.

Del smiled as the white gelding stomped stone. “I am.”

Cheerfully, I added, “I, on the other hand, was trained at Alimat.”

Neesha was not to be left behind. “And I at Beit al’Shahar. By the Sandtiger.”

I very nearly laughed. More luster for the legend. I managed to repress a grin.

Darrion now looked at each of us more carefully. He appeared to reconsider his position. But he had challenged me. Twice and emphatically. Certainly he could unchallenge me. But very few sword-dancers did so. There was this problem called pride. And other sword-dancers were in Istamir, apparently. If word was passed that Darrion refused to dance, shame would attach to his name. His reputation, whatever it was, whatever he hoped it might become, would be sullied. To live, he’d be reduced to working for no-name tanzeers in insignificant domains.

Decision made, Darrion lifted his chin. “Do you accept the challenge?”

Oh, hoolies.

Very quietly, out of the side of his mouth, Neesha said, “Tell him who you are.”

Equally quietly, I murmured, “I don’t think so. Other sword-dancers are in town. I’d like to leave before this turns into a whole series of dances.”

Darrion raised his voice. “Do you accept the challenge?”

I sighed very heavily. “I guess.” I tossed the stud’s right rein to Del, shook my feet free of stirrups, swung a leg across the stud’s broad rump and jumped down. I began to strip out of belt, burnous, sandals, harness.

“Well, if he doesn’t know who you are,” Neesha said. “Maybe the others don’t, either.”

I looked up at him, sword in my hand. “All six of them—well, five, not counting Darrion? And we know from our escorts into town that they’ve talked of looking for me.”

“That doesn’t mean they know who you are. No one expects you to be north of the border.”

“If a man has heard of me, he’s also heard of these.” I tapped my scarred check, then lifted a hand with its missing little finger. “Rather easy to identify me.”

“Well,” Neesha said, “just beat them all.”

Ah, such faith my son had in me. I rolled my eyes, shook my head, stepped out into the street. The paved street. How in hoolies do you draw a circle in a paved street?

“Not here,” Darrion said. “In the Marketfield.”

I glared at him balefully, put my sandals back on, and set off in the direction Mahmood and his wagons had gone. Darrion, astonishingly enough, walked beside me, though not remotely close. Then I realized that he would give no ground that might lessen him in the eyes of others.

Del and Neesha brought up the rear, Del leading the stud. I hoped clothes and harness wouldn’t fall off my saddle along the way. The sword, however, was in my right hand; it wasn’t going anywhere.

I thought I’d make conversation as we walked. “Nice day.”

Darrion said nothing.

“Quite an attractive town, don’t you think? Walls strung with vines and flowers. Adds something.”

No reply. But his expression was stony.

“I’m actually impressed by this town. Very advanced. I’ve never seen a paved street.” I paused. “Do you live here or hail from somewhere else?”

Finally, he looked at me. Glared at me. “No talking.”

I feigned surprise. “Why no talking? I’m just being friendly.”

“You are attempting to distract me.”

I barked a blurted laugh. “No, no…and anyway, a sword-dancer won’t allow his opponent to upset his dance. It’s one of the rules.”

It was no such thing. Just all part of the dance, if a man elected to distract his opponent. Concentration was all. Lack of it lost the dance. Lack of it killed if the dance were to the death.

“I do think it’s an attractive town,” I said cheerfully. “The last time I came north, it was winter. Brrrrrr.” I shivered. “Too cold for me. All that snow and ice. I’m just a Southroner. I need warmth in my bones.” Darrion ground his teeth. A muscle leaped in his jaw. “It was especially cold at Staal-Ysta,” I continued. “I don’t see how anyone can live there.”

That caught his attention. “You’ve been to Staal-Ysta?”

I indicated Del behind me. “With her.”

“Did they admit you to training?”

“That’s not what I was there for.” And it wasn’t. “Besides, a seventh-level sword-dancer doesn’t really require more training.” Which was a lie, but all part of my arsenal. Modest, it wasn’t.

Darrion’s head snapped toward me. “You’re seventh level? From Alimat?”

“I have that honor, yes.”

“Did you know the Sandtiger?”

My brows shot up. I stared quizzically at the Northerner. “Um, yes. I mean, we met a few times.”

“In the circle?”

I supposed it could be said I met myself in the circle. “Sparring, only. Not a true dance. I knew better than to ask it of him.”

Darrion nodded. I had him talking now. “I would like to meet him one day. Not to challenge him, you understand—that would be foolish—but to learn from him. He has much to teach.”

I wanted very badly to turn around and see Del’s and Neesha’s expressions, but I didn’t. I could imagine them, anyway. Pure, unadulterated, and undoubtedly delighted amusement.

“You seem to know your limitations,” I noted. “You wouldn’t challenge him, huh? Well, that’s wise. He’s quite good. The best in the South, in fact. Maybe you’ll meet him someday.”

Darrion’s attention shifted. He gestured. “Marketfield.”

We left behind the buildings, the paved street. Marketfield was huge. An ocean of wagons filled the eye. Some folk would work from the back end of their wagons, setting out wares on a blanket. Others raised stalls with canvas sidewalls, awnings. Grass was beaten into a series of paths winding through and around the wagons, creating aisles. Mahmood was here somewhere. It might be a chore to track him down. Then again, there were three of us. And market folk we could ask.

Darrion gestured again. “This way. There is a practice circle pegged out in the grass.”

I strode next to him. “Hold frequent dances, do they?”

“It’s part of Marketday. People enjoy watching. Some wager on the dances. Do you see? Already we are gaining an audience.”

So we were. The residents knew what was up—they saw two tall, broad-built men carrying swords. I heard excited murmurs rising on the air and calls to summon others to the dance. As we approached the circle, more folk fell in.

The circle was, as Darrion had said, pegged out. It was a proper one, though in packed dirt. Inside the circle, the grass had been worn away years before.

At the closest edge, I set down my sword and unlaced my sandals. One at a time, I tossed them to Del. We shared crooked smiles. Neesha didn’t bother to hide his anticipation. I guess it no longer bothered him that his dance had become mine.

Sandals banished for the moment, I walked to the center of the circle and set down my sword. Even as I did so, Darrion put down his, then retreated to the side opposite me. I shook out my arms, rolled my neck, hunched and lowered my shoulders a few times. Darrion stared at me as if baffled by my actions. As well he could be at his age; it was long before his body would encounter aches and pains.

I raised my voice to call across the circle. “Who has the honor?” He was the challenger; he could name the person who would tell us to begin.

He looked straight at Del, still mounted. “One of my own kind. A Northerner, trained on Staal-Ysta.”

Del nodded matter-of-factly.

My opponent looked around the mass of people surrounding the circle. “My name is Darrion, and I challenge this man.” It wasn’t necessary to challenge me again or to announce his name, but Darrion wished to be dramatic.

Surprising everyone, I walked across the circle and stood very close to him, leaning in. In a low voice, I asked, “Are you certain you wish to do this? Are you absolutely sure?”

Surprised, he stared at me, pulling his head back from my face.

“You can pick up your sword and walk away,” I said. “I’ll do the same.”

He spoke in a hissing undertone. “I will do no such thing!”

“I’m not going to announce my name. But I will tell it to you.” I leaned in even closer, almost speaking into his ear. “You’ve got your wish, Darrion. You’ll dance against the Sandtiger.”

It took a moment for him to comprehend. Eyes opened wide. His mouth loosened. Color fled his face. He stared and stared, hundreds of expressions kindling in his eyes, in his face. He looked very young, did Darrion. Young and stricken.

As I backed away, I spread my hands, shrugging. “You never asked.”

He breathed hard. He looked at paired swords in the middle of the circle. He looked at the crowd gathered to watch, to wager on, the sword-dance. He saw me complete my trip across the circle. He looked again at the spectators, moistened his lips. I recognized the expression on his face: Darrion simply didn’t know what to do.

I took my place across from him. “Ready?”

The crowd had fallen into silence. Darrion looked from one man to another to another. It was too much for him, I knew, to yield before he began. Too many people watching. Other sword-dancers in town. A Northern sword-singer, trained on Staal-Yista. The Sandtiger himself waiting patiently across the circle.

He drew in a very deep breath. Shut his mouth. Firmed his jaw. Lifted his head proudly. “Say it.”

And Del said it: “Dance.”