Sword Bound

Chapter 17

THE BEGINNING IS ALWAYS THE SAME. Instead of the fierce beauty of the dance, there is merely the ability to get to your sword first, to take it up, to disarm your opponent if he’s slower than you; to defend, if you’re slower than he. A fair number of dances have been won and lost in the first few seconds of that charge across the circle, that first grasp and lift of the sword.

We were of a size, Darrion and I. On another day, he might have won the race. But today he did not.

I was of two minds. I could beat him swiftly so I could disappear as swiftly, or I could teach him a lesson more slowly. And I meant that literally: a lesson. As a shodo.

So I compromised.

He came in at me, swinging his sword in a roundhouse maneuver. It was never an effective offense if you’re slow, or unpracticed, or if your opponent knows a thorough defense. He was neither slow nor unpracticed, but I was an opponent who knew a thorough defense. I met his blade with mine, with power, with weight behind it. He did manage to hang on to his blade, though he staggered back a few steps. While he did that, I followed, stepped in too close for swordwork, and met him at the very edge of the circle. He glanced down at the pegs, realized that he was precariously near to stepping out of the circle and thus losing the sword-dance.

“Duck down and sideways,” I said, holding my blow. “Go laterally. Not backwards or you step out of the circle. Not forward, because you’ll end up too close to your opponent. Laterally. Roll if necessary. Somersault if necessary. Just get the hoolies out of way of your opponent’s blade as you move away from the edge of the circle.”

His balance was completely off. It’s difficult to remain in the circle when your feet are nearly on the line and your opponent is in your face. Before he could step outside the confines, I reached out with my left hand, closed it around his right wrist and jerked him toward me, away from the line so he wouldn’t forfeit.

Darrion was astonished that I should do so. It kept him frozen.

“Oh, for the gods’ sake,” I said, annoyed. “Don’t just stand there. Or I’ll push you to the pegs again, and this time all the way out. I won’t save you. You don’t learn anything that way. Dance!”

He was not better than his friend Kirit, no matter what he claimed. But he was probably better than the dance he offered me. I’d completely undermined his confidence by telling him my identity, by pushing him so hard right at the beginning. Which had been precisely my intent.

We danced a bit more, and Darrion recovered a portion of his composure. He was grimly determined to keep up with me. And as he became more confident, more determined, I guided him into a specific maneuver.

I grinned as blades clashed, and mine went wheeling across the circle. I heard the huge gasp, the indrawn breaths of shock from the crowd. Even Darrion was astonished.

His sword dipped. He hesitated a fraction. I leaped in, clamped my left hand around his wrist, closed my right hand over the hilt, and ripped the sword from his hand. Within a minute it sat in my hand the way it was supposed to.

At arm’s length, I placed the tip against his chest, right where his heart beat. “Think ahead,” I said. “Think it through. See it in your head before you ever have to use it.”

He stood unmoving; wise for a man with a sword tip at his chest. “You released it on purpose,” he accused. “Your sword. You planned that.”

“That’s what you must do. Plan it. Think ahead. Think it through. See it, and when you must, you will use it. But you have to remember one thing.”

He stared at me, asking with his eyes.

“You have to be as skilled, or better, than your opponent. Because someone else who loses his sword and then takes yours may not be as forgiving as I am today.” I backed up, put out my left hand without looking, and my sword grip was slapped against my palm. I flipped both blades into the air, crossing one another in front of me. I caught them both, his in my left, mine in my right. “Think it through, Darrion. See it. Use it. But only when you’re ready.”

I tossed him his sword and walked out of the circle.

Mahmood found us, instead of the other way around. He waited politely as I laced up my sandals, dressed, then took the stud’s reins from Del. I’d have ridden, but Mahmood was on foot, and I thought it would be rude. He led us to his wagons so we could pick up Neesha’s horse, hand over the silks and spices, and get paid the second half of our fee.

The crowd had thinned out, though for a bit I was trailed by kids as we walked through the aisles until one or both parents caught up and dragged them away. Del and Neesha had put Mahmood and me in between them as they rode and we walked, forming a human and equine shield. They knew very well I didn’t want to deal with anymore sword-dancers, but the other five would certainly look for me if told I was here. Word would be passed. Istamir’s inhabitants didn’t need to know my name; all they had to do was describe the claw marks in my face.

Del, Neesha, and I came to a halt when Mahmood indicated that we should. Del and Neesha dismounted, and the three of us began pulling packets out of saddle pouches. Mahmood handled the muslin-wrapped silk rolls as if they were children, welcoming them back. With great care he unrolled the silks, shook them out, spread them across the tailgate of his wagon. Even I had to admit the panoply of colors with a spark of silver throughout was beautiful.

He lifted the top length of silk, smelled it, then looked at me mournfully. “They smell of spice.”

Del, standing near, went to look. She lifted a corner of silk to her face, then put it down again. “As I told you, scented silk is not necessarily a bad thing. Charge more for them.” Once again she ran a hand over the dark blue length of fabric. Silver thread glittered in the sunlight. “They’ll pay.”

Mahmood nodded. “Yes, it’s possible; I have thought on it. We shall see. And now the spices?”

We dug through the pouches and unearthed the small bags, handing them to Mahmood and two of his men. The scent of cinnamon wafted into the air. Once done packing them into modest wooden boxes, Mahmood handed a small leather bag to me.

“The balance of your fee,” he said. “And now I have something else for you.” He gestured to his wagons. “You have done us a great service. I would like to return it, even though it is a modest service. My men and I discussed this, and we would like to offer our wagons to you for tonight’s sleeping.”

I think all three of us were utterly astonished. I certainly was.

“You will be sought,” Mahmood said to me directly. “You can’t risk an inn.”

“Uh,” was about all I could manage.

“Sleep the night in the wagons. My men offer to sleep on the ground.” His attitude became diffident as he looked first at me, then at Del. “Please, accept my apologies. There is room only for one in each wagon.”

Del and I exchanged a glance. “I think we can manage one night sleeping alone,” I said dryly. “But—?”

“As I said. You have already danced twice since we left Julah. You are going on in the morning, yes?”

I nodded. “At first light.”

“Well then, sleep this night in peace. They won’t think to look for you here. But there is one other thing.” He was diffident again. “I would advise you tie your horses at other wagons. I have spoken to three merchants I know, and they are willing to host your mounts for the night. If all are left here, it would draw attention. Especially the white horse.”

“He’s right,” Del said. “Neesha’s got that sword-dancer’s roan, a color not often seen, and I the white gelding, seen even less.”

Neesha added, “And even a line-backed dun isn’t all that common. Plus he’s a stallion. If we tie them elsewhere, sleep in Mahmood’s wagons, we’ll be safer than anywhere else. However…” Neesha raised his brows at Mahmood. “I do have plans for the evening. And it might entail sleeping in someone else’s bed, so I wouldn’t need the wagon.”

Mahmood was taken aback for one moment, and then he understood. He allowed himself a small smile. “Several beds, perhaps?”

Neesha grinned at him. “That would work.” Then he caught my expression. “Nobody knows me. And I’ll walk to that wolf cantina so there’s no horse to draw attention. Though people probably don’t know my own horse anyway.”

All he said was true. Remove Neesha from my presence—and Del’s, since she was well-known as the Sandtiger’s woman—and he probably could go anywhere without a second thought. “You might take your harness and sword off,” I suggested. “One less thing by which to identify you. Besides, I don’t think that’s the kind of dancing you mean to do.”

Neesha laughed. “Not exactly, no.” He smiled at Mahmood. “Where should I take the roan and the bay?”

“Leave the bay,” I said. “I think you’re right that he wouldn’t be recognized. Just take the roan. That way we’ll at least have one mount here.”

Mahmood said, “My men will take them where they should go.”

“Um,” I said. “That may not be such a good idea. The stud now and then isn’t friendly to strangers.”

“I’ll take him,” Neesha said. “I can do that much before I go in search of lovely women.” Thus the stud went with my son while the roan and Del’s white gelding were taken elsewhere by two of the drivers.

Del was not a sound sleeper. She woke up as the wagon creaked. “It’s me,” I said quietly, fighting briefly with the snugged and tied tailgate flap.

There was no light, save from the moon, the stars, and the dying fires throughout the Marketfield. But with the back flap closing behind me, I couldn’t see her.

With a note of surprise in her voice, she said, “Why are you here?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Where in hoolies are you?”

“The sleeping platform. Where people sleep. Where I had been sleeping. That’s what it’s for.” She paused. “It’s truly not big enough for two.”

I groped my way forward, following her voice. “I know that. I was on a platform in another wagon. But there must be room on the floor.”

“You want to sleep on the floor?”

“I want us to sleep on the floor—dammit!”

“What?”

I swore twice more. “I just caught my little toe on something. Why is it the most insignificant toe of all ten is the one that hurts the most?” Bent over with arms outstretched, I took smaller, more careful steps. “Say something.”

“Why?”

“So I can find you.”

She muttered something under her breath. In Northern, so I couldn’t decipher it. Once, I was able to; I could read all books and speak all languages when ioSkandi’s magic was in me. But not anymore. I’d rid myself of it all.

“Just stay there, Tiger.” I heard movement, the sound of rustling fabric. “All right. Bedding is on the floor.”

“Are you on the floor with it?”

“If you insist.”

“That is why I came over here.”

More rustling. “Yes, I am on the floor.”

More careful movement from me. I found a leg. Progress. I crawled into a position right beside her, snuggled down beneath the covers and fit myself to her. “Ahhhh. Much better.”

Silence for a long moment. Then she said, with a subtle ripple of wonder in her tone, “Could you really not sleep without me nearby?”

“Well,” I said, “actually, it was the crying baby in the next wagon.”

Del snickered. “A likely story.”

“There was a crying baby in the next wagon.”

“Hah. That’s not why you came.”

I set my mouth on the flesh below her left ear. “There’s nothing wrong with a man wishing to sleep with the woman he loves.”

“Even if it means he’s crushing the woman he loves?”

I took the hint and adjusted my position. “Better?”

“Somewhat. It will do.” She yawned. “Go to sleep, Tiger.”

I smiled into darkness. Sleep came softly.