Sword Sworn

ELEVEN

By the time we reached the place Rafiq identified as Umir’s somewhere near sundown, I was tired, thirsty, hungry, sunburned, and more than a little sore from a long ride with my hands tied, not to mention the residual debilitating effects of sandtiger poison. Most of it had worked its way out of my system — and this was my third encounter, so my reaction was somewhat lessened — but I wasn’t exactly feeling myself. Rafiq and his friends had given me water along the way, but they didn’t claim a spare burnous among them, so all I had to wear was my dhoti. Not to mention I hadn’t eaten for a couple of days thanks to the sandtiger attack, and now that the worst of the sickness had passed my belly was complaining.

Last time I’d looked, Umir had concentrated his holdings farther north. It was very unlike him to take himself so far south. But he was a tanzeer who enjoyed buying all manner of items he deemed worthy of his collections, and I guess domains qualified. For all I knew he’d added five or six since I’d sailed for Skandi.

The house was, I decided as we approached, fairly modest for a man of Umir’s wealth and tastes, being little more than a series of interconnected, low-roofed rooms built of adobe, the pervasive mudbrick of the South, with timber roofs. Except Umir had had his adobe smoothed into silken slickness and painted pristine white with lime, so it glowed in the sun. Tall palm trees formed clustered lines of sentinels around the house, and masses of vegetation peeped over courtyard walls, indicating there was good access to water. Which I saw proved as we rode into the front courtyard: a three-tiered fountain spilled water into a large tile basin. This was wealth incarnate. Trust Umir to find water at the edges of the Punja.

Thirst reestablished itself. I wanted nothing more than to fall into the fountain, but good old Ozmin and Mahmood still had me closely leashed. Rafiq tracked down a servant, explained his business, and within a matter of moments we were politely invited to dismount in the cobbled, shaded courtyard. The horses were taken away by grooms. Damp cloths were presented to Rafiq and his two friends to wipe off the worst of the trail dust; I was ignored. Ozmin and Mahmood still shadowed me on either side, leashes coiled in their hands. In dhoti, dust, sunburn, and sweat, I was definitely at a disadvantage when it came to presentability.

We were permitted into the house and left to wait in a reception room of airy spaciousness, with tile floors and colorful tribal rugs. Priceless items were set in nooks and adorned walls. Low tiled tables displayed other items, including thin, colored glass bowls and bottles, which I found more than a little risky with numerous careless sword-dancers trooping through the house. But maybe that was part of the appeal for Umir.

After a suitably lengthy wait intended to intimidate lesser personages, Umir’s steward appeared. Said steward then led us through the reception room out into what I thought was a courtyard off the back of the house. Except I discovered it was nothing like. The back of the house was constructed of plain walls bowing out from the main house like a bubble. Thick, curved walls approximately six feet high. No exposed bricks. No adornment. No windows. No vegetation. No fountains. No nothing, except elegantly curving walls that met precisely opposite where we were standing, and imported silk-smooth Punja sand raked into perfection.

A circle.

A very large circle, more expansive than a proper sword-dance required; I suspected the sword-dancers not fighting a given match would stand against the walls to watch. There was no danger in doing so; a man who stepped out of the circle drawn in the sand forfeited the match, and we all of us had learned to dance in close quarters. That was part of the beauty, the art, and the challenge.

Umir, I realized with a start of surprise, had had the house built with his sword-dancer contest in mind. If it were true he intended to hire the winner for life — or at least for the balance of his professional career — it was no surprise sword-dancers would come from all over the South. Likely at retirement Umir would settle some land and a dwelling on him; not a bad job at all. I’d even be interested myself, if I weren’t scheduled to be the post-dance entertainment.

Waiting in the sun surrounded by white-painted walls wasn’t my idea of fun, especially since I was tired enough my eyes kept trying to cross. I scrubbed with bound hands at the sweat and dust filming my face and considered plopping myself down in the sand, then eyed Ozmin and Mahmood and decided against it. But as Rafiq and his friends grew impatient enough to start complaining, the master of the house appeared.

Umir the Ruthless was a tall, slender, aristocratic man with high cheekbones, arched nose, and dark skin, all classic features of a Southroner save for his eyes, which were a pale gray. I’d always assumed Umir had some Borderer in him. As was habitual, he wore robes of the finest fabrics. The toes of soft, dyed-leather slippers peeked out from under the bullioned hems.

He spoke to Rafiq, but didn’t look at him. His gaze was fastened on me. "Well done."

Rafiq had never claimed any subtlety. "When do we get paid? Now, or after he’s dead?"

Umir was unruffled. "Oh, now, of course. I’ll have my steward tend to it." He assessed me with a faint smile. "Well, Sandtiger… the last time we met, I wished to acquire your woman. Does it please you to know I now wish to acquire you?"

"Depends on what you want me for," I answered. "Now, if it was me you wanted to hire for lifetime employment, we could probably work something out. But if I’m meant to be dessert, probably not."

One brow lifted delicately. "Dessert?"

"I told him what you plan," Rafiq offered. "How he’s to be the reward for the winner."

"Oh, but you should have left that to me," Umir murmured. "You have deprived me of amusement." Apparently he’d made some kind of signal, because two large men appeared from the house. Umir indicated them with a negligent gesture. "Rafiq, you and your friends are free to avail yourselves of my hospitality with the other sword-dancers, in the visitor’s wing. This particular guest is now the responsibility of my house."

I just love the way a cultured man finds euphemisms for everything. Guest. Hah.

Ozmin and Mahmood were happy enough to hand over the leashes to Umir’s large servants. The steward presented a coin pouch to Rafiq and led them back inside. Which left me outside with Umir, and my two keepers.

The tanzeer’s expansive gesture encompassed his circle. "Do you like it?"

He waited expectantly. I hitched one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Rather attractive in a spare, unassuming sort of way."

"Oh, yes. Very minimalist. No distractions that way. Merely the pure, elegant art of the sword-dance."

He had not brought me out here to discuss the attractions of his architecture but to impress upon me this was to be where I died. I thought again of sitting down, or asking if I could go back out front and fall face-first into the fountain. Did neither, under Umir’s examination.

The tanzeer’s nostrils flared with distaste. "Why is it whenever I see you, you are in a state of utter filth and dishabille?"

I smiled winningly. "I lead an active life."

He made a dismissive gesture. "Well, for a short time, at least, you shall enjoy the best my poor house has to offer. Scented baths, oils, the finest of food and wine, comfortable lodgings; even women, if you like. I do not stint my guests."

At this point, wobbly as I was, it all sounded wonderful — except for the women. Well, even they sounded wonderful in the abstract. (Once upon a time the women wouldn’t have been abstract at all, but Del had reformed me.)

"I’m not a guest," I said. "I’m dessert."

Umir smoothed the front of his figured silk overrobe with a slender hand weighted with rings. "I would be remiss if I offered my other guests dessert lacking in piquancy. By the time you step into the circle, you will be well fed, rested, and fit."

"Hasn’t anyone told you?" I asked. "I can’t step into a circle anymore. That’s the whole point of elaii-ali-ma."

He waved that away. "Call it what you wish. A square, if you like. But you will fight for me, Sandtiger. As only you can."

I lifted brows. "What’s in it for me? What possible motivation would I have for meeting the winner of your little contest?"

Umir’s eyes and tone were level. "Until last year, you were a man of honor. An Alimat-trained, seventh-level sword-dancer of immense skill and repute. I saw what took place at Sabra’s palace, how you stopped the dance against Abbu Bensir and declared elaii-ali-ma. It was for the woman, was it not? The Northern woman. Well, I understand her worth. Not for the same reason, perhaps, but that hardly matters. You made an outcast of yourself for her sake. It had nothing to do with disenchantment with the oaths you swore, the life you chose. You may deny it now, to me, but when you step into that circle — and it will be a circle — you will recall those oaths. They will once again rule your life. You will dance, Sandtiger — and yes, I do mean dance — because you will have no other choice. It is all you know. It is what you are. And you will die with whatever honor you may make of your last dance."

Umir was right. With my life at stake, I would not refuse to dance. But… "You know, I’m getting really, really tired of everyone assuming I’ll lose."

The tanzeer stared at me with the faintest of puzzled frowns.

I spelled it out for him. "I might win, Umir. What happens then?"

He shook his head. "I have been given to understand that it is an impossibility you might win."

"Oh? Why? Did you ask Rafiq? Someone else? How can anyone be sure what will happen?" I took one step toward him, as much as I was willing to risk while on doubled leashes. "What if I win, Umir? What happens then?"

He was baffled. "But you have broken all your oaths. It was explained to me."

I laughed. "Yes, but broken oaths and loss of honor does not necessarily translate to loss of skill."

Clearly Umir had never considered I might win. Clearly none of the sword-dancers he’d consulted considered I might win. Which is just the way I liked it.

"So," I said, "does the deal apply to me? I win, and you offer me employment?"

His face was very stiff. "I find it highly unlikely you would win.

I lifted brows. "Why? Do you intend to drug me?"

Color stained his cheeks. "Of course not! I am not Sabra, who was interested only in punishing and killing you. I want a true dance. A true winner. There will be no trickery."

"Your winner won’t dance with me," I said. "He’ll fight me. He’ll attempt to kill me. And I will do my very best to kill him. And if I do, I expect some reward for it. Something more than dessert."

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 night-crock — 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.