Piers Anthony - Sos the Rope

"I don't understand."

It was her turn for bitterness. "You understand!"

"You have a strange system of accounting."

"It is his system, not mine. It doesn't fit into your numbers."

"Why not pick on some other man for your purpose?"

"Because he trusts you-and I love you."

He could offer no rebuttal to that statement. Sol had made the original offer, not her.

"I will leave now, if you ask me," she whispered. "No screaming, no trouble, and I will not come again."

She could not afford the gesture. She had already won. Wordlessly he clasped her and sought her lips and body.

And now she held back. "You know the price?"

"I know the price."

Then she was as eager as he.

CHAPTER NINE

In the spring Sol reappeared, lean and scarred and solemn, toting his barrow. More than two hundred men were there to greet him, tough and eager to the last. They knew his return meant action for them all.

He listened to Tyl's report and nodded matter-of-factly. "We march tomorrow," he said.

That night Sav came to share his tent again. It occurred to Sos that the staffer's departure and return had been remarkably convenient, but he did not comment directly. "Your bracelet got tired?"

"I like to keep moving. 'Bout run out of ground."

"Can't raise much of a family that way."

"Sure can't!" Say agreed. "Anyway, I need my strength. I'm second staff now."

Yes, he thought forlornly. The first had become second, and there was nothing' to do but abide by it. The winter had been warmer than the spring.

The tribe marched. The swords, fifty strong, moved out first, claiming their privilege as eventual winners of the point-score tournament. The daggers followed, winners on index, and then the sticks, staffs and clubs. The lone morningstar brought up the rear, low scorer but not put out. "My weapon is not for games," he said, with some justice.

Sol no longer fought. He stayed with Sola, showing unusual concern for her welfare, and let the fine military machine Sos had fashioned operate with little overt direction. Did he know what his wife had been doing all winter? He had to, for Sola was pregnant.

Tyl ran the tribe. When they encountered a single man who was willing to come to terms, Tyl gave the assignment to the group corresponding to the man's weapon and let the leader of that group select a representative to enter the circle. The advantage of the extended training quickly showed: the appointed warriors were generally in better physical shape than their opponents and superior strategists, and almost always won. When they lost, more often than not the victor, perceiving the size and power of the tribe, challenged the group leader in order to be incorporated into it. Tyl allowed no one to travel with the tribe who was not bound to it.

Only Sos was independent-and he wished he were not. A week out they caught up to another tribe. It contained about forty men, and its leader was typical of the crafty oldsters Sos had anticipated. The man met Tyl and surveyed the situation-and agreed to put up just four warriors for the circle: sword, staff, sticks and club. He refused to risk more.

Disgruntled, Tyl retired for a conference with Sos. "It's a small tribe, but he has many good men. I can tell they are experienced and capable by the way they move and the nature of their scars."

"And perhaps also by the report-of our advance scouts," Sos murmured.

"He won't 'even send his best against us!" Tyl said indignantly.

"Put up fifty men and challenge him yourself for his entire group. Let him inspect the men and satisfy himself that they are worth his trouble."

Tyl smiled and went to obtain Sol's official approval, a formality only. In due course he had forty-five assorted warriors assembled.

"Won't work." Tor muttered.

The wily tribemaster looked over the offerings, grunting with approval. "Good men," he agreed. Then be contemplated TyL "Aren't you the man of two weapons?"

"Sword and stick."

"You used to travel alone and now you are second in command to a tribe of two hundred."

"That's right."

"I will not fight you."

"You insist upon meeting our master Sol?"

"Certainly not!"

Tyl controlled his temper with obvious difficulty and turned to Sos. "What now, advisor?" he demanded with irony.

"Now you take Tor's advice." Sos didn't know what the beard had in mind, but suspected it would work.

"I think his weak spot is his pride," Tor said conspiratorily. "He won't fight if he thinks he might lose, and he won't put up more than a few men at a time, so he can quit as sqon as the wind blows against him. No profit for us there. But if we can make him look ridiculous-"

"Marvelous!" Sos exclaimed, catching on. "We'll pick up four jokers and shame him into a serious entry!"

"And we'll assign a core of chucklers. The loudest mouths we have."

"And we have plenty," Sos agreed, remembering the quality of heckling that had developed during the intense intergroup competition.

Tyl shrugged dubiously. "You handle it. I want no part of this." He went to his tent.

"He really wanted to fight himself," Tor remarked. "But he's out. He never laughs."

They compared notes and decided upon a suitable quartet for the circle. After that they rounded up an even more special group of front-row spectators.

The first match began at noon. The opposing sworder strode up to the circle, a tall, serious man somewhat beyond the first flush of youth. From Sol's ranks came Dal, the second dagger: a round-faced, short-bodied man whose frequent laugh sounded more like a giggle. He was not a very good fighter overall, but the intense practice had shown up his good point: he had never been defeated by the sword. No one quite fathomed this oddity, since a stout man was generally most vulnerable to sharp instruments, but it had been verified many times over.

The sworder stared dourly at his opponent, then stepped into the circle and stood on-guard. Dal drew one of his knives and faced him-precociously imitating with the eight-inch blade the formal stance of the other. The picked watchers laughed.

More perplexed than angry, the sworder feinted experimentally. Dal countered with the diminutive knife as though it were a full-sized sword. Again the audience laughed, more boisterously than strictly necessary.

Sos aimed a surreptitious glance at the other tribe's master. The man was not at all amused.

Now the sworder attacked in earnest, and Dal was obliged to draw his second dagger daintily and hold off the heavier weapon with quick feints and maneuvers. A pair of daggers were generally considered to be no match for a sword unless the wielder were extremely agile. Dal looked quite unagile-but his round body always happened to be just a hair out of the sword's path, and he was quick to take advantage of the openings created by the sword's inertia. No one who faced the twin blades in the circle could afford to forget that there were two, and that the bearer had to be held at a safe distance at all times. It was useless to block a single knife if the second were on its way to a vulnerable target.

Had the sworder been a better man, the tactics would have been foolhardy; but again and again Dal was able to send his opponent lumbering awkwardly past, wide open for a crippling stab. Dal didn't stab. Instead he flicked off a lock of the sworder's hair and waved it about like a tassel while the picked audience roared. He slit the back of the sworder's pantaloons, forcing him to grab them hastily, while Sol's men rolled on the ground, yanked up their own trunks and slapped each other on shoulders and backs.

Finally the man tripped over Dal's artful foot and fell out of the circle, ignominiously defeated. But Dal didn't leave the circle. He kept on feinting and flipping his knives as though unaware that his opponent was gone.