Jennifer Roberson - Sword Bound

Del was putting Sula to bed; I’d lighted lanterns. Two hundred paces away, beyond our window, Alric’s windows glowed. Twilight gave way to increasing darkness. In the desert, night comes quickly.

I finished chewing and swallowed the final bite of mutton, arched brows, asked mildly as I waved my meat-knife, “One of the ladies did not appreciate your company?”

Neesha went to the kitchen barrel, unwrapped his forearm, wet a rag and began sluicing blood over the ewer on the board. He said nothing.

“Or was it a man who didn’t appreciate you stealing his woman?” Of course it wasn’t that Neesha set out to steal anyone’s woman; they just seemed to like him better the minute he stepped into the cantina. Any cantina. Any woman.

He muttered something indecipherable against the sounds of splashing water. I rose, shoved back the bench, looked over his shoulder. A slice through the layers of skin, but the muscles were untouched. It wasn’t pretty, the wound. But it wouldn’t kill him, either.

“Hmmm,” I said. “Sword.”

Neesha stopped cleansing and examined his arm. He bobbed his head briefly, acknowledging my observation.

“Not a dance, was it?”

Grimly, he said, “It was.”

“And from the tone of your voice, I’m assuming you lost.”

He muttered confirmation.

“Was it your challenge?” I thought it likely; he wanted very much to test himself against men other than his sparring partners here. Other than me.

That brought his head up. He turned to look at me. “No. His.” His lips were compressed. “Some comments were made about ‘a sword-dancer who came to town in a wagon.’”

“So they knew you on sight. You were in harness.” Only sword-dancers wore swords sheathed across their backs.

Blood welled up. “Yes,” he answered, distracted as he washed the arm again.

He wasn’t wearing his harness now. “Where is it?”

“In the wagon.”

Several comments occurred to me. I said none of them. But he knew very well what I wanted to say about a sword-dancer who removes his harness after a dance. Especially if he puts the sword and harness in a wagon.

“That,” I said, “wants stitching. Let me get the kit, and I’ll do it.”

Neesha grimaced. “I’ll just wrap it again. Two days. Three. It will heal well enough on its own.”

“If you were a horse,” I observed, “you wouldn’t say that.”

No. He would not, and he knew it. He’d grown up on a horse farm and took exquisite care of our mounts. Even the stud tolerated him.

“I’ll do it.” Del had heard us; she carried the kit in her hands. “Sit down, Neesha. And don’t protest, or I will let Tiger do it. You know perfectly well my hands are defter than his.”

Well, that was true. Neesha went directly to the table and sat himself down. So did Del, and pulled the lantern closer.

“So,” I said, “who was this sword-dancer?”

Neesha’s gaze flicked up to mine, then returned to Del as she threaded a curved needle. “No one I knew. But then, I haven’t been out much, have I?”

Ah, accusation. “Perhaps I accorded you a level you haven’t yet reached.”

That told. He glowered at his arm as Del prepared to stitch, ignoring my comment.

“What does he look like?”

Neesha’s head snapped up. This time he met my eyes and didn’t look away. Color rose in his face. Between gritted teeth, he said. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m just curious.” I shrugged. “I might know him. That’s all.”

“That’s not all— ow! Ow-ow!” He sucked in air between his teeth. “That hurts.”

“Of course it does,” Del said matter-of-factly. “I’m sticking a needle through your flesh.”

“Ow!” Then he glared at me. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t do it. Don’t— ow! ”

“Did you pick up the supplies?”

Color bloomed in his face again. “No.”

“Then I’ll be taking the wagon into town tomorrow.” I paused. “That is, if you still think we need to go out there —” I waved a hand, as he had earlier, “to find adventure.”

Del glanced up at me, then studiously returned to her stitching. Only rarely did she take part in the arguments between son and father, unless we were too loud, at which point she told off the both of us.

Neesha muttered, “Yes.”

“Well then.” I shrugged. “We still need supplies. In the meantime, I’ll go unhitch the team.”

“I did that.”

Of course he had. Horses came before his own welfare. “Then I’ll bring in your harness and sword.”

He looked away from me, eyes latched onto Del’s work. He was embarrassed. Ashamed.

I smiled. Two things had been accomplished: Neesha had lost a challenge, and he’d gained his first scar. Both were necessary, were he to name himself a sword-dancer.

Or, for that matter, my son.

Come morning, as the sun rose, I stuffed bread and eggs down my throat, swallowed all with goat’s milk, took down my sword and harness, and slipped into the leather straps, buckling myself in. I wore leather dhoti and sandals, no tunic, and pulled on a faded green-and-orange striped burnous. I made sure the triple-stitched slit in the shoulder seam accommodated my sword hilt, and then I went out to hitch the team.

Neesha, as expected, was nowhere to be seen. Since he was a student like the others, he called one of the small mudbrick cells, built against the canyon walls, his own. A length of somewhat tattered blue cloth was still pulled across the low doorway. Usually he was up with the sun, milking goats, collecting eggs, pulling vegetables, tending the horses in the small pole corral, and limbering up for training. There were mornings he slept in, leaving Del or me to handle the chores, but I didn’t think this was one of them. He was very likely wide awake, listening to me hitch up the team.

Well, I should give him the opportunity, so he wouldn’t continue to assume I was overprotective and intent on teaching a lesson to the sword-dancer who’d defeated him. I strode across grass kept short by the goats and went straight to his cell. I accorded him his privacy and spoke through the rough curtain.

“You coming?”

There was no sound for a moment. Then he pulled the fabric aside. He, too, wore a dhoti. “To town?”

“That was the plan, yes.”

I saw him think it over. A myriad of fleeting expressions crossed his face. He finally settled on a mild bemusement. Would I invite him along if I meant to challenge the man who defeated him? What would happen if he accompanied me? Would the sword-dancer challenge him again? He had a legitimate reason to turn down a challenge, but would he? It wasn’t part of the codes to dance when injured.

“Arm hurting?” I asked, to remind him of the codes.

He could save face with that. Besides, I knew exactly how much it hurt. He wouldn’t want to do anything with that arm for some time, though of course, he’d insist on doing so. Del had wrapped a soft cloth around his forearm, warding the stitches, and I noted that fluid had seeped through.

Neesha glanced at the bandaged limb. “Well,” he muttered, “yes.”

I noted his red-rimmed eyes. “Didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?”

He twisted his mouth. “None.”

“That’s to be expected.” Even without a sword in my hands or a circle around my feet, I felt like a shodo. “This won’t be the first time, so you’d best get accustomed to it.”

“Or else become quicker? Better?”

I smiled. “That helps. In the meantime, have Del look at it again, rebandage it. She’s got some salve that will help the swelling.” I paused, then asked the question he’d been waiting for. I kept my tone even, putting no emotion into it. “Why did you lose?”