Jennifer Roberson - Sword Bound

The one in the middle, of course. The one striding into the cantina a step ahead of the others. The one who dominated his companions merely by his arrogance. He saw me, smiled; a slight sideways twitch of his head indicated the other two should find places along the wall. They did so. He glanced over the interior, marking the men and their positions. No one was eating, no one was drinking. All they did was stare, first at the young sword-dancer, then at me.

Fouad sighed loudly in resignation, making sure I heard it.

“When we get to the dance,” I said quietly, “you can hold the wagers.”

“I always do,” he muttered. Then he raised his voice. “Welcome, Khalid. What are you and your friends drinking?”

The bully had clearly spent several days here if Fouad knew his name. I didn’t recognize it, but I couldn’t know every sword-dancer in the South, especially as so many young ones had sprung up in the last few years, while I wasn’t looking. This one was young but no innocent. There was confidence in his eyes and posture, not bluster; confidence that came from success. He’d won dances. Neesha was only his latest opponent not his first, nor, probably, even his tenth.

“I’ll drink after,” Khalid answered, not looking away from me. “Mere moments, only.”

I wouldn’t give him meek. I wouldn’t give him arrogant, though certainly there had been a time when I would have. And I wouldn’t give him the poised expectation of a dance; I gave him a man minding his own business, glancing at the latest customer without much interest before turning back to his drink.

“Am I to believe you’re a sword-dancer?” Khalid asked, weighting a raised voice with the right amount of disdainful wonder. “Or just a man who wishes to be one? Wishes others to believe he is one?”

Ignoring him was not an option, precisely as he intended. I turned toward him slightly, brows raised, one hand on my mug as if not expecting to move away from the bar. “Me?”

“You.” He made a gesture indicating the sword jutting up from behind my shoulder. “There’s a harness and sheath underneath that burnous.”

I nodded agreement. No meekness. No arrogance. Merely matter-of-fact concurrence.

He very nearly sneered. “I don’t know a sword-dancer alive who rides into town in a wagon .”

It amused me that he relied on such a flimsy excuse to begin a dance. First Neesha, now me. Why not a straightforward challenge?

“Well,” I said, “now you know me .”

Not what he had expected. After a moment of consideration, he said, “You’re a farmer aping our ways. You dishonor our codes, our oaths. You demean us.”

I looked at his two friends, then back at him. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to.”

This was not going the way Khalid expected. Brows knitted briefly.

I raised my mug. “Aqivi? It’s better than most. I’ll even buy.”

“Prove it,” he said, not meaning aqivi. “Come into the street and prove it.”

Still holding my mug in the air, I let him see only a confused and slow understanding. “Oh. Is this a challenge?” I set the mug down on the bar. “I’d thought to head back home after I finished my aqivi.”

“Don’t worry,” Khalid said. “You’ll be on your way soon enough.”

I watched them file out, the three young men who believed themselves invincible. I looked at Fouad, who was shaking his head and muttering, “Foolish, foolish, foolish.”

“It’s how they learn.” I smiled. “I’ll finish off the aqivi when I’m done with the boy.”

“ Fool ish.”

I walked outside to discover Khalid’s two friends digging through my wagon. Already they’d cut open the flour sack and spilled the contents into the street. Beans littered dirt as well. It was added provocation, of course, though unnecessary. I’d give Khalid his dance even if the supplies were untouched.

“Wasteful,” I commented, then stepped out into the center of the street where Khalid waited. Already, onlookers gathered. Sword-dances are always entertaining; something to break up the day.

I unbelted, unhooked my burnous from the sword, pulled it off, bundled the cloth, and tossed it aside. I unlaced my sandals and tossed them aside as well, followed by the empty harness. Now it was just me, my dhoti, my sword.

Khalid had drawn the circle. I inspected it, then grinned at him. “No. Over there. Away from the puddle of horse piss.” Probably one very like it had tripped up Neesha.

But Khalid didn’t look at the circle or the puddle. He stared at the cavity in my side, a fleshed-over chasm carved out by Del; at the claw marks in my face. He raised his eyes to mine. I looked back cheerfully.

While he watched, I occupied myself drawing a new circle, one lacking in horse piss or dung, or anything that might affect our footing. Upon completion I placed my blade in the very center, then walked back to the line, stepped over it. I turned to face him.

He didn’t move. I read the thoughts passing through his eyes. He was young, but I was indeed a legend, as Neesha reminded me that morning. Khalid thought he knew me. He thought I might well be that man.

Onlookers murmured. Many, just passing through town, didn’t know me; certainly the residents did, but as a teacher, a shodo, not an active sword-dancer. I hadn’t danced in Julah for more than two years.

I watched Khalid arrive at the conclusion that I was indeed the Sandtiger. He calculated his skill against the legend and came up lacking. Acknowledgement was bitter. Then again, I was older now. Undoubtedly slower. Not what I once was, probably. He looked at my hands, mentally counted the fingers. The first realization, the first waning of confidence, dissipated. Older, slower, that terrible wound in my chest and side that undoubtedly bothered me now, at my advanced age; and only three fingers on each hand.

Khalid smiled. Khalid bared his teeth. Khalid walked to the center of the circle, halted, as if to set down his sword next to mine. But he did not. “You’re not a sword-dancer,” he said. “Not anymore. And I don’t have to obey any codes, or dance any dances. I just have to kill.”

And then he came at me.

Of course.

FOUAD’S WORDS: Foolish, foolish, foolish. I ducked the first swing, dove to the dirt and rolled to my feet, sword in my hands. Khalid had not expected it. He swung to face me hastily. Saw the sword in my hands, the readiness in my posture. And he hesitated.

I poked one finger into the air and crooked it repeatedly, gesturing invitation. Asking him, mutely, to come closer. To continue the dance.

He did so with a rush.

Swords sang as we clashed. The dirt beneath my feet was packed from footprints, hoof prints, and wagon wheels. No puddles, no droppings, nothing that could interfere. But then this was not a sword-dance, according to Khalid; we need not confine ourselves to the circle.

Yet I did. I made Khalid come to me. I wanted this to be a traditional dance, so Khalid and his friends could see how it was done, could see what it was that had made me great. Speed, despite my size. Power, because of my weight. Strength, because of my fitness. I had spent two years teaching students. I was as well-conditioned as a man could be, who was active on a daily basis, who used skill and muscle memory. But above all, I had the mental focus that came from years of dancing against the best. From years of being the best.

But I paid him the honor of not being complacent.

I used the sun. I used my shadow. I used my green-eyed Sandtiger’s stare. I used his inexperience. The kid was good, and he’d be better. But not today.

I smashed the sword out of his hands with a twist that sent it wheeling out of the circle. I drove him to the ground, flat on his back. I placed the point of my sword in the hollow of his throat. “Call off your dogs,” I directed, knowing full well that because I’d broken all the oaths and codes, his friends might decide to attack me together. “We’re done here. You and your boys can walk away, can ride out of Julah. In fact, I think you’d better.” I tapped the sword point against flesh. “You’re good, Khalid. You’ll have a successful career, since I’m leaving you alive. That’s my gift to you. But you’re not ready for me yet, and don’t fool yourself into believing you are.” I glanced at his two friends, watching me as if transfixed. But it was Khalid who maintained my attention. “Now,” I said, “tell your friends to replace everything they destroyed and repack my wagon. Until they do, you’ll lie here in the dirt with my blade at your throat.”