He walked nearly to where I stood, set his blade tip into the sand and began to pace out the circle, drawing the line.
Alric finished where he began. He turned to face me, studied me, seemed to look inside my soul. I wondered what he saw.
Abruptly he pivoted. With long strides the tall Northerner walked into the circle to the very center, bent, and set down his sword.
This time the murmuring became recognizable words of angry protest. The other sword-dancers were not pleased that one of their own spit in their faces by presenting me with his sword. Alric had just done his reputation among them irreparable harm; but then, Alric had always gone his own way.
At least one man here would mourn my death.
His message was clear: I need not worry that the sword I would use had been tampered with.
And the other message: he had not won his dance. It would not be Alric I'd meet in the circle, who would, unlike the others, make no attempt to kill me.
He inclined his head briefly, acknowledging me, then left the circle. Alric found a place to stand against the wall. He was alone, apart, as he had made himself by declaring his loyalty.
Inwardly, I laughed. Already Umir's plan had gone slightly awry. Rafiq had brought him the sword I'd bought in Haziz, which one of the servants nearest the tanzeer held. But it would remain unused. Now I had another. One I could trust implicitly, one that suited me in weight and balance; Alric and I were very similar in build, and I had sparred with it before. It also was offered by a friend to a man who supposedly had none among those who lived in the circle.
Such intricacies of mind, such subtle subtexts, could do much for a man who meant to kill another, or to preserve his own life.
'Musa,' Umir called.
After a moment bodies parted. A pathway was opened. A man came forward, walking toward the circle. I had half expected Abbu Bensir, but this man was not he. Much younger than Abbu, perhaps twenty-six or –eight; taller, though not as tall as I; heavier than Abbu, though not a big man; slightly lighter in skin, hair, and eyes. But he had the high-bridged nose and steep cheekbones present in so many of his countrymen. Not Borderer, I didn't think. But a mix of something that gave him greater size than most Southroners and, I decided, more power. He moved with the lithe, coiled grace of the snow cats I'd seen high in Northern mountains, up near Staal-Ysta.
He wore only a dhoti, as I did. No harness, no sandals. He carried his sword. His eyes were fixed on my own.
The others called out encouragement to him. He ignored them. There was a tight-wound intensity in Umir's new hired sword. His eyes did not leave mine. His expression was a predator's, fixed and unwavering. Not for him the camaraderie before a dance, the jokes and wagers exchanged. He had come to kill me. He wanted me to know it.
Musa, Umir had named him. I didn't know him. I'd never heard of him. But he was here among the others and had obviously defeated those others; I discounted nothing at all about him.
The tanzeer once again raised his voice. 'As all of you have no doubt heard, the Sandtiger is no longer whole in body. But lest you believe him physically unable and thus offering no challenge, let me repeat what you may also have heard: this man killed one of you in Julah a matter of weeks ago. His name was Khashi.'
There were quiet, abbreviated murmurs. Every man present knew already. Likely Rafiq had told them, bragging about how he had so easily captured the man who had so easily killed Khashi. Borrowing glory, Rafiq.
I looked at Musa. Musa looked back. He borrowed no glory. The man's carriage claimed the quiet confidence of the expert, requiring neither bragging nor flattery. The unsheathed sword dangled casually from his hand. His forearms and ribs were webbed with pale, thin, slit-like scars, unavoidable in the circle, but there were no scars of significance. Blades had gotten through his guard, had marked his flesh, but none of them had done true damage. Mere pricks and minor cuts. Either everyone he had faced had been no better than adequate, or he was truly good. Potentially great.
Based on the identities of many of the men I saw gathered in Umir's walled circle, the quality of much of the opposition, that he was good was a given.
'Umir,' I said quietly, 'forget the appetizer. This man wants his dessert.'
The tanzeer glared at me. 'Your places!'
For me, it was a matter of taking three strides to the edge of Alric's circle. I waited. Musa, opposite, crossed the circle, set his sword beside Alric's, then paced back to take up his position. There were perhaps four inches between our respective heights, and he was long-legged. The race would be of equals.
He also had hands boasting all four fingers.
I raised mine. Displayed them palm out. Let Musa and everyone else take a good look. 'Surely,' I said, 'it will not take long to kill me. How can any man lacking two fingers hope to defeat the best of the best?'
It infuriated Umir, who clearly did not want his rebellious dessert ruining the moment. There was only one way to end it. 'Dance,' he said.
FOURTEEN
I DUG the balls of my feet into sand and thrust myself forward, crossing over Alric's line into the circle. Three strides and I reached the center, snatching up Alric's sword.
I let momentum carry me forward into a somersault that took me out of immediate danger as Musa reached for his own weapon. I spun as I came up at the edge of the circle, blade at the ready, and blocked the first slashing blow. The clash of steel rang through the inner circle encompassed by Umir's wall.
Block. Block. Block and block. Musa was fast with his sword, disengaging and returning immediately to try new angles the moment I halted his blade. As with Khashi, I let him take the offense, judging foot placement, balance, strength, agility, blade speed. He had learned well, no question.
I was already at the edge of the circle because I had put myself there. One step, and I would be outside. But I knew better than to expect that would stop the dance; I was meant to die, and I was no longer honored among my peers. Musa would follow and continue the fight with no risk to his reputation, because I was, well, me. Still, I wanted this to be a true dance at least in my own mind, so that if I died, or if I won, no one could accuse me of cheating.
Well, they could. But I'd know better.
Musa brought more weight to bear, trying to push me beyond the line Alric had drawn. I dug in one foot and stopped the motion with a braced leg, then trapped his blade, held it, let him have a taste of my own weight as I pushed against him. Back, back, and back.
We were now once more in the very center of the circle. I yanked my blade free as Musa cursed, and slashed beneath his. Tip kissed flesh. A thin line of blood sprang up against the skin above his left knee.
My turn for offense, his to defend. And he did so admirably, blocking my blows as I had blocked his. When we broke and backed away panting, considering other methods to find a way through respective guards, we circled like wary street cats on the stalk, waiting for the most opportune moment to attack.
The first series of engagements was completed; neither of us had won. In Julah, Khashi had been dead by now. In fights too many to count, I had won by now. I suspected it had been the same for Musa.
Usually, the first moments of any match are spent testing the opponent's skill. A sword-dance is, in most cases, a dance, an exhibition of ability and artistry in pursuit of victory. But there were certainly dances where defeating the opponent was all that mattered, not how it looked. Musa and I had both chosen the latter, hoping to surprise the other, and neither of us had succeeded. Now the dance would shift into the testing phase as we teased one another's skills and signature movements out into the daylight, hoping to create openings we might exploit.
I saw Musa's eyes flick down to my hands wrapped around Alric's leather-strapped grip. There was no hiding the missing fingers. He was likely somewhat surprised I had matched so well against him initially in view of
