Roberson, Jennifer - Sword Dancer 01 - Sword Dancer

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Sword DancerSword Dancer

Book 1 of the Sword Dancer series.

By Jennifer Roberson

Sword Dancer

Table of Contents

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven,

Twelve,

Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen,

Twenty,

Twenty-One, Twenty-Two, Twenty-Three, Twenty-Four

One

In my line of work, I've seen all kinds of women. Some beautiful. Some

ugly.

Some just plain in between. And--being neither senile nor a man with

aspirations

to sainthood--whenever the opportunity presented itself (with or

without my

encouragement), I bedded the beautiful ones (although sometimes they

bedded me),

passed on the ugly ones altogether (not being a greedy man), but

allowed myself

discourse with the in-betweeners on a fairly regular basis, not being

one to

look the other way when such things as discourse and other

entertainments are

freely offered. So the in-betweeners made out all right, too.

But when she walked into the hot, dusty cantina and slipped the hood of

her

white burnous, I knew nothing I'd ever seen could touch her. Certainly

Ruth and

Numa couldn't, though they were the best the cantina had to offer. I

was so

impressed with the new girl I tried to swallow my aqivi the wrong way

and wound

up choking so badly Ruth got off my left knee and Numa slid off my

right. Ruth

commenced pounding on my back awhile and Numa--well-meaning as ever--

poured more

aqivi and tried to tip it down a throat already afire from the stuff.

By the time I managed to extricate myself from both of them (no mean

feat), the

vision in the white burnous had looked away from me and was searching

through

the rest of the cantina with eyes as blue as Northern lakes.

Now it so happens I haven't ever seen any Northern lakes, being a

Southroner

myself, but I knew perfectly well those two pools she used for eyes

matched the

tales I'd heard of the natural wonders of the North.

The slipping of the hood bared a headful of thick, long hair yellow as

the sun

and a face pale as snow. Now I haven't seen snow either, being as the

South has

the monopoly on sand, but it was the only way to describe the

complexion of a

woman who was so obviously not a native Southroner. I am, and my skin

is burned

dark as a copper piece. Oh, I suppose once upon a time I might have

been

lighter--must've been, actually, judging by the paler portions of my

anatomy not

exposed to daylight--but my work keeps me outdoors in the sun and the

heat and

the sandstorms, so somewhere along the way my skin got dark and tough

and--in

all the necessary places--callused.

Oddly enough, the stuffiness of the cantina faded. It almost seemed

cooler, more

comfortable. But then it might have had more to do with shock than

anything

else. Gods of valhail, gods of hoolies, but what a breath of fresh air

the woman

was!

What she was doing in this little dragtail cantina I have no idea, but

I didn't

question the benevolent, generous fate that brought her within range. I

simply

blessed it and decided then and there that no matter who it was she was

looking

for, I'd take his place.

I watched in appreciation (sighing just a bit) as she turned to look

over the

room. So did every other male in the place. It isn't often you get to

look on

beauty so fresh and unspoiled, not when you're stuck in a dragtail town

like...

Hoolies, I couldn't even remember its name.

Ruth and Numa watched her too, but their appreciation was tempered by

another

emotion entirely--called jealousy.

Numa tapped me on one side of the face, trying to get my attention. At

first I

shook her off, still watching the blonde, but when Numa started to dig

in her

nails, I gave her my second-best sandtiger glare. It usually works and

saves me

the trouble of using my best sandtiger glare, which I save for special

(generally deadly) occasions. I learned very early in my career that my

green

eyes--the same color as those in a sandtiger's head--often intimidate

those of a

weaker constitution. No man scoffs at a weapon so close to hand; I

certainly

don't. And so I refined the technique until I had it perfected, and I

usually

got a kick out of the reactions to it.

Numa whimpered a little; Ruth smiled. Basically, the two girls are the

best of

enemies. Being the only women in the cantina, quite often they fight

over new

blood--dusty and dirty and stinking of the Punja, more often than not,

but still

new. That was unique enough in the stuffy adobe cantina whose walls had

once

boasted murals of crimson, carnelian, and lime. The colors--like the

girls--had

faded after years of abuse and nightly coatings of spewed or spilled

wine, ale,

aqivi... and all the other poisons.

My blood was the newest in town (newly bathed, too), but rather than

sentence

them to a catfight I'd taken on both of them. They seemed content

enough with

sharing me, and this way I kept peace in a very tiny cantina. A man

does not

make enemies of any woman when he is stuck in a boring, suffocating

town that

has nothing to offer except two cantina girls who nightly (and daily)

sell their

virtue. Hoolies, there isn't anything else to do. For them or me.

Having put Numa in her place (and wondering if I could still keep the

peace

between the two of them), I became aware of the presence newly arrived

at my

table. I glanced up and found those two blue eyes fixed on me in a

direct,

attentive stare that convinced me instantly I should change the errors

of my

ways, whatever they might be. I'd even make some up, just so I could

change

them. (Hoolies, what man wouldn't with her looking at him?)

Even as she halted at my table, some of the men in the cantina murmured

suggestions (hardly questions) as to the status of her virtue. I wasn't

much

surprised, since she lacked a modesty veil and the sweet-faced

reticence of most

of the Southron women (unless, of course, they were cantina girls, like

Ruth and

Numa, or free-wives, who married outlanders and gave up Southron

customs.)

This one didn't strike me as a cantina girl. She didn't strike me as a

free-wife

either, being a bit too independent even for one of them. She didn't

strike me

as much of anything except a beautiful woman. But she sure seemed bent

something, and that something was more than a simple assignation.

"Sandtiger?" Her voice was husky, low-pitched; the accent was

definitely

Northern. (And oh-so-cool in the stuffy warmth of the cantina.) "Are

you Tiger?"

Hoolies, she was looking for me!

After losing a moment to inward astonishment and wonder, I bared my

teeth at her

in a friendly, lazy smile. It wouldn't do to show her how much she

impressed me,

not when it was my place to impress her. "At your service, bascha."

A faint line appeared between winged blond brows and I realized she

didn't

understand the compliment. In Southron lingo, the word means lovely.

But the line smoothed out as she looked at Ruth and Numa, and I saw a

slight

glint of humor enter those glacial eyes. I perceived the faintest of

twitches at

the left comer of her mouth. "I have business, if you please,"

I pleased. I accommodated her business immediately by tipping both

girls off my

knees (giving them pats of mutual and measured fondness on firm, round

rumps),

and promised substantial tips if they lost themselves for a while. They

glared

at me in return, then glared at her. But they left.

I kicked a stool from under the table and toed it in the blonde's

general

direction. She looked at it without comment a long moment, then sat

down. The

burnous gaped open at her throat and I stared at it, longing for it to

fall open

entirely. If the rest of her matched her face and hair, it was well

worth

alienating all the Ruths and Numas in the world.

"Business." The tone was slightly clipped, as if to forestall any

familiarity in

our discussion.

"Aqivi?" I poured myself a cup. A shake of her head stirred the hair

like a

silken curtain, and my mouth went dry. "Do you mind if I drink?"

"Why not?" She shrugged a little, rippling white silk. "You have

already begun."

Her face and voice were perfectly bland, but the glint in her eyes

remained. The

temperature took a decidedly downward dip. I considered not drinking at

all,

then decided it was stupid to play games and swallowed a hefty dose of

aqivi.

This one went down a lot smoother than the last one.

Over the rim of my cup, I looked at her. Not much more than twenty, I

thought;

younger than I'd judged on first sighting. Too young for the South; the

desert

would suck the fluids from her soft, pale body and leave behind a dried

out,

powdery husk.

But gods, she was lovely. There wasn't much of softness in her. Just

the hint of

a proud, firm body beneath the white burnous and a proud, firm jaw

beneath the

Northern skin. And eyes. Blue eyes, fixed on me levelly; waiting

quietly,

without seductiveness or innuendo.

Business indeed, but then there are degrees in all business

confrontations.

Instinctively, I straightened on my stool. Past dealings with women had

made me

aware how easily impressed they are by my big shoulders and broad

chest. (And my

smile, but I'm sparing with that at first. It helps build up the

mystique).

Unfortunately, this one didn't appear to be impressed much one way or

another,

mystique or no. She just looked at me squarely, without coyness or

coquetry. "I

was told you know Osmoon the Trader," she said in her husky Northern

voice.

"Old Moon?" I didn't bother to hide my surprise, wondering what this

beauty

wanted with an old relic like him. "What do you want with an old relic

him?"

Her cool eyes were hooded. "Business."

She had all the looks, but she wasn't great shakes at conversation. I

shifted on

my stool and let my own burnous fall open at the throat, intending the

string of

claws I wear around my neck to remind her I was a man of some

consequence. (I

don't know what kind of consequence, exactly, but at least I had some.)

"Moon doesn't talk to strangers." I suggested. "He only talks to his

friends."

"I've heard you are his friend."

After a moment, I nodded consideringly. "Moon and I go back a ways."

For only an instant she smiled. "And are you a slaver, too?"

I was glad I'd already swallowed the aqivi. If this lady knew Moon was

involved

in the slave trade, she knew a lot more than most Northerners.

I looked at her more sharply, though I didn't give away my

attentiveness. She

waited. Calmly, collectedly, as if she had done this many times, and

all the

while her youth and sex disclaimed the possibility.

I shivered. Suddenly, all the smoky interior candlelight and exterior

sunlight

didn't seem quite enough to ward off an uncommon frosty chill. Almost

as if the

Northern girl had brought the North wind with her.

But of course, that wasn't possible. There may be magic in the world,

but what's

there is made for simpletons and fools who need a crutch.

I scowled a little. "I'm a sword-dancer. I deal in wars, rescues,

escort duty,

skirmishes, a little healthy hired revenge now and then... anything

that

concerns making a living with a sword." I tapped the gold hilt of

Singlestroke,

poking up behind my left shoulder in easy reach. "I'm a sword-dancer.

Not a

slaver."

"But you know Osmoon." Bland, guileless eyes, eloquently innocent.

"A lot of people know Osmoon." I pointed out. "You know Osmoon."

"I know of him." Delicate distinction. "But I would like to meet him."

I appraised her openly, letting her see clearly what I did. It brought

a rosy

flush to her fair face and her eyes glittered angrily. But before she

could open

her mouth to protest, I leaned across the table. "You'll get worse than

that if

you go near Old Moon. He'd give his gold teeth for a bascha like you,

and you'd

never see the light of day again. You'd be sold off to some tanzeer's

harem so

fast you couldn't even wish him to hoolies."

She stared at me. I thought maybe I'd shocked her with my bluntness. I

meant to.

But I saw no comprehension in her eyes. "Tanzeer?" she asked blankly.

"Hoolies?"

So much for scaring her off with the facts of Southron life. I sighed.

Northerner might say prince instead of tanzeer. I have no idea what the

translation is for hoolies. It's the place the priests say most of us

are bound

for, once we leave this life. Mothers like to threaten their children

with it

when they misbehave." Mine hadn't, because as far as I know she died

right after

dropping me into some hole in the desert.

Or simply walked away.

"Oh." She considered it. "Is there no way I could see the trader

neutrally!"

The white burnous opened a little wider. I was lost. Prevarication fell

out of

my mind entirely. "No." I didn't bother to explain that if Moon got his

hands on

her, I'd do my best to buy her for myself.

"I have gold," she suggested.

All that and money too. A genuine windfall. Benignly, I nodded. "And if

you go

flashing any of it out here in the desert, my naive little Northern

bascha,

you'll be robbed and kidnapped." I swallowed down more aqivi, keeping

my tone

idle. "What do you want to see Moon for?"

Her face closed up at once. "Business; I have said."

I scowled and cursed into my cup and saw she didn't understand that

either. Just

as well. Sometimes I get surly and my language isn't the best. Not much

opportunity to learn refinement in my line of work. "Look bascha--I'm

willing to

take you to Moon and make sure he doesn't fiddle with the goods, but

you'll have

to tell me what you want to see him for. I don't work in the dark,"

One fingernail tapped against the scarred wood of the liquor-stained

table. The

nail was filed short, as if it--and the others--weren't meant to be a

facet of

feminine vanity. No. Not in this woman. "I have no wish to hire a

sword-dancer,"

she said coolly. "I just want you to tell me where I can find Osmoon

the

Trader."

I glared at her in exasperation. "I just told you what will happen if

you see

him alone."

The nail tapped again. There was the faintest trace of a smile, as if

she knew

something I didn't. "I'll take the chance."

What the hoolies, if that's the way she wanted it. I told her where to

find him,

and how, and what she should say to him when she did.

She stared at me, blonde brows running together as she frowned. "I

should tell

him 'the Sandtiger plays for keeps'?"

"That's it." I smiled and lifted my cup.

She nodded after a moment, slowly, but her eyes narrowed in

consideration.

"Why?"

"Suspicious?" I smiled my lazy smile. "Old Moon owes me one. That's

all."

She stared at me a moment longer, studying me. Then she rose. Her

hands, pressed

against the table, were long-fingered and slender, but lacked delicacy.

Sinews

moved beneath the fair skin. Strong hands. Strong fingers. For a woman,

very

strong.

"I'll tell him," she agreed.

She turned and walked away, heading for the curtained doorway of the

cantina. My

mouth watered as I stared at all that yellow hair spilling down the

folds of the

white burnous.

Hoolies, what a woman!

But she was gone, along with the illusion of coolness, and fantasizing

about a

woman never does much good besides stirring up desires that can't

always be

gratified (at least, not right away), so I ordered another jug of

aqivi, called

for Ruth and Numa to come back, and passed the evening in convivial

discourse

with two desert girls who were not part of any man's fantasy, perhaps,

but were

warm, willing, and generous nonetheless.

That'll do nicely, thank you.

Two

Osmoon the Trader was not happy to see me. He glared at me from his

little black

pig-eyes and didn't even offer me a drink, which told me precisely how

angry he

was. I waved away the smoke of sandalwood incense drifting between us

(wishing

he'd widen the vent in the poled top of his saffron-colored hyort), and

outwaited him.

Breath hissed between his gold teeth. "You send me a bascha like that,

Tiger,

and then say to keep her for you! Why did you bother to send her to me

in the

first place if you wanted her for yourself?"

I smiled at him placatingly. It doesn't do to rile past and potential

allies,

even if you are the Sandtiger. "This one requires special handling."

He swore to the god of slavers; an improbable series of names for a

deity I'd

never had the necessity of calling on, myself. Frankly, I think Old

Moon made it

up. "Special handling!" he spat out. "Special taming, you mean. Do you

know what

she did?"

Since there was no way I could know, short of having him tell me, I

waited

again. And he told me.

"She nearly sliced off what remains of the manhood of my best eunuch!"

Moon's

affronted stare invited abject apologies; I merely continued waiting,

promising

nothing, "The poor thing ran screaming out of the hyort and I couldn't

pry him

from the neck of his boy-lover until I promised to beat the girl."

That deserved a response. I glared at him. "You beat her?"

Moon stared at me in some alarm and smiled weakly, showing the wealth

of gold

shining in his mouth. I realized my hand had crept to the knife at my

belt. I

decided to leave it there, if only for effect.

"I didn't beat her." Moon eyed my knife. He knows how deadly I can be

with it,

and how fast, even though it isn't my best weapon. That sort of

reputation comes

in handy. "I couldn't--I mean, she's a Northerner. You know what those

women

are. Those--those Northern women."

I ignored the latter part of the explanation. "What did you do to her?"

I looked

at him sharply. "You do still have her--"

"Yes!" His teeth glinted. "Ai, Tiger, do you think I am a forgetful

man, to lose

such things?" Offended again, he scowled. "Yes, I have her. I had to

tie her up

like a sacrificial goat, but I have her. You may take her off my hands,

Tiger.

The sooner the better."

I was mildly concerned by his willingness to lose so valuable a

commodity. "Is

she hurt? Is that why you don't want her?" I glared at him. "I know

you, Moon.

You'd try a doublecross if the stakes were high enough. Even on me." I

glared

harder. "What have you done to her?"

He waved be-ringed hands in denial. "Nothing! Nothing! Ai, Tiger, the

woman is

unblemished." The hands stopped waving and the voice altered.

"Wellll...almost

unblemished. I had to knock her on the head. It was the only way I

could keep

her from slicing my manhood off--or casting some spell at me."

"Who was stupid enough to let her get her hands on a knife?" I was

unimpressed

by Moon's avowals of her witchcraft or the picture of the slaver losing

the

portion of his anatomy he so willingly ordered removed from his

property, to

improve temperament and price. "And anyway, a knife in the hands of a

woman

shouldn't pose much of a threat to Osmoon the Trader."

"Knife!" he cried, enraged. "Knife? The woman had a sword as long as

yours!"

That stopped me cold. "Sword!"

"Sword." Moon glared back at me. "It's very sharp, Tiger, and it's

bewitched...

and she knows how to use it."

I sighed. "Where is it?"

Moon grumbled to himself and got up, shuffling across layered rugs to a

wooden

chest bound with brass. He lives well but not ostentatiously, not

wishing to

call excess attention to himself. The local tanzeers know all about his

business, and because they get a healthy cut of the profits, they don't

bother

him much. But then they don't know just how healthy the business is. If

they

knew, undoubtedly they'd all demand a bigger cut. Possibly even his

head.

Moon lifted back the lid of his chest and stood over it, hands on hips.

stared down into the contents, but didn't reach down to pick anything

out. He

just stared, and then I saw how his hands rubbed themselves on the the

fabric of

his burnous, brown palms against heavy yellow silk, until I got

impatient and

told him to hurry it up.

He turned to face me. "It's--it's in here."

I waited.

He gestured. "Here. Do you want it?"

"I said I did."

One plump hand waved fingers at the chest. "Well--here it is. You can

come get

it."

"Moon... hoolies, man, will you bring me the woman's sword? What's so

hard about

that?"

He was decidedly unhappy. But after a moment he muttered a prayer to

some other

unpronounceable god and plunged his hands into the chest.

He came up with a scabbarded sword. Quickly he turned and rushed back

across the

hyort, then dumped the sheathed sword down in front of me as if

relieved to let

go of it. I stared up at him in surprise. And again, brown palms rubbed

against

yellow silk.

"There," he said breathlessly, "there."

I frowned. Moon is a sharp, shrewd man, born of the South and all of

its ways.

His "trading" network reaches into all portions of the Punja, and I'd

never

known him to exhibit anything akin to fear... unless, of course,

circumstances

warranted a performance including the emotion. But this was no act.

This was

insecurity and apprehension and nervousness, all tied up into one big

ball of

blatant fear.

"What's your problem?" I inquired mildly.

Moon opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. "She's a

Northerner," he

muttered. "So's that thing."

He pointed to the scabbarded sword, and at last I understood. "Ah. You

think the

sword's been bewitched. Northern witch, Northern sorcery." I nodded

benignly.

"Moon--how many times have I told you magic is something used by

tricksters who

want to con other people? Half the time I don't think there is any

magic--but

what there is, is little more than a game for gullible fools."

His clenched jaw challenged me. On this subject, Moon was never an

ally.

"Trickery," I told him. "Nonsense. Mostly illusion, Moon. And those

things

you've heard about Northern sorcery and witches are just a bunch of

tales made

up by Southron mothers to tell their children at bedtime. Do you really

think

this woman is a witch?"

He was patently convinced she was. "Call me a fool, Tiger. But I say

you are one

for being so blind to the truth." One hand stabbed out to indicate the

sword

he'd dumped in my lap. "Look at that, Tiger. Touch it, Tiger. Look at

those

runes and shapes, and tell me it isn't the weapon of a witch."

I scowled at him, but for once he was neither intimidated or impressed.

He just

went back to his carpet on the other side of the incense brazier and

settled his

rump upon it, lower lip pushed out in indignation. Moon was offended: I

doubted

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