Del nodded matter-of-factly.
My opponent looked around the mass of people surrounding the circle. “My name is Darrion, and I challenge this man.” It wasn’t necessary to challenge me again or to announce his name, but Darrion wished to be dramatic.
Surprising everyone, I walked across the circle and stood very close to him, leaning in. In a low voice, I asked, “Are you certain you wish to do this? Are you absolutely sure?”
Surprised, he stared at me, pulling his head back from my face.
“You can pick up your sword and walk away,” I said. “I’ll do the same.”
He spoke in a hissing undertone. “I will do no such thing!”
“I’m not going to announce my name. But I will tell it to you.” I leaned in even closer, almost speaking into his ear. “You’ve got your wish, Darrion. You’ll dance against the Sandtiger.”
It took a moment for him to comprehend. Eyes opened wide. His mouth loosened. Color fled his face. He stared and stared, hundreds of expressions kindling in his eyes, in his face. He looked very young, did Darrion. Young and stricken.
As I backed away, I spread my hands, shrugging. “You never asked.”
He breathed hard. He looked at paired swords in the middle of the circle. He looked at the crowd gathered to watch, to wager on, the sword-dance. He saw me complete my trip across the circle. He looked again at the spectators, moistened his lips. I recognized the expression on his face: Darrion simply didn’t know what to do.
I took my place across from him. “Ready?”
The crowd had fallen into silence. Darrion looked from one man to another to another. It was too much for him, I knew, to yield before he began. Too many people watching. Other sword-dancers in town. A Northern sword-singer, trained on Staal-Yista. The Sandtiger himself waiting patiently across the circle.
He drew in a very deep breath. Shut his mouth. Firmed his jaw. Lifted his head proudly. “Say it.”
And Del said it: “Dance.”
Chapter 17
THE BEGINNING IS ALWAYS THE SAME. Instead of the fierce beauty of the dance, there is merely the ability to get to your sword first, to take it up, to disarm your opponent if he’s slower than you; to defend, if you’re slower than he. A fair number of dances have been won and lost in the first few seconds of that charge across the circle, that first grasp and lift of the sword.
We were of a size, Darrion and I. On another day, he might have won the race. But today he did not.
I was of two minds. I could beat him swiftly so I could disappear as swiftly, or I could teach him a lesson more slowly. And I meant that literally: a lesson. As a shodo.
So I compromised.
He came in at me, swinging his sword in a roundhouse maneuver. It was never an effective offense if you’re slow, or unpracticed, or if your opponent knows a thorough defense. He was neither slow nor unpracticed, but I was an opponent who knew a thorough defense. I met his blade with mine, with power, with weight behind it. He did manage to hang on to his blade, though he staggered back a few steps. While he did that, I followed, stepped in too close for swordwork, and met him at the very edge of the circle. He glanced down at the pegs, realized that he was precariously near to stepping out of the circle and thus losing the sword-dance.
“Duck down and sideways,” I said, holding my blow. “Go laterally. Not backwards or you step out of the circle. Not forward, because you’ll end up too close to your opponent. Laterally. Roll if necessary. Somersault if necessary. Just get the hoolies out of way of your opponent’s blade as you move away from the edge of the circle.”
His balance was completely off. It’s difficult to remain in the circle when your feet are nearly on the line and your opponent is in your face. Before he could step outside the confines, I reached out with my left hand, closed it around his right wrist and jerked him toward me, away from the line so he wouldn’t forfeit.
Darrion was astonished that I should do so. It kept him frozen.
“Oh, for the gods’ sake,” I said, annoyed. “Don’t just stand there. Or I’ll push you to the pegs again, and this time all the way out. I won’t save you. You don’t learn anything that way. Dance!”
He was not better than his friend Kirit, no matter what he claimed. But he was probably better than the dance he offered me. I’d completely undermined his confidence by telling him my identity, by pushing him so hard right at the beginning. Which had been precisely my intent.
We danced a bit more, and Darrion recovered a portion of his composure. He was grimly determined to keep up with me. And as he became more confident, more determined, I guided him into a specific maneuver.
I grinned as blades clashed, and mine went wheeling across the circle. I heard the huge gasp, the indrawn breaths of shock from the crowd. Even Darrion was astonished.
His sword dipped. He hesitated a fraction. I leaped in, clamped my left hand around his wrist, closed my right hand over the hilt, and ripped the sword from his hand. Within a minute it sat in my hand the way it was supposed to.
At arm’s length, I placed the tip against his chest, right where his heart beat. “Think ahead,” I said. “Think it through. See it in your head before you ever have to use it.”
He stood unmoving; wise for a man with a sword tip at his chest. “You released it on purpose,” he accused. “Your sword. You planned that.”
“That’s what you must do. Plan it. Think ahead. Think it through. See it, and when you must, you will use it. But you have to remember one thing.”
He stared at me, asking with his eyes.
“You have to be as skilled, or better, than your opponent. Because someone else who loses his sword and then takes yours may not be as forgiving as I am today.” I backed up, put out my left hand without looking, and my sword grip was slapped against my palm. I flipped both blades into the air, crossing one another in front of me. I caught them both, his in my left, mine in my right. “Think it through, Darrion. See it. Use it. But only when you’re ready.”
I tossed him his sword and walked out of the circle.
Mahmood found us, instead of the other way around. He waited politely as I laced up my sandals, dressed, then took the stud’s reins from Del. I’d have ridden, but Mahmood was on foot, and I thought it would be rude. He led us to his wagons so we could pick up Neesha’s horse, hand over the silks and spices, and get paid the second half of our fee.
The crowd had thinned out, though for a bit I was trailed by kids as we walked through the aisles until one or both parents caught up and dragged them away. Del and Neesha had put Mahmood and me in between them as they rode and we walked, forming a human and equine shield. They knew very well I didn’t want to deal with anymore sword-dancers, but the other five would certainly look for me if told I was here. Word would be passed. Istamir’s inhabitants didn’t need to know my name; all they had to do was describe the claw marks in my face.
Del, Neesha, and I came to a halt when Mahmood indicated that we should. Del and Neesha dismounted, and the three of us began pulling packets out of saddle pouches. Mahmood handled the muslin-wrapped silk rolls as if they were children, welcoming them back. With great care he unrolled the silks, shook them out, spread them across the tailgate of his wagon. Even I had to admit the panoply of colors with a spark of silver throughout was beautiful.
He lifted the top length of silk, smelled it, then looked at me mournfully. “They smell of spice.”