"You are half-dead with exhaustion; do you think I can't see it? You can barely stand up." He shook his head. "I will not present a farce. Ten days, Sandtiger. After you have rested and recovered. Then you may prove to me if you're as good as you claim." He gestured to his servants. "Escort him to the bath chamber, then to his room. See that he is fed."
I dropped all pretenses, all facades. "Wait," I blurted sharply, as Umir began to turn away. "The Northern woman," I said, "the one you wanted so badly …"
He paused.
"She's ill," I told him. "Possibly dying. If you let me go to her—send any number of men with me you wish, tie me up, keep me on a leash, put chains on me if you like—I swear to return and take part in your contest."
Umir studied me consideringly. Then, with delicate disdain, he said, "I do not accept worthless oaths from men with no honor."
I was tired enough and dirty enough that a bath among the enemy—with the enemy's servants watching—did not unduly disturb me, especially since my wrists were finally untied and the nooses lifted from my neck. Nor did I fear drinking the watered wine servant-guards offered as I soaked in the huge hip-bath. I was too thirsty. And for all Umir had imprisoned me—and had done so before—he'd never actually tried to harm me. If he was offering the Sandtiger on a platter to his guests as a fillip to his contest, he would indeed want me fit enough to provide proper entertainment. His reputation depended on it. He was ruthless when it came to dealing for prized acquisitions—kidnapping Del was an example—but not a killer.
So, knowing I needed to be in the best physical condition possible if I wanted to survive—minor motivation—I took advantage of his hospitality and came out of the bath markedly cleaner and feeling more relaxed than I had in days. Upon being dried by female servants and anointed with scented oil, I was presented with a soft linen dhoti and a fresh house-robe of creamy raw silk and a russet-colored sash, but my leather dhoti and sandals were missing. Then the male servants escorted me barefoot down a cool, tiled corridor to a wooden door boasting a rather convoluted locking mechanism on the corridor-side latch. They gestured me in, and in I went. I knew better than to try Umir's servants. They were very large men, and I was on the verge of turning into a boneless puddle of flesh.
The room clearly had been built to house a prisoner. The edge of the door was beveled so it overlapped the jamb; there was no crack into which a knife or some other implement might be inserted in an attempt to lift the latch. Nor was there any bolt or latch-string in evidence. Just planks of thick wood adzed smooth, studded with countersunk iron nailheads impossible to pry out. The door could only be opened from the corridor, and even a concerted effort on my behalf to knock down the door with brute strength would result only in bruised flesh and, possibly, broken bones. No thanks.
Nor was there a window. Just four blank walls with a row of small holes knocked through mudbrick up near the roof in the exterior wall, well over my head, and an equally blank adobe ceiling. The floor was also adobe, lacking tiles or rugs. A large night-crock—in this case, daycrock, too—sat unobtrusively in one corner. The only piece of furniture in the room was a very high, narrow bed. Next to the bed, on the floor, was set a large silver tray containing cubed goat cheese; mutton pie baked in flaky pastry; a sprig of fat, blood-colored grapes; a small round loaf of steaming bread accompanied by a bowl of olive oil; and a pewter cup, plus matching tankards of water and wine. Not to mention a folded square of linen with which to blot my mouth upon completion of the meal. Umir believed in manners.
Ten days. I wondered whether that included today or began tomorrow. I wondered it all through the meal, the entire water tankard, half of the wine, and as I fell backward onto the bed. Umir had even provided a pillow and coverlet. Then I didn't wonder anything at all. I fell fast asleep.
In the echoes of the dream, I saw old bones. Heard a woman's voice.
And took up a sword.
TWELVE
I WOKE UP not long after dawn to the sound of sword blades. For a moment I was disoriented, aware of unfamiliar smells, light, and the fabric beneath my body. Then I remembered.
Swearing, I crawled out of Umir's so-called guest bed and sat hunched on the edge, scrubbing at creased face. I'd been shaved the day before during my bath, so the stubble was short instead of its usual three or four days' worth of growth.
Swords clashed outside. In the pallor of the morning, I glanced up at the line of airholes cut through mudbrick near the ceiling. Apparently the exterior wall of my room faced Umir's circle off the back of the house. But obviously I was not to be allowed sight of the matches or of the individual who might be given the honor of killing me.
The door latch rattled. The door itself was thrown open. Had I intended to move, I wouldn't have had time to get off the bed. As it was, I just sat there, scowling at my unannounced visitor.
Umir. I stopped scowling and presented him with a blandly noncommital expression of nonaggression.
Then the two large men who'd shadowed me yesterday came into the room, and even as I began to stand up they grabbed my arms arid jerked me onto my feet. So much for Umir's hospitality.
"Already?" I asked.
The two men clamped grips on my wrists and extended my hands. Umir approached. His expression was outraged. "It is true!" he cried, staring at my hands. "I believed Rafiq was exaggerating."
Ah. The infamous missing fingers.
"I shall have to reduce his payment," he declared grimly.
My eyebrows leaped up. "Just how much are two fingers worth compared to an entire person?"
Umir glared at me. "I expected all of you to be delivered. Whole in body. Those were my orders."
I wanted to laugh; the whole topic was unbelievable. "Not that Rafiq and I are friends, Umir, but he didn't do it. This happened a few months ago."
"I heard nothing of it!"
"It didn't happen here." Hoolies, what did it matter?
He swung away, took two steps, swung back. His pale gray eyes were fierce. "Can you still dance?"
I suppressed a smile. "According to the rite of elaii-ali-ma, I am not allowed—"
He cut me off with a shout. "Can you still dance?"
"What, afraid your plan for me as reward will be ruined?"
Umir took one step toward me and swung. I ducked most of the blow, but the flat of his hand still caught me across the rim of my ear. The servants tightened their grips even more as I tried to lunge at Umir, holding me back.
"Try me," I said between my teeth. "Put a sword in these hands and try me—or why not ask Khashi if I can hold a sword?"
Umir's expression was blank. "Khashi?"
"A sword-dancer," I told him. "We had a little contretemps in Julah. Except he's dead now, so he's not here to tell you anything about who won and who lost."
Color began to steal back into his face. "He's dead?"
"Yes."
"You killed him?"
"Yes."
"Was he any good?"
I attempted a shrug made unsuccessful by the grips of the servants. "Apparently not, since I won. But I suspect that depends on your point of view."
Umir bent down and peered closely at my hands. I found the critical examination highly offensive, but there wasn't much I could do about it. So I just gritted my teeth and waited.
"Are they still painful?" he asked curiously, the way one might ask a guest if he wants more wine.
It took effort not to bellow at him, to retain some measure of decorum. "Explain why this matters to you."
Umir seemed surprised as he straightened. "Of course it matters. Your physical well being affects the quality of the entertainment I'll be offering."