‘Changed your mind, I see,’ he said over the noise of the crowd.
‘You should try it some time,’ she snapped back.
‘I would, if I wasn’t always right.’
Maleneth’s response died in her throat as she saw clearly what was happening on the stage for the first time.
Four female dancers were spinning around one another, their darting motions dictated by the rhythm of a pair of hide drums being palm-beaten by two more women sat with legs crossed behind them. The performers were scantily clad in the same pearls and pink-and-purple silks worn by the messenger that had first invited Maleneth and Gotrek to the pavilion. Their black hair was unbound, and it whipped about as they wove and pivoted. Their dark, toned flesh was glistening with sweat.
You have seen this before.
‘I have,’ Maleneth murmured, her eyes not leaving the performance.
Each dancer carried a knife in both hands, and as they spun close to one another the wicked blades would kiss the clothing of the others with immaculate precision, slicing silk and turning the garments into long, flowing strands that further accentuated their fluid movements. With every slashing sound the crowd would let out a gasp or a cheer of appreciation, the whole mass swaying in time with the beat.
It was not the presence of the dancers themselves that had made Maleneth pause, nor even the knives in their hands. It was their motions. It was the Seventeen Blades. She had performed the dance a hundred times, had long ago memorised every step and pivot, every duck and flick and twist. It was the dance she herself had watched on the night that her life had changed forever, when her father had ripped her from the aelf she was to marry and had cast her into the temple’s bloodthirsty sisterhood.
She had never seen the dance performed by humans before, and she could never have imagined that they would do so with such precision. They could not match the speed or grace of an aelf, but every step and motion was assured and practised, and every knife-kiss precisely made. Though together, the four women represented a hail of razor blows and bared flesh, not a single one had been cut by the sharp steel.
She closed her eyes, willing away the memories the scene had brought on. Her four younger sisters, dancing the Seventeen Blades, their faces lit with joy. Jakari’s hand in her own, her half-smile – always so wicked – as she teased her about which noble house they were going to be married off to. The slam of doors, the rush of feet, the screams. The pain of cold, spiked gauntlets gripping her arms. The greater pain of Jakari’s hand being ripped from her own. The utter indifference in her father’s eyes.
The dance had stopped. Raucous applause dragged her back to the present. Despite the tent’s stifling heat, she felt cold.
Gotrek was still watching the stage, arms crossed over his broad chest, seemingly unimpressed. Those behind him were roaring for an encore, a cry that was quickly taken up by the rest of the crowd. The four dancers, their garments in tatters, offered a bow before parting with fluid grace, admitting a fifth woman to the centre of the stage. A rapid tattoo of drumbeats announced her arrival.
She was older than the dancers, and more formally attired, her hair bound up in a patterned tribal headscarf. Maleneth realised she was probably the troupe’s mistress, the one the dancer in the market had called Shaldeen. She raised her arms, a knowing smile on her lips. The drums came to an abrupt stop, and a hush settled over the crowd.
‘Shemali, sellah, friends and companions,’ Shaldeen said. ‘I hope our performances this night have brought pleasure and delight to one and all!’
A cheer greeted her words, and applause spread like a ripple. She held her hands up once more until silence returned.
‘It pleases me to say that our performance is not yet quite done. You have just borne witness to the Seventeen Blades, that famous old aelf dance, the signature of the dreaded and murderous temples of Khaine!’
The words were delivered with dramatic relish, and the audience responded with gasps and hisses.
‘We Alharabi have performed it to the best of our abilities, and we pray to that dreaded god that we have done his dance justice. I do not deny, however, that the best of our efforts would surely pale in comparison to the mastery of the aelves themselves.’
The crowd let out cries of denial, but the mistress waved them away, her smile fixed.
‘But we are blessed this night, friends and companies,’ she continued. ‘Blessed perhaps by that terrible power whom this dance venerates. For we have a servant of Khaine here among us, this very moment!’
A shocked silence fell over the spectators. Maleneth froze. The troupe mistress looked directly at her and extended one hand, the smile never wavering.
‘You honour us with your own presence, child of the Bloody-Handed. Now, will you help us honour your god as well, one more time?’
The whole tent had gone deathly silent, and those in the crowd closest to Maleneth had edged away from her. She glanced at Gotrek. The Slayer’s expression was stoic, but he nodded, once. Her own mistress remained silent.
Maleneth tensed, and leapt, clearing the edge of the stage easily. The lithe motion caused the crowd to gasp and exclaim in their native tongues. She landed lightly on both feet. A part of her, buried deep inside, quailed at the realisation that she was standing being watched by hundreds. She was an assassin, not an entertainer. A fire-lit stage was the last place she wanted to be.
But the memories had come on, too strong, too overpowering to be denied. She unclasped her cloak, letting it fall to more gasps. Her leathers were a far cry from the light silks of the Alharabi, and what little of her body that was bared – only her forearms – was a pale contrast to their dark complexions. Her raven hair and eyes, however, matched those of the dancers perfectly.
Two of the previous performers had backed off to the rear of the stage, leaving their two other dancing partners alongside Shaldeen and Maleneth. The shocked quiet was replaced by cheering and applause as the drums began to beat out a rhythm once more, slower this time. She mirrored the bow offered to the audience by the dancers. They were all still smiling. Heartbeat rising, Maleneth slipped her fyresteel knives free.
Remember the steps, child.
The dance began. Maleneth forced herself to stop thinking, to stop worrying, and obey the rhythm being set by the drums. The pavilion faded into the background as she let the motions sweep over and through her, the memories resurging stronger than ever. Jakari was opposite her once again, dancing the same dance, laughing freely, hair unbound and the slender blades in her hands glittering. Maleneth’s heart surged, and she almost misstepped. She recovered with a speed and precision no human could have matched, and drew another gasp from the crowd.
It was not Jakari opposite her. It was the troupe mistress, Shaldeen. Her mastery of the dance’s complex weave of steps and motions was as complete as Maleneth had ever seen. She moved with a fluid, controlled passion, channelling an energy that didn’t concern itself with anything beyond the next step, and the next, and the next. Maleneth slid past and around her, their bodies inches apart, the Alharabi silk flowing. The cloying perfume was thick in her nostrils.
The blades glinted in the firelight. A razor kiss, accentuated by another acceleration in the drumming. Gasps from the crowd intruded on the flow of Maleneth’s thoughts as she slid one of her blades up and along the troupe mistress’ spine, the tip just missing her perfect, dark skin, feathering open a section of her silken garment. She felt the same connection along her own back, sliding down her leathers. It failed to penetrate, and there was no cloth to cut open, but that was not the point – the garments were merely accessories. The power of the dance lay in the caress of death, the aching closeness of being an inch away from Khaine’s red touch. The sensation of her own knife darting along someone’s back, and another at her own, almost made the breath catch in Maleneth’s throat.