felt that fire catch hold in his soul, outweighing any other thoughts or considerations.
Slowly, knowing that he wagered all on a single cast of the dice, he drew himself up to attention. Then he saluted; slowly, gravely, to the approval of every one of the robed men in that room.
“To Baghdad, and Yemen, Aurens,” he said. “Inshallah.”
This story first appeared in Fantasy Book magazine; it was later combined with the following story, “Dragon’s Teeth,” and stories by Marion Zimmer Bradley and Jennifer Roberson for a volume originally called Bardic Voices, later published by DAW as Spell Singers.
Martis is very close to being a soul-sister to Tarma and Kethry.
Balance
“You’re my bodyguard?”
The swordsman standing in the door to Martis’ cluttered quarters blinked in startled surprise. He’d been warned that the sorceress was not easy to work with, but he hadn’t expected her to be quite so rude. He tried not to stare at the tall, disheveled mage who stood, hands on hips, amid the wreckage she’d made of her own quarters. The woman’s square features, made harsher by nervous tension, reflected her impatience as the mercenary groped for the proper response to make.
Martis was a little embarrassed by her own ill-manners, but really, this—child—must surely be aware that his appearance was hardly likely to invoke any confidence in his fighting ability!
For one thing, he was slim and undersized; he didn’t even boast the inches Martis had. For another, the way he dressed was absurd; almost is if he were a dancer got up as a swordsman for some theatrical production. He was too clean, too fastidious; that costume wasn’t even the least worn-looking—and silk, for Kevreth’s sake! Blue-green silk at that! He carried two swords, and whoever had heard of anyone able to use two swords at once outside of a legend? His light brown hair was worn longer than any other fighter Martis had ever seen—too long, Martis thought with disapproval, and likely to get in the way despite the headband he wore to keep it out of his eyes. He even moved more like a dancer than a fighter.
This was supposed to guard her back? It looked more like she’d be guarding him. It was difficult to imagine anything that looked less like a warrior.
“The Guard-serjant did send this one for that purpose, Mage-lady, but since this one does not please, he shall return that another may be assigned.”