The Reluctant Swordsman

The barracks was a massive marble block with balconies and arched windows, somewhat like a medieval Moorish palace. Tarru had sent word, and the visitor was greeted by a deputation of the staff, ancient or crippled swordsmen who had put away their swords. The commissary had all his limbs, but he was old and so bowed that his gray head stuck out like a turtle’s, and his hand gestures were hidden beneath him when he presented himself as Coningu of the Fifth. He appraised Wallie’s condition with a practiced eye, terminated any further formalities, and asked what his lordship required.

Coningu nodded to a subordinate, then led the way up a marble staircase wide enough to have carried a two-lane highway. Apparently everything associated with the temple was built on the same titanic scale, and the ceilings were all so high that it took three flights for the staircase to mount each story. Wallie dared not look back in case he was leaving bloody marks on every step for slaves to clean. At last they reached the top floor and went along a passage of matching dimensions until Coningu opened a door and stepped aside.

Wallie was impressed. The room was huge and airy—floor of glassy wood with gaudy rugs on it, cool marble walls hung with bright tapestries, and an incredibly high plaster ceiling with faded frescoes that might have come from the Sistine Chapel. There were four beds and numerous other pieces of furniture, but the room was so big that they did not crowd it in the least. Then he saw that Coningu was advancing to another door—this was merely the antechamber.

The main guest room was three times as big, with a bed as large as a swimming pool. Shaded windows at both ends led to balconies and allowed a cool breeze to float across. The rugs and hangings were works of art, the woodwork everywhere blazed with polish. From the expression on Nnanji’s face, he had never seen this part of the barracks and was overwhelmed.

“What do you think?” Wallie muttered, hoping that Coningu could not hear. “Will this do, or should we look for a better place down the road?”

Nnanji stared at him in bewilderment. Coningu did hear, and smiled a sideways glance that said nothing.

“It’s probably seen many of those, my lord,” replied the commissary, mollified.

Wallie could not resist teasing him. “How about jailbirds? You know where I slept last night?”

Coningu flashed a cynical smile. “Those, too, my lord, I expect. The temple court has been overruled before.”

Sore feet momentarily forgotten, Wallie browsed around. He found the bellrope and a weighty keg-sized bronze receptacle embellished with nymphs and flowers in bas relief. He decided that it must be the chamber pot. The ornate wall lamps seemed to be real gold. A massive carved chest was full of foils, fencing masks, and barbells—everything a vacationing swordsman could want. He paced off some of the rugs and decided that they were silk, as were the wall hangings. Seeing thick iron bolts on the inside of the door, he confirmed that the outer door was similarly fitted, and then limped out on a balcony to inspect the security there.

The shadowing overhang was wide and the flanking walls smooth. Any burglar trying to enter would need wings. Below him stretched the picturebook park, and beyond that the high wall, the tenements and slums of the town, then the valley wall with its steep road and the row of pilgrim cottages . . . and finally the indigo tropic sky. The other balcony probably faced the jail. Wallie frowned at the town, recalling the squalor and how he had reacted to it two days earlier. He could hear the messages he was being given: The Goddess rewards Her servants well. Do not question the justice of the gods.

He found a full-length silver mirror. There again was the Shonsu illusion he had seen in his delirium, except that the vision had been naked, not wrapped in slaves’ sackcloth, and now the face and body were bruised and scraped and swollen all over, eyes puffed and purple, the black hair half in a pony tail and half loose. He grimaced at himself, and the overall effect was terrifying. How could Nnanji have balked at an order from such a horror?

Voices and clatter announced the arrival of slaves with a huge copper bathtub and steaming buckets. A one-legged swordsman snapped orders. Another of the cripples led in more slaves, with towels and boxes. The room began to fill up. Now Wallie realized that he was expected to perform his toilet in public, like Louis XIV, but he was too weary to argue. Nnanji unbuckled Wallie’s harness and took his sword and scabbard, evidently one of the duties of a protégé. Slaves poured water and ran for more. Wallie sighed a sigh for a whirlpool tub with some good soap, then accepted the royal treatment.

The slaves slaved, Wallie soaked sensuously in the tub, and the old swordsmen quietly clustered around Nnanji. There were half a dozen of them there, for Wallie was perhaps the most exciting thing to happen for a century or two. Any excuse was good enough to attend and enjoy the drama.

It was the sword that was attracting the swordsmen—they were gathered about it like boys around a foreign sports car.

“Sure,” Wallie said sleepily. He heard the murmurs of wonder as the group admired the blade itself. Then Nnanji suddenly declaimed, in a curious chant:

“A griffon crouched upon the hilt
In silver white and sapphire blue,
With ruby eye and talons gilt
And blade of steel of starlight hue.
The seventh sword he wrought at last,
And all the others it surpassed.”

“What in the World is that?” asked Wallie, waking up suddenly and hurling bathwater over slaves and floor.

“A minstrel jingle, my liege.” Nnanji was staring at him, nervous at the reaction. “About the seven swords of Chioxin. I can tell you all about the first six, if you wish, but it is rather a long poem.”

“Chioxin! Chioxin?” A picture floated into Wallie’s mind—a piece of a sword blade fastened to a wall, a blade old and damaged, broken at both ends, yet inscribed with figures of men and monsters. He reached for more, and there was nothing. It was a Shonsu memory, a fragment on the border between the professional memories he had been given and the personal memories denied him. The sensation made him uneasy. Where or what was Chioxin?

“It sounds like that sword, doesn’t it?” he said. “Griffon and sapphire? What else do you know about it?”

Nnanji looked suddenly embarrassed. “I never heard the rest, my liege. It was my first night in the barracks, when I was a scratcher.” He grinned at the memory of his younger self. “Looking back now, I don’t think he was a very good minstrel, but then I thought he was marvelous. He sang the ballad about the seven swords of Chioxin, and I wanted to hear all of it. But he just got to the last part, about the seventh sword, and then . . . then I had to leave, my liege.”

“Wild Ani, I bet,” said one of the others. They all shrieked and cackled with laughter, and Nnanji turned a furious red.

Coningu, hovering on the edge of the group like a wind-bent cypress on a beach, was staring at the sword. He sensed Wallie’s eye, glanced at him, and then turned quickly away. Coningu had heard that ballad, all of it, and he knew what it had told of the seventh sword. Old cynic that he was, he looked impressed by something.

Wallie hauled himself out of the tub to provide a diversion. Soon he was dried and being offered a choice of blue kilts from some barracks store. He chose the plainest, although even that was of finest lawn. Nnanji buckled on his harness for him—and then stripped and plopped into his mentor’s discarded bathwater. A protégé’s privilege, obviously.

Two healers, a Sixth and a Third, bowed before Wallie and nodded approvingly at a patient so spectacularly battered, but still basically healthy. Reluctantly he allowed them to smear salve on his scrapes. Then they prepared to bandage his feet.

“These are bandages, my lord,” the Sixth said, surprised. “They are very good bandages. They were blessed for me in the temple many years ago and have healed a great many patients.”

“What happened to the last two patients?” Wallie demanded, and his answer was a look of discomfiture. “Get some new ones, healer. You have worn out the blessings those. For now you may use towels.”

Wallie was too tired to argue. “Vassal?” he said, and Nnanji, who had just finished dressing, smiled and drew his sword.

A table of food had been laid out, and that was all he needed. He thanked them and ordered them away—commissary, slaves, swordsmen, healers, and bathtub—refusing offers of table service or musicians or female company . . . Nnanji looked a little disappointed at that. Then he slid the bolts on the door to the corridor. Peace!

Nnanji lifted the silver covers off the food. Wallie’s mouth watered so hard that it hurt. Soups, baked fish, roast fowl and a savory meat pie, something curried, vegetables, desserts, hot breads, cheeses, six flasks of wine, cakes, and fruits. No, not the fruit, thank you.

“There seems to be enough here for twenty men,” Wallie said, sitting down. “So I may be able to spare you a little, vassal. What do you fancy to start?”

“After you, my liege.” Nnanji’s eyes were bright, but he was expecting to wait.

Wallie ordered him to a seat and for some time they gorged in silence. Wallie was astounded at how much he ate, but he was a big man now and had starved for days. Nnanji, as the model adolescent, matched him bite for bite; there were advantages to being vassal to a Seventh. By the time they slowed down and started up a conversation, there was not much left.

“I am going to sleep until morning,” he announced, “but whether tomorrow morning or the day after, I am not sure. At least one of those doors must stay bolted, because my little god might be a bit annoyed if I let his sword get stolen. If you like, I can let you out now, and you can go and prowl somewhere, then sleep in the outer room. Please yourself.”

It was early yet for sleep, but Nnanji could not bring himself to leave. Perhaps he was frightened Wallie would disappear like a dream.

Wallie laid his sword on the bed, piled up some pillows, and lay back, sinking into the mattress.

“Feather bed! Softer than the jail floor!” Then, because he wanted his companion to do the talking, he said, “Tell me about Wild Ani?”

Nnanji blushed again. “One of the barracks women, my liege. A slave. She’s huge and ugly and tough as an old ox. Boobs like meal sacks, one eye gone. She makes bets that no man can rape her, no holds barred, and claims a perfect record.” He giggled. “They say that some men lost more than they thought they were betting . . . ”

“It’s a tradition. We . . . the Seconds tell them that they have to prove their manhood. Every scratcher spends his first night with Wild Ani.” He giggled again. “That was why I didn’t hear the rest of the ballad.”

“It’s all right,” Nnanji said unashamedly. “She’s a great woman, really. You want a she-dragon, she’ll be a she-dragon, rough as you like. But with a scratcher she’s patient and sympathetic . . . and helpful. Well, I mean, I didn’t know where to . . . I mean, what to . . . ” He grinned as the memories came back. Then he saw that his liege lord was already asleep.

On one side of the sword seven swordsmen fought with seven mythical beasts; on the other the same beasts were being fed, ridden, or comforted by seven maidens. No pose was repeated exactly, and even the expressions on the faces were distinct. Wallie could not guess how lines of such delicacy and artistry could have been inscribed in so hard a material.

The barracks was silent yet, and dawn was still drawing breath in the east, preparing to proclaim the day with fanfares of light. An anonymous blanket bundle lying across the doorway showed how a certain vassal’s romantic ideas of duty had outweighed the attractions of a bed. A hank of red hair protruded at one end.

Wallie was lying in the vast feather bed, examining the god’s sword at leisure and periodically wriggling luxuriously. His bruises had faded to the sort of pleasurable ache that can come from too much exercise; the throbbing in his feet was a mere whisper of what it had been. The World was his to enjoy as the demigod had told him. A few days to complete his healing and enlist a couple of good middlerank protégés, then he could be on his way to explore that World, to be valorous and honorable, and to await the revelation of his task. Yesterday he had awakened on slimy stone, facing sentence of death; today he floated in luxury and reveled in power and freedom.

He turned then to the harness he had been given. The leather was embossed with scenes taken from the sword itself, although the artistry could hardly be so impressive. The left pocket was empty. Traditionally that held a whetstone, so there was another message: the sword came from the gods, but he must see to its sharpness. In the right pocket he discovered a treasure of sparkling blue gems. Then he understood the god’s remark about expenses—he was not merely powerful, he was rich.

His eyes wandered to the distant ceiling. The frescoes above the bed were explicitly erotic. This was a very lusty body he had been given—he would need more than swordsman companionship. He turned his head and looked through the far window, to the tiny line of pilgrim cottages along the hillside road. He had another debt to repay, but that was a different matter altogether. If she chose . . . but it must be a free decision. To own a concubine, a slave, would be rape by Wallie Smith’s standards. He was not going to compromise on that. Honorable and valorous, and especially honorable.

A distant bugle sounded. The mummy by the door exploded in a whirl of blanket and long limbs, and there was Nnanji, sitting cross-legged, bright-eyed, and wearing nothing but his incredible ear-swallowing grin, ready to go anywhere and do anything.

“And you,” Wallie replied. “I trust they serve breakfast in this inn? I’m so hungry again I could eat a horse.”

“They usually do serve horse at breakfast,” Nnanji said happily, looking as though he meant it.

Wallie placed his bundled feet carefully on the floor and winced. “Today I plan to do almost nothing,” he said. “Is there anything that you want to do?”

“Oh!” Wallie pondered. “That might take more than one day. But we’ll try a lesson or two.”

They performed the morning dedication together and prepared to leave. Nnanji picked up Hardduju’s sword and regarded it doubtfully.

“You really mean me to have this, my liege?” he asked, looking unbelievingly at the gold and rubies. When Wallie agreed, he seemed even more puzzled. “I shall have to sell it?”

It took Wallie a moment to understand, and then the thought was so bloodcurdling that he passed it off quickly with a joke. “Or else I shall have to avenge you, of course—every time.”

“Let’s have a look at it,” Wallie said, and soon showed Nnanji the poor balance and unnecessary weight. Then he let Nnanji try the god’s sword, and there was no comparison. Hardduju’s was for show, not for fighting. It would buy a first class blade with enough left over for a dozen more, but for a junior it would be a death sentence.

Nnanji looked relieved, although still surprised by a Seventh who would stoop to joking with a Second and so lightly give him a fortune. “Thank you, my liege,” he said. He left the sword under Wallie’s bed and bore his own to breakfast.

Their way led back to ground level and through to the working part of the barracks, which was still on a monumental scale, but in sandstone instead of marble. The mess was as large as the guest room and even loftier, its windows set high, and the lower parts of the walls hung with banners. Wallie appraised these skeptically and decided they were the product of an interior designer’s imagination and not genuine battle relics.

The big room was half full of swordsmen, sitting at long plank tables, eating from bowls, and chattering, but they fell quiet as he paused in the doorway, and for a few moments the only sound was the snuffling of fat dogs as they scavenged busily in the litter on the floor. Wallie glanced around the available spaces and then strode over to his choice without thinking.

“No, you first,” he said to Nnanji, and they both sat down. Swordsmen sat on stools of course, leaving room for scabbards.

Wallie dug into Shonsu’s memories. “Backs to the wall where we can see the door, best sword arm on the right,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” Wallie replied. “That was lesson one.” For both of them.

Conversation had picked up cautiously, but the newcomers were being studied with many sidelong glances, which Wallie ignored. A peg-legged waiter delivered two bowls of stew, two black loaves of steaming rye bread, and two tankards of ale. If the stew was horse, it smelled delicious, making Shonsu’s mouth water, and there was enough ale to douse a three-alarm fire. He soon found that the ale was necessary, for the stew was fiery with spice in the usual tropical treatment of yesterday’s meat; but it was good.

Wallie’s feet were throbbing again in their bandages. He put them up on a stool in front of him, aware that they looked absurd, not especially caring. He had complained to the demigod that he did not know the table manners of the World, but if Nnanji were to be his example, the main requirements seemed to be enthusiasm and speed. For a few moments they spooned and drank in silence. Men were coming and going freely, both entering and leaving, and also picking up their food and moving to other tables. As he studied the activity, he noticed that the end of a meal was marked by laying the bowl down for the dogs to lick. He started eating less and watching more.

His first impression of the swordsmen, when the demigod had led him to the temple gate, had been that they were a scruffy lot. Looking round the mess hall, he saw few there to change that opinion. A Seventh would be expected to dress his protégés in good style, but the donation of Hardduju’s sword would take care of that expense, and Nnanji was at least clean and well combed. Many of the other juniors were not. Which of these swordsmen should he try to enlist as his bodyguard?

Then he saw a Fourth openly staring at him—a man of around thirty, well built, and conspicuously neater and cleaner-looking than most. He knew that man.

“Vassal?” he asked quietly. “Who is that Fourth over there, sitting with a Third? He was in charge of the Death Squad yesterday.”

“Adept Briu, my liege,” he said. He dropped his eyes to his stew bowl and seemed to lose his appetite.

Yesterday Briu had performed a disgusting task with dignity. He had kept his head when the crowd began to turn vicious and he had refrained from using his whip when Wallie provoked him. Briu might be a useful recruit.

“Do you suppose that he might be willing to join our mission?” Wallie asked.

Nnanji gave him a momentary smile at the “our,” but then shook his head. “His wife is due to hatch soon, my liege.”

Tear up plan one! Clearly there was another part of the swordsmen’s code, which the demigod had not told him: “I shall not squeal.” Loyal vassal or not, Nnanji was not going to rat on anyone—admit to one foul bird and you label the whole hen house, including yourself for roosting in it. And if that rule was generally observed, the lad would not likely know who was up to what, anyway. Gorramini had been another of Hardduju’s three gorillas and certainly no man of honor in Wallie’s estimation. He had not shown up with Meliu on the courtyard, though, and did not seem to be present now in the hall.

Nnanji took another look at Briu. Then he pushed away his bowl and tankard, folded his arms, and sat staring straight ahead with a tense expression. Wallie regarded him curiously.

Nnanji showed a flash of misery and then went wooden again. “It was too good to be true, my liege,” he said cryptically.

Wallie looked around warily. Firsts, Seconds, Thirds, Fourths . . . no Fifths. There had been at least four red kilts in the hall when he came in. Almost everyone was sitting facing toward him. The hall was growing steadily quieter. Something was certainly afoot, and the focus of it was Briu and his friend. Wallie pushed his bowl and tankard aside also.

Briu and the Third rose, and conversation stopped altogether. The waiters and cooks had gathered in a line along the wall beside the door to the kitchen. Even Nnanji seemed to know what was pending, damn it! Wallie took his feet off the stool and stood up, prepared to repel boarders.

Briu arrived at the far side of the table and made the salute to a superior. Wallie gave the reply.

“Lord Shonsu,” the Fourth said in a voice aimed at the audience, “will you graciously waive hospitality upon a matter of honor?”

So that was how they were going to do it? In theory Wallie could refuse, but not in practice. He could not guess what the matter of honor might be, unless his actions yesterday had in some way compromised this Briu. Perhaps all that was required was a declaration from Lord Shonsu that he had not received that inexplicable sword from him.

“Honor must always take precedence,” Wallie said, equally loudly. Briu was tense, but certainly did not look as worried as he should be if he were planning to fight a Seventh.

He inclined his head slightly in agreement. “Then be so kind as to present to me your protégé, my lord.”

Damn! Nnanji’s former mentor, of course. But why was Briu not looking more worried? Wallie turned to glance at Nnanji, standing stiffly at his left, and Nnanji’s face bore the same drawn look it had shown the day before, when Wallie’s sword had been at his throat.

Wallie was about to start arguing, then decided that the formalities had better come first. “Adept Briu, may I have the honor . . . ”

Nnanji’s mouth had already opened and for a moment it stayed that way. His face went as red as his hair, and he turned to stare at his liege in outrage.

“I wish to explore this matter of honor,” Wallie said, still loud. “You may not be aware, Adept Briu, that Apprentice Nnanji refused to swear the second oath to me—at swordpoint—on the grounds that he was already sworn to you. I trust that you are worthy of such loyalty?”

“And your burden. You should also know that Apprentice Nnanji swore the second oath to me only when ordered to do so, when he was already my vassal and could refuse me nothing.”

Tarru and the others on the steps—they would have known from the actions which oaths were being sworn.

“Then the fault was mine as his liege,” Wallie said. Go ahead and challenge!

Briu was keeping his face expressionless, but he shook his head slightly. “As the third oath impinged upon the honor of his mentor, it should not have been sworn without permission, my lord.”

Wallie had not thought of that, and the spectators rustled slightly, as if it was causing some surprise among them, also. Had his Shonsu memory failed him? To give himself time to think he raised an eyebrow and inquired, “Indeed? In which sutra is that stipulated?”

Briu. hesitated. “In no sutra that I am aware of, my lord, and of course I yield to your superior knowledge of the sutras. It is an interpretation.”

There was one way out, then. As senior swordsman in the valley, Wallie could simply tell him that his interpretation was wrong and Wallie’s opinion would prevail. That would be a humiliating solution, although it might be all that was expected.

“I confess that I have not heard of the matter ever being discussed,” Wallie said, meaning Shonsu had not.

“The fact that the sutras do not provide explicit directions would confirm that it is an extremely rare occurrence. A good topic for a cold beer on a hot day, perhaps. This is your own interpretation?”

Now Briu did not meet his eye. “I have discussed it with swordsmen of higher rank, my lord, and their opinion agreed with my own.”

Tarru, of course! He had set this up or at least known of it. Obviously Briu would have referred the question to the highest rank he could find, and only Tarru could have stipulated that all the Fifths would leave the room. Insolence! Obviously, then, the situation called for a small show of strength and—almost as a conscious act like pressing a switch—Wallie turned control over to Shonsu.

His voice rose threateningly. “So you challenge a Second to mortal combat over an interpretation, do you, Adept Briu? I think that is despicable, the act of a coward!”

Briu rocked back on his heels and went pale with shock, and the whole roomful of swordsmen seemed to draw breath at the same time.

Woodenly, reluctantly—in the manner of a man going to his doom—Briu moved his hand in the sign of challenge.

One of the dogs at the other side of the room was scratching a flea, and the steady beat of its leg on the floor was the only sound in the hall. There was no movement except the slow rippling of banners in a draft from the windows.

Wallie was leaning forward slightly with his left hand on the table, to leave room behind him for his elbow. There were stools and another table behind Briu, and he probably was not certain where. If he tried to move backward, that sword could advance the whole length of Wallie’s arm in an instant. Wallie could feel sorry for him, for he was obviously a proud professional in his smartly pleated kilt and shiny-oiled harness, yet now he was exposed to both danger and utter ridicule. The pause was probably only a few seconds, but it seemed an hour before the man on whom the drama waited suddenly awoke to take up his cue.

The Third was staring unbelievingly at Briu and the deadly length of steel that had appeared from nowhere. “Yield,” he agreed at once, looking as shocked as his principal.

Briu’s arm seemed to melt, and his hand sank down. The sword was still at his heart, and now he was Wallie’s, even to the ritual of abasement, if that was what the victor demanded. He must obey, or be put to death. His eyes showed horror and shame.

“Tell me, Adept Briu,” Wallie said, still speaking loudly enough for the audience to hear, “when you instructed your protégé in the second and third oaths, did you explain that the third must not be sworn without mentor’s permission?”

Of course Briu could say yes, but no one would believe him—the point was too hypothetical and abstruse. “No, my lord.” His voice was hoarse.

“Then the fault—if there was one—did not lie with Apprentice Nnanji, but with the inferior instruction he had received from his mentor?”

Briu’s lips moved and no sound came. Then he swallowed twice and said, “It would seem so, my lord.”

Wallie pulled the sword back slightly. “I don’t think everyone heard that. Proclaim your error.”

“Lord Shonsu,” Briu said, more loudly, “I see that I omitted to instruct my former protégé, Apprentice Nnanji, in the proper precautions for swearing the third oath, and if there was any flaw in his actions yesterday, then the fault was mine, and he acted in good faith.”

“Then you have no further grievance against either Apprentice Nnanji or myself in the matter?”

Wallie sheathed his sword to show his acceptance. “I withdraw any allegation of cowardice, Adept Briu. You displayed exemplary courage in challenging a Seventh. I shall congratulate your mentor the next time I see him.”

Wallie sat down and pulled his stew bowl back toward him, paying no further attention to the rest of the room. Nnanji reluctantly did the same. Briu’s companion put an arm on his shoulders and led him away.

However, the matter was not closed for Wallie. He had known that the theft of a protégé must be followed by challenge, but he had truly expected that the challenge would be directed at him, for that seemed only fair. Obviously he had misjudged the swordsmen’s view. The sutras did not recognize duress as an excuse—a forced oath was binding, no danger ever excused reneging. So they blamed Nnanji, not him. A merciless creed, but he should have known.

The problem lay in that shadowy region between his Shonsu self and his Wallie self. You do not think like Shonsu, and that pleases me, the demigod had said. But when his sword was in his hand, he must think like Shonsu. It was a divided rule, strategy from Wallie and tactics from Shonsu, and a bothersome and potentially serious problem if he were to make errors of judgment like that very often. There was more to being a swordsman than manual skill and a list of sutras—values, for example.

Much whispered argument was going on all over the room. Nnanji was toying with his stew and frowning furiously at it.

“What’s wrong?” Wallie demanded. Nnanji did not look like a man who had just escaped maiming.

“I should not have killed you,” Wallie said and got an astonished look. “I rarely kill unless I must.” He hoped he was keeping a straight face.

“Well, what would you have done if I had refused?” asked Nnanji, amazed and perhaps resentful.

Wallie was wondering the same. “I’m not sure. I suppose I’d have asked you to go and bring me a coward. I’m very glad you didn’t. Do you want me to release you?”

His mentor resisted an impulse to pick him up and shake him. Obviously Nnanji’s standards were totally unrealistic and might therefore become a serious nuisance some time in the future. However, now that he had time to think, Wallie could see that a Seventh, with more than eleven hundred sutras available to him, could justify almost anything.

“I certainly would not want a man of doubtful honor along on my mission,” he said—and Nnanji paled. “And you did make an error.” Nnanji blanched.

“You ought to have asked,” Wallie continued, “why blood need be shed. I should have told you, of course, that I had a mission from the Goddess . . . ”

“And of course loyalty to the Goddess takes precedence over everything, even duty to a mentor.”

Nnanji gasped. Relief and gratitude flooded over his astonishingly legible face. “I am a man of honor, my liege . . . I think.”

“So do I,” Wallie said firmly. “And the matter is now closed! However, we have just had lesson two. What did you learn from the duel, if I may call it that?”

At the mention of swordsmanship, Nnanji recovered his good spirits and snickered. “He had his thumb up his nose, my liege.”

“True,” Wallie said with a smile. “But why? A Fourth shouldn’t be that easy, even for me.”

Nnanji thought, counting on his fingers, then said, “You insulted him so that he must challenge, and that gave you the choice of time and place, right? Then he had seen your bandages and probably he thought you would want to put it off for a day or two. Three: dueling isn’t allowed inside the barracks. He forgot that you wouldn’t know that rule, or be bound by it.” He laughed aloud. “And who ever heard of anyone trying to fight a duel across a table?” He grinned happily.

“Very good!” Wallie said. He thought it over himself for a minute. “I wouldn’t recommend that technique for everyday, though. If he’d been a fraction quicker, he’d have nailed me back against the wall.” Shonsu might be the fastest draw in the World, but swords were not pistols. This was not Dodge City.

Unobtrusively, a couple of Fifths slipped back into the room, and other men departed on their duties. After a short interval—just long enough to suggest that he had not been waiting nearby—Honorable Tarru came hurrying in, overflowing with remorse. Wallie rose for the formal greetings. Nnanji moved as though to leave, but Wallie waved him back to his place.

Tarru apologized profusely for the breach of hospitality, which of course would not have occurred had there been any seniors around, and which would certainly not happen again.

Tarru was probably younger than he looked, he decided—prematurely gray, and weathered rather than wrinkled—and possibly about as trustworthy as a starving leopard with rabies. During the ensuing polite exchange of pleasantries, inquiries about healing and other trivia, his eyes wandered frequently to the hilt of Wallie’s sword.

Nnanji waved for a second bowl of stew. Tarru accepted a tankard of ale and Wallie refused one, although it was small beer and relatively harmless. Wallie suspected that as soon as the conversational froth had settled. Tarru would start inquiring about his guest’s plans, so he forestalled him with some business of his own.

“There is a small matter that concerns me,” he said. “The priests’ attempt at exorcism three days ago left me unconscious. I awoke in a sort of hut, up on the canyon road.”

“I saw no dragon. But the slave girl who looked after me . . . her name was Jja. I took a fancy to her.”

Tarru was contemptuous. “Faugh! Nothing but sluts, my lord. They clean floors by day and clean out pilgrims by night, for Kikarani’s benefit, of course—horse traders, pot throwers, and common sailors. Now, we have a very fine stable of wenches here in the barracks . . . ”

Wallie heard a strange noise and was astonished to realize that he was grinding his teeth. His fists were clenched, and his heart was pounding in fury. Tarru had paled and stopped in midsentence.

“A slut could be bought at a reasonable price?” Wallie whispered. He reached two fingers into his money pouch and dropped a glittering blue stone on the table. “That would be enough for a slut, I expect?”

Tarru gasped audibly. “My lord! That would buy all of Kikarani’s slaves and the dragon herself!”

“I happen to be out of change,” Wallie said. He knew he was being unreasonable and he didn’t give a damn. “Nnanji, do you know this Kikarani?”

“Then go directly to her now. Offer her this stone in return for outright ownership of the slave Jja. Bring the girl back here, with whatever belongings she may have. Any questions?”

Wallie gave him a glare that caused him to grab up the jewel and turn quickly toward the door. But after a few steps he wheeled round and headed instead for the far exit. It let him walk the whole length of the room, head high, enjoying the eyes that followed him.

“His father is a rugmaker,” Tarru said with infinite contempt. “You may never see either gem or girl, my lord.”

“I would rather lose a gem than trust my back to a thief.” Wallie’s blood pressure was still high.

“True,” said Tarru diplomatically—but he could not leave well alone. “A smaller temptation might have been more prudent. I would wager at least that the stone is turned into cash before Kikarani ever sees it, and you will get no change.”

The thought of Nnanji being dishonest was utterly ludicrous. “Done!” Another sapphire dropped on the table, and Tarru’s eyes widened. “I assume that the temple guard has a few inconspicuous agents? Follow my liegeman. If he cashes the gem or flees with it, then you win this.”

He had known of Tarru’s greed. The man was hypnotized by the blue star on the table. His hands reached for it and then stopped. “I have nothing of equal value to set against your wager, my lord.”

Wallie pondered for a moment. “If I win I shall require a small favor only, nothing that impairs your honor. Here, you hold the stakes.” Tarru picked up the gem and stared at it. He was suspicious, but the blue fire was burning his palm. He rose and hurried from the room.

Wallie downed some more ale and waited for his fury to subside. This time Shonsu’s glands had won. In a relaxed social context, with swordsmanship not evident, he had let down his guard, and that lightning temper had slashed through before he knew it was coming. It had made him appear as an irresponsible spendthrift and gambler, caused him to throw away his expense money on personal whims when he did not even know the purpose for which the gems had been given him—an inauspicious beginning to his quest. Then he realized that he might also have signed his vassal’s death warrant. He half rose and then sank back. It was too late now to stop the bet or recall the gem. Miserably he told himself that Tarru, as the only witness, could not order the jewel stolen without incriminating himself.

So he hoped, but his early-morning joke about avenging Nnanji no longer seemed funny at all.

Then Tarru was back, now accompanied by a tall and heavily built Seventh whose facemarks were swords, but inverted. The man’s azure robe was spotless, and his thin white hair neatly combed, yet his hands were horny and blackened, and even the ruddy skin of his face seemed to be ingrained with tiny black specks. He was older than Shonsu, but not a swordsman, so it was he who was presented and made the salute—Athinalani, armorer of the Seventh.

He hardly gave Wallie time to respond and he had no small talk. “It must be!” he said. “The seventh sword of Chioxin! My lord, I beg of you to let me see.”

Wallie laid the sword on the table. Athinalani peered at it closely, every tiny line and mark. Tarru and Wallie drank while the examination continued. Athinalani turned the sword over and eagerly scanned the other side in the same detail. When he had finished, he looked deeply moved.

“It is the sapphire sword of Chioxin,” he said. “There can be no doubt. The griffon forming the guard . . . the figures on the blade . . . the quality. No one else but Chioxin! When I heard the rumors I was sure it would be a forgery, but seeing it, I am convinced. My lord, may I pick it up?”

His big hands gripped it lovingly, testing the stiffness and the weight and the balance. Here, clearly, was an expert. Then he laid it down and looked inquiringly at its owner.

Athinalani was tactfully astonished at his ignorance. “Chioxin,” he said, “was the greatest swordmaker of all time. Many of his weapons are still in use, after seven hundred years, and greatly prized. His skill was equaled only by his art. His swords were not only the best, they were the most beautiful. The lines of these figures . . . see here, and here?

“Now, tradition tells us that he made seven great masterpiece swords when he was very old. The minstrels claim that he bought seven more years of life from the Goddess on the promise of making these weapons. Perhaps so. But each sword had a different heraldic beast forming the guard and each had a great jewel on the hilt . . . pearl, beryl, agate, topaz, ruby, emerald, and sapphire. Each sword has its own history. I am no minstrel, my lord, so I shall not attempt to sing for you, but the emerald sword, for example, was wielded by the great hero Xinimi when he slew the monster of Vinhanugoo, and then it came into the possession of Darijuki, who won the battle of Haur with it—or so they say. The minstrels can go on all night about them.”

At last he noticed the tankard waiting for him and took a long draft. Tarru was looking skeptical. Wallie was waiting to hear of some dreadful curse or other. Such stories usually had a curse or two in them. The dining room was emptying as the guard went about its business, the attendants retrieving the bowls the dogs had cleaned.

The armorer wiped froth and plunged ahead with his lecture. “And I have seen the pearl sword! Or part of it, anyway. The hilt and a fragment of the blade are owned by the King of Kalna, and he showed me it when I was a young apprentice. It is said that the city of Dis Marin owns the beryl, and there is a piece of another blade in the lodge at Casr. The hilt has been lost, but is thought to have been the ruby.”

Again the whisper of memory: Casr? “And the sapphire sword?” Wallie asked.

“Ah! There is no history of the sapphire. Only the six are known. According to the minstrels, Chioxin gave the seventh to the Goddess Herself.”

There was a significant pause. That explained the expression on old Coningu’s face last night. The unasked question hung in the air, but one did not ask such questions of a Seventh.

“Oh, the minstrels . . . they will tell you that a man wielding one of these blades could never be beaten. But I am a craftsman. I know no recipe for putting magic into a sword.”

Tarru managed to blush. “It is in remarkable condition for a weapon of that age.”

“The Goddess would have taken good care of it, I suppose,” Wallie said, playing with them. He smiled at Tarru. “You saw me come out of the water. I assume that you have questioned the swordsmen who saw me go in?”

“Yes, my lord,” Tarru said grimly. “Very closely.” Like his former superior, he was not a man to believe in miracles.

“My lord,” Athinalani said. “Would you graciously consent to let me have an artist draw this? I should be eternally in your debt.”

“Of course. I presume that you have swords for sale? My liegeman will be coming to see you to sell one of some value. He will also wish to purchase a more serviceable, everyday sort of sword.”

It was shortly after this that the bent old commissary, Coningu, came shuffling in. He hovered politely at them until Tarru raised an eyebrow.

“A messenger from the temple, my lords. To see Lord Shonsu.” Then he added, “A green.” And rolled his eyes to see Tarru’s reaction—a Sixth as messenger? Tarru scowled.

The conversation broke up, although Athinalani would obviously have been willing to sit all day and just stare at the seventh sword of Chioxin. As they made their way to the door Tarru asked in a low voice, “Did you give Lord Hardduju’s sword to Apprentice Nnanji, my lord?”

“Yes,” Wallie said, and Tarru flashed teeth like a shark. “Is that funny?”

“Nnanji is but the son of a tradesman. There were several recruits at about the same time who came from such artisan families, although I know that there were many candidates more suitable, swordsmen’s sons. It was about that time that Lord Hardduju acquired that sword.”

Tarru might or might not have been a partner in more serious crimes, but that petty graft would have been for the reeve’s personal benefit only. Which perhaps explained Tarru’s obvious dislike of Nnanji.

Tarru sneered as he held the door for his guest. “Only a small part, I am sure, my lord. It would buy several rug shops. But, as I say, there were others. I find it ironic that the sword has done him so little good, and that now it should belong to one of those apprentices.”

“Pray honor me with your distinguished opinion on this humble wine, my lord,” the old priest bleated in his quavering toothless voice.

“It is a memorable vintage, reverend one,” the swordsman rumbled, several octaves lower.

Honakura was packaged in a great wicker chair shaped like a sousaphone, smiling his gums and playing host and talking trivial nonsense while his sharp eyes missed nothing. Wallie sat opposite on a stool. The table between them bore rich cakes and wine and crystal goblets; and everything was enveloped in a steamy green shade below trees whose trunks even Shonsu’s arms could not have spanned. Planted to decorate the courtyard, the three giants had colonized it, filled it, and roofed it. The crumbling old paving stones rose to lap around their massive roots and dipped away into the triangular space between them, where the men sat. In a way that nothing else had yet done, the trees’ sheer immensity emphasized to Wallie the antiquity of the temple, and thus of the culture that had built it.

It was a private place, this jungle courtyard. The walls were cushioned in vivid moss and hung with showy bougainvillea. Behind them the River giggled and clattered, covering conversation as effectively as the canopy of branches shut out the overpowering sun or any unwanted eyes. Insects hurried around on business, but otherwise the two men sat undisturbed in the humid shadows. The wine was certainly memorable—harsh and metallic, the worst Wallie could ever remember tasting.

At last Honakura ended the pleasantries. “That was a meritorious deed of arms you performed yesterday, my lord, a fealty to the Goddess. Although you had no formal contract with the council, I have been authorized to offer you recompense; either the office of reeve,” he smiled . . . “or a suitable emolument.”

Blood money? Wallie found himself frowning, although he was also curious to know how much a Seventh charged for a sword job. All he said was, “It was my pleasure, holy one. As I told you, I cannot accept the office, and I have no need of your fee. My master is generous.”

Honakura’s invisible eyebrows rose. He lowered his voice and said, “I think I hear a nightingale.”

The old man chuckled at his blank expression. “An old tradition, my lord. It is said that long ago two rulers met in a forest to discuss some important matter, and a nightingale was singing so beautifully in the tree above them that each man listened only to the birdsong. So neither was able to report what had been said, because he hadn’t heard any of it.”

“Yesterday,” Wallie said cheerfully, “an odd thing happened to me—I talked with a god. Now, it is rather a long story, and I should not want to bore you . . . ”

Evidently he was out of character for Lord Shonsu, for he received a look of astonishment, followed by a polite but bewildered smile.

“Pardon me, holy one,” he said. “I should not joke on sacred matters. It gets me into trouble. But I did talk with a god, and one of the things he said to me was Honakura is a good man—him you may trust. So I wish to tell you the whole story, if I may, and receive your wise counsel.”

The old man stared back in silence and suddenly tears were trickling down his cheeks. It was several minutes before he noticed them, then he wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “I beg pardon, my lord,” he mumbled. “It is many years since I received praise from a superior and I have forgotten how to handle it. Pray forgive me.”

He wondered briefly how ancient the priest really was—at least three times Shonsu’s age. Yet there was nothing senile about Honakura. He was a needle-sharp old rascal, obviously a power in the temple, and probably unscrupulous in whatever he might choose to regard as a good cause. Now he snuggled down into his great chair like a bee crawling into a trumpet blossom. Wallie told him the whole story, including the first two talks with the god. Honakura studied him unblinkingly, only small movements of his mouth showing that he was alive at all. At the end he closed his eyes and seemed to mutter a prayer, then he sniffled a little and said, “I am in your debt, Lord Shonsu . . . or Walliesmith. Your tale is more wonderful to my ears than I can tell you. Always I have hoped to witness a miracle—a real, carved-in-stone miracle. And now, after all these years!”

“There is one other thing,” Wallie said hastily. “When I asked the god about miracles, he told me that I could trust you, and to ask you to tell me the anecdote from the seventeenth sutra.”

Honakura, had listened to the whole extraordinary tale without expression, but that remark produced a twitch of surprise . . . then a quickly suppressed frown. Wallie remembered how the god had smiled mysteriously when he gave the order.

“Ah!” the priest said. “Well . . . I expect that your swordsmen sutras are much like ours—most contain a little story to help fix them in the memory. The episode in our seventeenth concerns Ikondorina. Under the circumstances, of course, I shall tell it to you.

“Ikondorina was a great hero, who went to the Goddess and gave Her his sword and swore that he would rather trust to Her miracles than his mortal strength. So his enemies pursued him up some high rocks and the Goddess turned him into a bird. Then his enemies pursued him to the River and the Goddess turned him into a fish. A third time his enemies strove against him, but this time they slew him, and when his soul came before the Goddess, he asked Her why She had not saved him the third time. And She gave him back his sword and told him to go and do his own miracles. So he returned to the world and butchered his enemies and was a great hero again. You see how well the story fits your own case?” He smiled hopefully.

The old man’s expression was very guarded. “He is mentioned by name in a couple of other sutras, but there are no other tales about him.” He knew something that he wasn’t saying. The god had sent him a message that Wallie was not to share.

Irritated but helpless, Wallie said, “May I ask if there is a moral attached to the story?”

“Of course. And miracles are done by gods, but being easy for them, bring no honor.”

Wallie wished that he, too, could lean back in a comfortable chair. “So the message for me is that I am to expect no help from the gods?”

“Not quite that, I shouldn’t think.” Honakura frowned. “But whatever it is that the Goddess requires, She wishes it to be done by mortals—by you. She may help you, but you must not expect Her to do the work.”

“The god mentioned that I would be guided. But he also told me that this sword could be lost or broken, and that the gods do not do miracles upon demand. Do I have it right, do you think?”

Honakura nodded, the folds on his neck flapping. “And whatever your task may be, my lord, it is obviously very important. Your reward will be great.”

“If I succeed,” Wallie said grimly. He wished that the demigod had given him a few rainchecks for miracles.

“The first problem, then,” the priest said thoughtfully, “is to get you out of here alive. But I forget my duties . . . do try these cakes, Lord Shonsu. Those with pistachios are delicious, I recall, although beyond my own abilities these days.” He held out the cake plate without brushing off the insects.

Wallie declined. “Why should staying alive be a problem? I am protected by the code of the swordsmen as their guest. Who can harm me?”

The little man shook his head sadly. “I wish I could advise you more exactly, my lord. There is only one way out, and it involves a long trail, much of it through jungle, and a ferry crossing of the River to Hann. It is sure that several highrank swordsmen, who might have been a threat to Hardduju, started out from Hann and never arrived. I do not know if the culprits were renegade swordsmen or assassins in his pay.”

Assassins were any civilians who killed swordsmen—and the worst criminals of all in the swordsmen’s eyes.

“How . . . ” Wallie began and then answered his own question. “Archery?” Bows were an especial abhorrence to swordsmen.

The priest nodded, nibbling cake. “I expect so. Or sheer weight of numbers. There have been many pilgrims waylaid on the trail over the centuries. It is the guard’s duty to patrol it and keep it safe, but I fear that the dogs have been running with the wolves of late. There is a horse post maintained at the ferry, so that news of important arrivals can be brought quickly to the temple. We suspect that the messages have been going to the wrong persons, and the richest offerings have not arrived.”

Wallie had been expecting a discussion of his unknown task, and of the god’s mysterious riddle, not of imminent danger. “But why me?” he asked. “I am leaving, not coming. Would these creatures of darkness seek to avenge Hardduju’s death?”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Honakura poured more wine inattentively. “Their association was commercial, not sentimental. But you have told me what sword you bear; may I see it?”

Wallie drew the seventh sword and held it out for the priest to study. Unlike the armorer and the swordsmen, he was little interested in the blade, but he fingered the hilt and murmured his appreciation. He touched the great sapphire and glanced up at his guest’s hairclip.

“Yes,” he said at last, “I think that sword may possibly be the most valuable movable piece of property in the World.”

Wallie choked on a mouthful of the rank wine. “Who could afford to buy it?” he demanded. “Who would want it?”

“The griffon is a royal symbol,” Honakura said contemptuously. “There are dozens or hundreds of cities ruled by kings. Any of them would buy it, for almost any price—which they would plan to recover afterward, of course.” His face darkened. “Certainly the temple would buy it, were it for sale. Some of my colleagues would feel very strongly that Her sword belongs here . . . And you must carry it along that trail.”

Wallie did not need to consult the sutras to know that here was a very nasty tactical situation. Air freight, he thought, would be a good solution. “Then I should request an escort from the guard?”

Honakura’s face became unreadable. “You could ask Honorable Tarru, certainly.”

Wallie raised a skeptical eyebrow, and the priest breathed an audible sigh of relief. Obviously they shared the same opinion of Tarru, but courtesy demanded that it not be spoken.

“Who else would you suggest?” Wallie asked, and Honakura shook his head in frustration.

“I wish I knew, my lord! Swordsmen will not discuss other swordsmen, for obvious reasons. Most, I am sure, are men of probity, at worst reluctant accomplices. They obeyed orders, so long as those orders were not too blatantly evil, assigning any breaches of honor to the account of the reeve. And what else could they do? For example, there are stories of condemned prisoners who did not reach the Place of Mercy.”

“Ransomed?” Wallie said, working it out. This tale of wholesale corruption was unnerving to him, and he could feel his Shonsu nature raging on some deep level. “But you can count the executions from the temple steps and you know how many . . . ”

“Bags of rocks, we believe,” Honakura said patiently. “Not all bodies return to the pool. But some of the swordsmen must have been deeply implicated, and those are your danger now.”

“Guilty consciences?” Wallie said. “They will greatly fear a new reeve, a new broom. Past sins beget future crimes?”

Honakura nodded and smiled, perhaps relieved—or even surprised—that this swordsman was not going to start blustering about the honor of his craft and throw caution to the wolves.

“The first question, then,” Wallie said, “is timing.” He glanced at his bandaged feet. “And that depends on when I become mobile again. At least a week and probably two—I would be crazy to leave before I am healed. The second question: do I announce that I am leaving, or do I let them think that I am Hardduju’s successor?” He paused to consider. “I doubt that we could keep up such a pretense for very long, and I should prefer not to.”

Wallie shrugged. “Then we shall be honest. As a mere visitor I shall be less of a threat, and hence in less danger. That will come when I try to leave, will it not? So my best plan is to hobble around, being as lame as possible for as long as possible, to try to determine who among the guard may be trusted—and then perhaps to vanish overnight and without warning.”

“Meanwhile, I suppose,” Wallie continued, “I keep my back to the wall, stay out of dark alleys, refrain from eating in private, and sleep with the door locked?”

Honakura rubbed his hands in glee. “Excellent, my lord!” Obviously he had been regarding Wallie as a mere slab of muscle with quick reflexes and was pleased to see that this swordsman did not regard caution as cowardice. “It is just over two weeks until Swordsmen’s Day. I should have hoped to have augmented the normal observance to induct you as reeve. As that may not be, perhaps we should announce a special service of blessing on your mission? That should keep you safe until then—as you say, the danger will come when you try to leave.”

He hesitated and then added, “If you will pardon my presumption, Lord Shonsu, it is a pleasure to meet a swordsman who does not mind being unconventional. I do not know what opponent the Goddess has in mind for you, but I think he may be very surprised.” He chuckled.

Wallie had been using common sense and a smattering of sutras—mostly common sense—and tactics were supposed to be his business, so he found the priest’s surprise somewhat insulting, yet also amusing. You do not think like Shonsu . . .

“I have a nephew who is a healer,” Honakura said, “and can be relied upon for discretion. He will extend your convalescence as long as possible.”

“I shall pay him by the day,” Wallie assured him solemnly and was rewarded with a noisy view of the old man’s gums. “But, tell me, holy one, if the Goddess has gone to all this trouble over me, will She not stand by me when I am in danger?”

Instantly the priest’s joviality vanished. He shook a finger at the swordsman. “You have not comprehended the lesson on miracles, then! As a senior swordsman you are supposed to understand strategy. Put yourself in Her place. You have sent in your best man, and he has failed—disastrously, you said. What does that mean?”

Wallie suppressed an angry retort. “Not knowing the task, I can’t guess. Perhaps Shonsu lost an army? Or lost ground to the enemy—whoever or whatever the enemy is.”

“In either case,” the priest said, “it is not something you wish to happen very often, is it? So what do you do? You send in your next man and if he fails then the next one? Then the next? Of course the gods have infinite resources . . . ”

“You are right, holy one,” Wallie said repentantly. He should have seen that. “You pick the next man—and then you train him so that he is better than the first.”

“Or at least you test him,” the priest agreed. “And if he can’t even escape from the temple . . . ”

“And even if he can,” Wallie said glumly, “there may be other tests in store in the future? I see now—no miracles.”

Honakura again held out the plate of cakes and offered to top up Wallie’s glass. Wallie refused both, fearing that much of this rich living would fatten him like Hardduju. He must remember to think of himself now as a professional athlete and stay in training, for his life would depend on it.

“And your first task is obviously to pick some followers,” Honakura said, settling back in his chair to enjoy a cream roll.

Wallie chuckled. “Well, I found one. You saw him yesterday.” He told of Nnanji, his courage and absurdly romantic ideas of duty and honor, and he described the scene with Briu that morning.

The shrewd old eyes twinkled. “That may be the way you are to be guided, my lord.”

“That is just the way She works miracles—unobtrusively! You found him near the water—the powers of the Goddess are always most evident near the River, and this is a branch of the River. I am not surprised to hear that he is an unusual young man.”

Wallie was courteously doubtful. “I shall have to test his swordsmanship, then,” he said.

“His swordsmanship is bad, but he has a very good memory,” Honakura said, concentrating on a last fragment of cake. After a moment he glanced up to study the effect he had produced.

“He is the only redhead in the guard?” Wallie was not sure whether he was reacting as Wallie, amused, or Shonsu, furious.

The priest nodded. “You do not take offense? That also is unusual of you, Lord Shonsu.”

“I know nothing about his honesty. His former mentor raged about his swordsmanship, but could not seem to do much to improve it. He was not going to be promoted to Third until it did improve. He is not very popular with the other men—although that may be to his credit, of course.”

The old man was looking smug. Swordsmen did not talk about one another, and the barracks staff seemed to be all retired swordsmen, likely bound by the same rule, although perhaps not as strongly. That meant that Honakura’s spies gained their information from another source.

“Is he popular with the women, then?” Wallie asked and saw a flash of appreciation to indicate that he had scored.

“They give him high marks for enthusiasm and persistence, low marks for finesse,” the priest retorted, eyes shining with amusement.

“Just like his table manners!” Wallie said. Mention of women reminded him of Jja. “Holy one, you recall the slave woman who attended me in the cottage?”

Honakura’s smile vanished at once. “Ah, yes. I have been meaning to do something about that girl—she deserves better—but I have been too busy to get around to it. Do you want her?”

So he had thrown away a precious sapphire buying a slave he could have had for the asking.

“I think she is already mine,” Wallie replied. “I sent Nnanji to buy her this morning.” Now he could see that he had been more stupid than he had realized. He had displayed wealth in front of Tarru, who would surely suspect that there were more jewels where those two had come from so readily, and who now knew that Wallie had casually given away Hardduju’s valuable sword.

The old priest was studying him thoughtfully. “I hope you did not pay too much,” he said.

Wallie was thunderstruck. “Yes, I did,” he admitted. “But how did you guess?”

Honakura looked smug. “You told me that your master was generous. I can guess how he pays.”

“Yes indeed.” Honakura paused, looking puzzled and oddly uneasy. “He is usually associated with the Fire God, not the Goddess. Now why should that be, I wonder? Jewels are found in the sands of the River.”

Wallie said, “In my world, we believed that most jewels were formed by fire and then spread by water.”

“Indeed?” The priest found that interesting. “That would explain it, then. He is normally seen in the form of a small boy. A prospector who finds a good gem will say, ‘The god has shed a tooth for me.’ ”

Wallie laughed and emptied his wineglass. “I like that. As I like the nightingale. You are a poetic people, holy one. Explain to me the god’s stick with the leaves?”

Honakura snorted and lowered his voice. “Dramatic effect, I should think. Gods have their little vanities, too. I hardly expect that he needed a mnemonic.”

Again the old man sighed and shook his head. “You are a babe in arms, my lord! I should not doubt the wisdom of the Goddess, but I cannot see how She expects you to survive here when you seem to know nothing at all! A mnemonic—an aid to memory. Don’t you have public speakers in your dream world? They take a twig and make a mark on each leaf to remind them of a point they want to make, then they tear off each leaf as they go. It can be very effective when it is well done. And what else do you use if you want to memorize a long sutra?”

“We have other devices, holy one. But about Jja . . . how does one go about freeing a slave?”

Honakura was more astonished by that than anything he had heard yet. “Freeing a slave? One doesn’t.”

“You mean that slavery is for life?” asked Wallie, aghast. “There is no escape?”

The priest shook his head. “A slave is marked at birth. If he serves well in this life, he may be born higher on the ladder next time. You were planning to free this girl?”

Wallie had confided so much to the old man that he could hardly hold back now. So he told how he had lost his temper.

“If I had any thoughts in my head at all,” he said, “then I was thinking that I would buy the girl and free her. She was kind to me,” he protested. “And of course she may have saved my life when the priestess came hunting for me.”

“She was also a damned good lay?” the priest asked and cackled loudly. “No, do not glare at me, swordsman! I saw her. Were she of free birth, her brideprice might be many gems, but you have bought her, and she is your slave. You can give her away, you can sell her, you can kill her, but you cannot free her. Indeed, if it amuses you to burn her with red-hot irons, no one will stop you, except perhaps the Goddess, or a stronger swordsman if it offends his sense of honor. Which it probably wouldn’t. You should realize, Walliesmith, that a swordsman of the Seventh can do almost anything he wants. But he cannot make a slave into a free lady, and he cannot marry her. Not unless he wishes to become a slave himself, of course.”

The priest nodded thoughtfully. “It could be. Her action to protect you in the cottage was very unusual. The Goddess has perhaps chosen some companions for your journey, and that girl may have some small part to play, apart from providing you with enjoyable exercise. Never underestimate joy, it is the wages of mortality!” He was still astonished. “You can free slaves in your dream world?”

“Where I come from we have no slaves,” Wallie retorted hotly. “We regard the owning of slaves as an abomination.”

“Then of course you will send her to the auction block?” the priest asked, chuckling. “I hardly think that Priestess Kikarani will give you back your gem.”

For a moment the Shonsu temper stirred, and Wallie stamped it down. Anger against the gods was futile. He had been tricked.

Honakura was studying him. “May I offer a morsel of advice, my lord? Do you know the secret of success in owning slaves?”

“Work them hard!” Honakura sniggered, and then cackled loudly at his own wit.

In the marble splendor of the barracks entrance Wallie met the old commissary and asked if Nnanji had returned.

“Oh yes, my lord,” Coningu said, with a look affirming some secret amusement, too precious to spoil by telling.

Wallie, therefore, must not show undignified haste, so he took his time mounting the great staircase. But he hurried up the second stairs and raced along the passage. Silent on his bandages, he crossed the first room to the door of the second, whence came the sound of laughter.

There were three people there, and they were all on the floor, on a sunlit rug. On the right was Jja, posed like a Copenhagen mermaid, as graceful and desirable as he remembered, and it was she who was doing the laughing. On the left was Nnanji, down on knees and elbows with his scabbard sticking up behind him like a tail, generally resembling a dog trying to dig out a rabbit. He was tickling the belly of the third person, a brown, naked, giggling baby.

For a moment the tableau held, one of those scenes that burn into the mind to become instant memories—in the end, what is a lifetime made of but memories? Then they saw him. Jja rose, crossed to him, and dropped on her knees to kiss his foot in one flowing movement. She did not seem to rush, but she had done it before Nnanji had scrambled to his feet in pop-eyed embarrassment. He said, “I didn’t know if you wanted the baby, too, my liege, so I brought it. You did say belongings. Kikarani says she will take it back if you don’t want it.”

Wallie cleared his throat. “The baby is fine. Would you offer my respects to Master Coningu and ask if he could spare me a moment?”

Nnanji disentangled himself from the baby now climbing his leg and left quickly. Even the backs of his ears were pink.

Wallie looked down at the girl kneeling at his feet and stooped to raise her. He smiled at her, seeing again the high cheekbones that gave her face such a look of strength, and the wide, dark, almond eyes that had fascinated him before. No slender elf-maiden she: tall and large-boned, deep-breasted and strong, yet graceful in her movements and bright-eyed. She was younger than he had thought, but he saw again the corrosion of slavery—chapped hands, and her black hair roughly hacked short. Given a fair chance she would be a great beauty, and he knew that she could be tender. If a swordsman must have a slave, then this was the woman to choose.

“Welcome, Jja,” he said. “I have acquired a few scrapes since we last met. I sent for you because you are so good at caring for damaged swordsmen.”

“I was very happy to hear that I am to be your slave, master.” Her expression was attentive, yet so guarded that he could not guess at her thoughts.

The baby was crawling rapidly toward the door, following his new friend. “Bring him over here and sit down,” Wallie said. “No, on the chair.” He sat on a stool and studied her. “What’s his name?”

She showed no embarrassment. “I don’t know, master. My mistress swore to the facemarker that his father was a blacksmith, but she had never sent me to serve under a blacksmith.”

She obviously thought he should know. “They are supposed to be big and strong, master. A blacksmith fathermark brings a good price.”

Wallie thought a few silent oaths and struggled to adjust his thinking. To buy a slave and free her was one thing; to buy her and keep her and use her was something which only that morning he had defined as rape. Yet the sight of her and the memory of their night together was already arousing him. To own her and not use her would insult her, and was probably beyond his self-control . . . how did one conduct an employee interview with a fixed asset?

He said, “I want you to be my slave, Jja, but I don’t want an unhappy slave, because unhappy slaves do bad work. If you would rather stay with Kikarani, then please tell me. I shall not be angry, and I shall return you. I won’t ask for the money back, so you won’t be in trouble.”

She shook her head slightly and looked puzzled. “I shall do the best I can, master. She never had cause to beat me. She charged a higher price for me than for the others. She did not sell me when I conceived.”

Wallie decided that she did not understand the question—a slave could not choose between owners, or have a preference.

“You were very good to me when I was sick. And I enjoyed . . . ” He wanted to say “making love,” but of course it translated into “making joy,” which stopped him. “I enjoyed that night with you more than I have ever enjoyed a night with a woman.” He could feel his face burning as he stammered. “I would hope that you would want to share my bed in future.”

Wallie was feeling more and more guilty, and consequently getting angry with himself. The sight of that silksmooth skin and the curve of her hips and breasts . . . He struggled to suppress the guilt and deal with the World on its own terms.

He asked after parents, lovers, and close friends, and she continued to shake her head. That was a relief. He smiled at her as reassuringly as he could. “Then you will be my slave. I shall try to make you happy, Jja, because then you will make me happy. That is your first duty—to make me happy. And your second will be to look after that beautiful baby and make him grow up as big and strong as ever any blacksmith ever seen. But you will make joy with me, and with no one else. There will be no other men.”

At last he got a reaction. She looked both astonished and pleased. “Thank you, master.”

“Yesterday I got Nnanji as my protégé and I gave him a present. What can I give you? Is there anything at all that you want?”

“No, master,” she said, but he thought he saw her arms close more tightly around the baby on her lap.

“I shall give you a promise,” he said. “I promise never to take Vixini from you.”

It was so pathetically easy! She slid to her knees and kissed his foot. Angrily he rose and lifted her and saw that she was weeping.

“Yes. You are just as beautiful as I remembered and I didn’t really think that was possible.” The baby was on the floor now, so he could take her in his arms and kiss her. What had been planned as a friendly greeting became instantly an affair of tongues and clenching arms and fingers pressing into her flesh. Desire exploded within him; he burned, then released her quickly and turned away, ashamed, fighting for control. When he looked around she had removed her tattered dress and was sitting on the bed, waiting for him.

“Not now,” he said hoarsely. “First we must discover whether I can keep a slave in these quarters, and we must find you some better clothes and make arrangements for Vixini.”

Vixini was heading out the door again. Wallie strode over, scooped him up, and on the way back started to tickle him. Vixini shrieked with glee and sent a warm wet sensation down Wallie’s chest. His first thought was that he was in the middle of one of those priceless silk rugs. He scrambled to catch the flow with his spare hand and get over the woodwork. By the time he had done so and could hold the baby safely away from him, Vixini had done a fine job on him. Jja gave a gasp of horror and Wallie roared with laughter. Vixini grinned as toothlessly as Honakura.

Jja was staring at Wallie in dismay, and for some reason he found that funny also and laughed harder. She looked around for a rag or a towel and, not seeing any, grabbed up her dress and started to wipe his chest.

It was at that moment that Nnanji and Coningu came in. Wallie tried to explain, pointing to the baby he still held and the dark stain on his kilt, but the expression on Nnanji’s face was too much for him. He could not get the words out. Coningu would never be surprised by anything and was much too respectful to laugh at a Seventh, but he did turn away to straighten the wall hangings.

Nnanji had also brought a matronly female servant, Janu, housekeeper of the women’s quarters, and Wallie was surprised to learn that there would be no problem in having Vixini cared for. “You have children here, too?”

“Oh yes, my lord,” Coningu said. “The women say it is the swordsmen’s fault, but I never heard of a swordsman having a baby. I shall ring for a fresh garment for you and some water, my lord.”

“Janu,” Wallie said. “I sent out to buy a slave and find I have two. As you can see, they are both naked at the moment. Jja’s dress was not worth the purpose to which she has just put it. I want her fitted out in suitable style. What would you recommend?” He hoped his credit was good.

“She is for night duty, my lord?” Janu asked, inspecting the naked Jja as a cook might inspect a piece of meat, but not waiting for an answer. She scowled at Jja’s feet and looked closely at her hands. “For the baby, a blanket, back sling, and a hood for rainy days. For the woman, two day dresses, sandals, boots for wet weather, and a cloak. I presume at least one gown for evening wear and suitable shoes? We can’t do much with her hair until it grows longer, and her finger and toe nails . . . I’ll see what we can manage. A few scents and body oils and cosmetics, nothing too elaborate. “

Wallie looked at Jja. “Anything else you want? Will that do to start with?” She nodded, her eyes wide. “Very well,” he said. “I am sure that Janu will advise you and dress you in proper style for my station. I shall settle the purchases later.”

He gave Jja what he hoped was an encouraging smile. She went off wrapped in a bedsheet, looking overwhelmed.

Wallie was feeling the same way. He had a nagging suspicion that he also had just been given a present, and his conscience would allow him no peace for even thinking like that.

By the time Wallie had repaired the effects of Vixini’s performance, Nnanji was seeing the funny side. Such courage, he said slyly—to do that all over a Seventh!

Wallie agreed. “This is turning out to be quite a day,” he said. “And the jewel was acceptable to the formidable Kikarani?”

He had passed the test, for Nnanji attempting to lie would have red warning lights all over his face. Wallie was not going to tell him about it, though. He said, “By the way, the armorer confirms your opinion of my sword—the seventh sword of Chioxin.”

Nnanji beamed. “I wish I had heard that part of the ballad, then, my liege.”

“Apparently there isn’t any more. Chioxin gave it to the Goddess, and no more was heard of it.”

Unlike Tarru, Nnanji was willing to believe in miracles. He laughed excitedly. “And now the Goddess has given it to Shonsu!”

“Certainly, although I perversely refused to say so. But I am curious. It was three years ago that you heard that ballad?”

Wallie stared at him, then seated himself on the floor and laid down his sword. Nnanji immediately sat in front of him and put his sword across the first. It was the traditional position for the reciting of sutras.

Coincidence? “Lucky me! Let’s hear a few. Eighty-four, ‘On Footwear.’ ”

They chanted in alternation back and forth. The sutras were a revelation to Wallie. He had them all in his memory, but he had never learned them, and each came out fresh, as if he was hearing it for the first time. They were a mixed bag, from crude jingles to lengthy lists. Some short, some long, they covered a myriad of topics: technique, ritual, strategy, professional ethics, tactics, anatomy, first aid, logistics—even personal hygiene. Many were dull and trite, but a few had the barbaric grandeur found in the best of preliterate narrative everywhere. Some were banal, others as obscure as Zen koans. Most contained a law, an anecdote, and a proverb. As Honakura had said, the stories helped the memory, but frequently the association of ideas was subtle and thought-provoking.

Nnanji was word-perfect in every one they tried, so Wallie chanted five eighteen, ‘On Hostages.’ Nnanji chanted it right back. Surprised, Wallie gave him two more and then had him go back to ‘Hostages.’ He made no errors. Wallie knew that preliterates could often perform astonishing feats of memory, but Nnanji seemed phenomenal. Honakura had been correct: this was the hand of the Goddess.

His protégé was looking understandably smug. “All right, smarty,” Wallie said. “Here’s five eighty-two, ‘On the Feeding of Horses.’ ” That was the longest, dullest, and least associative of them all. He stumbled a couple of times himself before he got it right. Nnanji sat and watched his lips. Then he recited it back—without the stumbles.

Wallie Smith had been taught to read and write. He was thus, by Nnanji’s standards, a mental cripple. “You win!” he said, and Nnanji grinned. “If I went through all eleven hundred and forty-four of them, just once at one sitting, would you remember them all?”

Wallie laughed. “Don’t lie to me, vassal! You do think so, and I think you may be right, but I’m not man enough to try it. Let’s go see about your sword.”

The armory was located far from the temple, near the gate, where the noise would not disturb holy matters. Athinalani, free of his formal robe and wearing a leather apron, was banging away at an anvil while a sweating slave worked the bellows on the furnace. The armorer broke off at once and led his visitors into an inner room, where hundreds of swords and foils hung on racks—far more than the guard could ever break or lose. The economics puzzled Wallie, but perhaps one of the blessings of the World was that it had no economists. Yet there was a commercial air about the place that he found comforting and familiar.

Athinalani knew what sword he would be asked to buy. The respect he paid to its owner was clearly a novel and flattering experience for Nnanji. There would be no market for such a thing on this side of the River, said the armorer, but he was willing to offer three hundred golds for it if the valiant apprentice wished to make a quick sale. Nnanji just gasped and said, “Done!”

That suited Wallie—one valuable sword was quite enough to worry about. He produced a sapphire and asked the armorer’s advice on how to liquidate that asset. Athinalani welcomed any chance to be of service to the bearer of the seventh sword of Chioxin and agreed to sell the gem in the town for him.

Selecting a new sword took time, with discussion of length and weight and flexibility and edge and bevel and damask. Nnanji listened wide-eyed, soaking up information. Wallie was fascinated by all the knowledge he was unearthing that had not been in his mind two days before—obviously Shonsu had known his theory as well as his practice. Athinalani was overjoyed at having a customer with such interest and expertise.

Then Wallie began to stray. Steel was not his specialty, but a chemical engineer must know something of the behavior of iron and carbon in crystalline matrices, so he started to discuss quenching and forging. The armorer grew suspicious, and his face darkened—a swordsman was trespassing on the sutras and secrets of another craft. So Wallie backed away quickly and conviviality returned.

At last all three were satisfied with a new sword for Nnanji—and Nnanji would not part with his old one. Wallie pointed out its faults at some length. Nnanji admitted them and finally confessed that he had a younger brother, whom he planned to enroll in the guard as soon as he himself had achieved third rank and could accept a protégé. That would never happen if Tarru had any say in the matter, and Nnanji was not going to be here anyway, but it was not Wallie’s problem, so he let it rest. Then there was the matter of foils. A swordsman needed a dummy weapon with the same feel as his own sword. Athinalani had foreseen the problem for the Chioxin and was already at work. His memory for length and weight was astonishingly accurate. He promised that the foil would be ready by sundown. As unofficial banker for the guard, he advanced both his customers some coins from the leather bag that served as his till. Wallie purchased a whetstone.

It had been as much fun as a tourist shopping trip—which, in a sense, it was for Wallie. He promised himself that he would come back for more chats with the armorer. The swordsmen stopped at the door while Athinalani went off to burnish Nnanji’s new sword—nothing below perfection would be allowed out of his shop. Wallie established that lunch was eaten in the same place as breakfast.

“Right,” he said. “I’m slower than you, so I’ll leave now. Eat with your friends, and we’ll meet afterward. I need a word with Honorable Tarru.”

With his old sword on his back and his new sword and foil in a carrying sheath under his arm, Nnanji went striding back toward the barracks, chewing over a problem.

A new sword must be given—whom should he ask? It was an important tradition, although the sutras did not specifically demand it except in the case of a scratcher. As Briu had explained to him years ago, the purpose of that sutra was to make sure that it took at least two swordsmen to induct a boy into the craft: one to be his mentor, another to give him his first sword. But the swordsmen had extended the practice to any sword, even one that a man had bought for himself or won with a kill; before he wore it a friend must give it to him. A friend. Not his mentor. Who?

Of course he could ask one of the other Seconds, like Darakaji or Fonddiniji, and normally he would not hesitate, but they had all been sending him black looks at breakfast. Briu had withdrawn his charges, but the bad taste would remain, and they were all jealous of him with his wonderful new mentor. If he asked Darakaji—or Fonddiniji—he might refuse. If one did, then they all would . . . What then?

Still mulling, Nnanji reached one of the back doors of the barracks just as Adept Briu and Swordsman Landinoro came out and down the steps. There was the answer—at least Briu was the only man in the guard who could not now call him a coward in public. It would be a peace offering. Nnanji intercepted them and saluted.

“Adept,” Nnanji began, and it was strange not to call Briu “mentor.” “I would ask a favor of you.”

Briu looked at him coldly, glanced at the sword under his arm, and then turned to Landinoro. “He isn’t short of cheek, is he?” he said.

Briu held out a hand, and Nnanji hopefully passed him the sword. The middleranks looked it over. “Nice bit of metal,” Briu said. “What do you think, Lan’o? Should I give Rusty his sword or should I push it down his throat till the guard cracks his teeth?”

Landinoro chuckled. “After this morning’s affair, you best have a fast horse saddled if you plan to do that . . . might be worth it, though.”

“H-he gave me Lord Hardduju’s sword, adept,” Nnanji stuttered. “And I sold it.” Maybe this had not been a good idea.

Briu looked hard at Nnanji. “That’s a strange mentor you picked up. Brought you a lot of luck, hasn’t he, apprentice?”

“’Yes, adept,”’ the Fourth echoed. “He hasn’t brought me any, though.” He was still looking over the sword, thinking. “He has guts, I’ll grant you. I never saw a man walk to the Judgment after the fat man had done his feet. And he jumped head first—did you know that?”

“Head first?” Nnanji said. “From the Place of Mercy?” That was incredible—but Shonsu was all incredible.

“I’ve never seen that, either,” Briu admitted. “Spread his arms out—thought he was going to fly away like a motherin’ bird. We stayed to watch, saw him walk out of the water. Okay—we were pleased about that, although we all thought the fat man would move on him quick. Then we got back here, and the place was all unstrapped—the fat man dead and the thin man wanting my head in a basket, accusing me of giving the prisoner a sword, saying he couldn’t have gone to the Judgment at all.” He gave Nnanji a hard look. “Do you know where he got that unspeakable sword?”

A protégé shall not discuss his mentor . . . Nnanji stood at attention and sweated.

Getting no reply, Briu said, “There’s odd stories going round about that sword. Do you believe in the legend of Chioxin, apprentice?”

Briu pulled a face. “And after that I learned that one of my protégés had . . . ” He paused and added sarcastically, “been insufficiently instructed regarding the third oath.”

“Not that you had any choice, apprentice. But it left me with a dirty job to do. And then he goes and accuses me of cowardice! Cowardice? What courage does it take for a Seventh to lip a Fourth? I thought I was dead when I gave him the sign.”

Briu glanced at his companion and shrugged. Then he swung back to Nnanji and demanded, “You were going to take my signal this morning, weren’t you?”

Landinoro, slapped Briu on the shoulder, “I’ll tell them you’re coming,” he said. He gave Nnanji a cryptic glance and tactfully departed. Nnanji wished he could go with him, even if he had to leave his new sword behind.

Nnanji squirmed. “I was going to ask for the grace, adept. You would have given me that, wouldn’t you?”

“Three days?” Briu snorted. “You think this miracle man of yours can turn you into a swordsman in three days?” He shook his head pityingly. “I’d have tried to leave your arm and do your leg, but even that sometimes doesn’t heal well enough.”

Nnanji squirmed some more. “If I’d made obeisance you’d have demanded the abasement, wouldn’t you?”

Briu shrugged, raised the sword to squint along the edge. “And we all know why it was Rusty he ran into on the beach, don’t we? Not Fonddiniji, or Ears, but Rusty.”

“You always put me on beach duty when you had Death Squad,” Nnanji protested.

Briu scowled at him. “You didn’t like throwing rocks, did you, apprentice? You know why you were there, because you didn’t want to know if we were throwing rocks. And I humored you, gods help me.”

Only once had Nnanji seen a buyback. He had refused the silver he had been offered when the payoff came—and nothing had ever been quite the same since then.

“Who’s first? You’ve got a real live blue of your own now, haven’t you? All to yourself. The guard would like to know, apprentice: which one of us does Rusty shout first?”

Why had he been such a fool as to ask Briu to dedicate the sword? Nothing that Darakaji or Fonddiniji could have done or said could have been this bad. He had told Shonsu that Briu was a man of honor, but of course that was a report made by a protégé to a mentor, so he could not tell Briu that, either.

“What do you expect me to do, adept? Denounce the whole guard? Do you think he would believe me? I saw no abominations! I witnessed nothing! The abominations were the fat man’s. The rest of us followed orders. We’re all men of honor when we get the chance.”

Briu studied him coldly. “Some are. All of us took the money, all but you, apprentice.”

The older man’s eyes narrowed. “Then he isn’t going to be reeve! He’s going away?”

After a moment Briu said, “You’ve got what you always wanted, then? You’re going to be a free sword?”

Briu sighed. “No, you can’t talk about Shonsu. But talk about you, then. You were his second when the thin man challenged. Why did you let him have a draw?”

Because Shonsu had signaled, with a nod. Was a nod an order from a mentor, which must not be discussed? Nnanji sweated some more and then said, “If my principal had wanted blood, he could have drained him on the first pass, adept.”

“So I heard. But a second has discretion. Are you proud of your decision, apprentice?”

Briu frowned, then shrugged. “Well, I still have to decide what to do with this metal.” Nnanji looked up hopefully.

A party of swordsmen came out the door and started down the steps. Nnanji thought Briu would wait until they had gone, but he didn’t. He dropped to one knee, held out the sword, and said the words of dedication: “Live by this. Wield it in Her service. Die holding it.”

Reverently Nnanji took hold of the hilt and spoke the reply: “It shall be my honor and my pride.”

Briu gave Nnanji a strange look, then said quietly, “One seventy-five!” He turned round and walked away.

The banners in the big mess hall hung limp in the noon heat. As he entered, Wallie hobbled conspicuously, more than necessary, for his feet were doing better than he had expected. There was no sign of Tarru. Only a dozen or so men were there, mostly standing and eating at the same time—lunch was evidently an informal snack. He headed for a trio of Fifths at a table and returned their salutes as they bounced up to greet him, then deliberately sat with his back to the room, to display a confidence he no longer felt.

Honorable Tarru had been summoned to a meeting of some holy ancients’ council. So the Fifths had guessed that Lord Shonsu was not to be their new boss. They were relaxed and almost friendly.

“I expect they will ask him to be reeve,” Wallie said offhandedly, “at least temporarily.” He helped himself to a roll and some soft yellow cheese, and accepted a tankard of the weak ale from a waiter. Then he smiled at his politely silent but obviously curious audience. “I did not accept their offer this morning. I have been ordered elsewhere.”

So Wallie, between munches, gave them an abbreviated version of his story. It would not hurt to wrap his sword and himself in a little divine authority. He could not tell how much they believed.

Then another Fifth arrived and one departed, pausing on the way out to chat with some Fourths. Very soon the story would be everywhere. Tarru returned, accompanied by Trasingji of the Fifth, who seemed to be his closest crony—a large and craggy man with a dark complexion. He had startling white eyebrows and a bald spot that left him only a very wispy ponytail.

Tarru looked extremely pleased with himself and accepted congratulations. Of course it was just a temporary appointment, until a Seventh could be found . . .

He dawdled over his lunch, waiting for Nnanji, and waiting until he could get Tarru alone, but that turned out to be unnecessary. Tarru had just finished assuring him that he and his liegeman were most welcome to remain as the guests of the barracks for as long as they wanted, when he suddenly leaned across the table. He held out a fist to Wallie and palmed him the jewel. At least it felt like the same one, but Wallie put it in his left pocket so that he could check it later and make sure it had not shrunk.

“Is there anything you need, my lord?” the acting reeve inquired rather sourly. “Any favor we can do to make your stay more enjoyable?”

Payoff time . . . but Tarru had chosen this public forum so that he need not compliment Wallie on Nnanji’s honesty.

“There is one thing,” Wallie said. He was going to enjoy this. He glanced around at the obviously puzzled Fifths. “As you are all aware, I recently spent a couple of nights as guests of the guard in less salubrious quarters.”

“The prisoners are pinned by both ankles,” Wallie said. “After a few hours this becomes extremely painful. Is this torture a recent innovation, or has it always been done that way?”

Whatever Tarru had expected, it was not a discussion of the jail. “It has always been done that way, so far as I know,” he said, staring.

“Then if you change it, it will likely always be done the new way in future? And some prisoners are later found to be innocent. If you only pinned one ankle, they would have much more freedom of movement. Does the Goddess demand such torment? Is it just?”

The swordsmen looked at one another in astonishment—a strange idea, indeed! Who cared?

“A strong man could lift the slab if he could get close to it,” Tarru suggested, frowning.

“I doubt it,” Wallie said. “It takes two slaves, standing upright, to lift one end. Would you like to go over there with me, and I’ll try? If I can’t, then few could. They are very smooth, slimy chunks of rock.”

Tarru seemed to come to a decision. “You have made a very good observation, my lord! I shall make it my first business in my new post—and while I am at it, I shall order a new roof for the jail. It certainly brings the Goddess no honor.”

There was a surprisingly generous surrender! Then Wallie realized that Tarru’s lost wager was not going to cost Tarru himself anything.

Gradually the others completed their lunch and rose to make their excuses and leave, until only Trasingji and Tarru were left. Then Nnanji came in and detoured around the table to make sure that Wallie saw him and knew he was back—or perhaps just to let as many people see him as possible. His kilt was brilliant yellow linen, with pleats as sharp as his sword. His boots were butter-colored suede, his harness shiny and embossed. A silver hairclip glittered beside the hilt of his new sword. He looked a trifle out of breath, as though he had been running.

Tarru and Trasingji glanced at each other and thereafter avoided Lord Shonsu’s eye . . . which was just as well. Sevenths should maintain a certain dignity in public, and Wallie was turning bright red from suppressed laughter.

The exercise area was a courtyard, partially roofed, three sides open to catch any breeze that might wander in from the parade ground. It was unfurnished, except for a few full-length mirrors, some racks against the wall to hold masks and spare foils, and a small raised gallery for spectators. On that, Wallie stood for a minute to study the place. Nnanji, beside him, was twitching with eagerness to have his first fencing lesson from this superb Seventh.

Over the parade ground the afternoon sun raged. In that suffocating heat, the twenty or so swordsmen present were slouched around in groups, chatting listlessly. Wallie was looking now at the colors of their kilts and—so far as he could see—at their boots. He had done the same when he was leaving the mess hall, for Nnanji’s new splendor had emphasized his previous shabbiness—the washed-out drabness of his kilt and the patches on his boots. Wallie was looking to see how many more impoverished swordsmen there were around.

He could see none. Perhaps Nnanji gave a his pay to his parents. Perhaps he spent it all on women.

Now they had been noticed. In a few moments all the men were masked and paired off, leaping back and forth, stamping up clouds of dust, and clattering foils with terrifying enthusiasm.

“The devil they are!” Wallie studied the fencing carefully through Shonsu’s eyes. “Are these fairly average, or are they a duffer class sent in for extra practice?”

Nnanji looked surprised. “They are average, my liege.” He started to point out some of the men, commenting on those who were thought likely to win promotion soon, a few who were thought to be slipping.

“Remembering that you don’t repeat to anyone what I tell you,” Wallie said after a while, “I will give you my opinion. They are the worst collection of ducks I ever saw outside a farmyard.”

“I mean it!” Wallie assured him. “I can’t see one Third fencing like a Third, one Fourth fencing like a Fourth. Admittedly they’re all so eager to show off right now that no one is left to supervise, but I find them disgusting. I’d drop them all one rank at least!”

Probably few of these swordsmen had ever fought a serious fight in their lives. They herded prisoners and bullied pilgrims and that was all. Most of them looked as though they had never had a proper lesson. Tarru was a good swordsman—did he not care?

“How many Seconds in the guard?” Wallie demanded suddenly, still leaning on the rail and staring in disbelief at this mass incompetence.

“Briu says that my defense is very good, my liege. They rarely get a hit against me.”

Wallie frowned. Unless his Shonsu expertise was starting to fail him, something was wrong there. Then he noticed a curious contraption at the far end of the court and forgot Nnanji’s troubles for a moment. It was an edifice of massive beams and straps, and neither he nor Shonsu knew what it was. Long rods like pool cues stood in a barrel beside it.

“What in hell is that?” he asked, pointing, not able to believe what he was starting to guess.

“And expect to make swordsmen of them?” Wallie looked once more at the whipping post, briefly again at the fencers. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, “before I lose my lunch.”

In sulky silence, Nnanji followed his liege back to the royal suite, obviously assuming that the lesson had been canceled. They marched through the anteroom. “Close the door,” Wallie said and kept walking until he was a safe distance into the great room.

“Hey! Not bad!” Wallie said. “And with an unfamiliar sword, too!” He laughed at Nnanji’s alarm. “Relax! Did you think I was going to start fencing with real blades? I was testing your speed—and you’re a lot faster than Briu. A lot faster! Of course you’re younger.”

Nnanji beamed—he could have had little praise on his fencing for a long time, if he was third from the bottom of thirteen.

The guest chamber was almost as large as the fencing court. It was cooler and shaded and private. Wallie laid the seventh sword carefully on a lacquered table and moved a stool close to a silk-embroidered chair. He sat down with a sigh of pleasure, putting his feet up. Nnanji was grinning again, still clutching his sword.

“Not foils,” Wallie said. “You need to learn the feel of that blade anyway. Now, guard at quarte. Show me a lunge.”

“Terrible,” said his mentor. “Foot turned in, thumb turned up. Limp wrist . . . elbow. Gods! The attack of the killer earthworm.” He pointed at the mirror. “Try again over there. Now—how were you first shown? Use that memory of yours.”

Nnanji lunged once more at the mirror, then adjusted his foot, his hand, his arm, his wrist. He tried again, went through the same process, and looked around uneasily.

“You’re dead, apprentice,” Wallie said quietly. “They’re down at the armory selling your sword. Pity, he was a nice kid.”

He lunged a dozen times and was wrong every time. Then Wallie had him concentrate on his wrist. He could do that, but when he tried to get his foot right as well, his wrist wavered as before. In half an hour he had gained no ground at all, and both Wallie and Shonsu were totally baffled. He stood up and gripped Nnanji’s left hand.

“I’ll take your weight,” he said. “Try it very, very slowly.” Like a slow-motion movie, Nnanji moved his arm, raised his right foot, and inched through the lunge. Wallie held him steady until his right foot came back to the floor. Constantly adjusting his position, Nnanji managed a travesty of a lunge. They tried that for a while, but the least increase in speed put him right back where he was before.

“It’s your damned memory!” Wallie roared. “Can’t you forget?” But apparently Nnanji could not, although he was almost insane with frustration. His bad habits had soaked in like the sutras. They tried a fresh start with his left hand, but he was no southpaw, and they gave up on that idea.

They tried with a foil. They tried with his old sword. They tried with his eyes shut. If Nnanji’s distress had not been so obvious, Wallie would have thought he was playing games and doing as badly as possible on purpose.

“Well, let’s try the celebrated defense, then,” Wallie sighed. They pulled foils and masks from the massive iron-bound chest and faced off.

His defense was excellent, out of all proportion to the ineptness of his attack.

Wallie threw down the mask, slumped back into the chair, and folded his arms. Nnanji stood and looked at him with despair.

“It beats me,” Wallie said. “Your reflexes are fine, and your defense is ’way above any Second I saw downstairs—Third at least, even by my standards. Your coordination is okay, because you make exactly the same mistakes every time. The only thing you can’t do is lunge—and that movement is half of all swordsmanship. What you’ve got is a mental block.”

But it did not come out as “mental block”—it translated as “curse,” and Nnanji’s eyes bulged. Wallie laughed uneasily and said perhaps they had better send for the holy mothers.

He pointed to another of the chintz-covered chairs. “Sit down and relax for a minute,” he said. “Let me think about it.”

Nnanji sat. He sank into the down filling. But he certainly did not relax. Wallie picked up the seventh sword and pretended to examine it.

“You were surprised at the price you got for your sword,” he said quietly. “What do you suppose this one is worth?”

“The holy Honakura says that it’s priceless. He more or less said that it would fetch whatever you asked, as much as you could carry of anything. I’m told that there are brigands on the ferry trail.”

Wallie continued to peer at the blade, and after a moment Nnanji said, “Yes, my liege,” a little more attentively.

“I’m worried about our leaving, then,” Wallie continued, still speaking to the sword. “You and me and Jja. I shall ask Honorable Tarru to provide us with a guard.”

He wished that he dared look at his vassal, to see what expressions were chasing across his so-legible face. Surprise? Worry? Shame? Surely, eventually, Nnanji would work out that a Seventh could not be so naive? The comment came just a fraction sooner than he expected.

Then Wallie could look round, with a grin. He saw puzzled and rueful embarrassment. “Who would he choose, Nnanji?”

“That’s to your credit, I fear. But certainly I don’t trust Honorable Tarru. Is there any other way out of this place?”

“What happens if we cross the River?” Wallie waved a hand in the general direction of the temple.

“Well, if we could?” Wallie replied, puzzled. The River was the Goddess—was there some taboo against crossing? True, there were rapids and the water was wide, but three active young people could get across, even with a baby. “What’s on the far bank?”

True, the cliff looked bad. Well, he would scout that way himself. “Suppose we organized our own escort? Who would you invite? Granted that you tell me that they are all men of honor, which are the most honorable?”

Nnanji wriggled with shame. “I don’t know, my liege! I tried not to know those things!” He was having a bad afternoon—first his inept fencing and now this—but Wallie could not afford to be merciful.

He pondered, squinting along the sword blade. The trouble with Nnanji was that he was too honest. What was needed was a little human fallibility, enough to know the ropes and who pulled them. “If we picked one man and asked him to organize a guard for us? Who?”

“Briu,” Nnanji said, and then flushed at the surprised look he received. “He gave me my sword, my liege.”

“The devil he did!” Wallie said. “Good for him—and good for you for asking! Well, he has no call to love me, but I suppose we could approach him.”

That was as close to an accusation as Nnanji was ever likely to come, and a warning. Even Briu was unsafe.

Wallie groaned. “I did not know that. Then how the hell do we get out? I need your advice, Nnanji. Remember Farranulu?”

#106 ON ESCAPE

The Epitome

When honor permits, a wise warrior fights on terrain of his own choosing. Whether at home alone or in the field with an army, he will always know of at least two routes of escape, and in most cases will also have prepared a place of concealment.

The Episode

When Farranulu’s wife complained that the bedroom was cold with the window open, he instructed her that she would be even colder without him to share the bed.

The Epigram

When Death is present, the wise are absent.

“We could sneak out quietly, board some mules, and just risk it?” suggested Nnanji, whose thinking could never be devious.

“There is a guard on the gate,” Wallie said. “He will have issued orders; he will know when we leave. We shall be followed, or else word will be sent ahead. They may already have an ambush prepared. Have you seen how he looks at this sword?

“Is there another gate?” he asked. “Any way around the end of the walls?”

Again this curious reluctance to go in the water! The prohibition must be very strong, and yet they used boats. But many Earthly religions allowed bare feet in their temples and prohibited shoes; religions need not be logical.

Nnanji sat and frowned ferociously, but nothing seemed to be coming of it. He was out of his depth.

Wallie had one vague plan he was not mentioning. If he could get Tarru alone, he could force him to swear the blood oath as he had forced Nnanji, for there was no doubt who was the better swordsman. Then he could make the acting reeve call in his protégés, one by one, and order them to swear also. Theoretically he could turn the whole guard into his vassals from the top down, diamonds and dirt together. The crooks would still be crooks and untrustworthy, but the good men would be true to their oath and surely they were in a majority? The disadvantage to that plan was that Wallie was Tarru’s guest, so drawing his sword would be an abomination. Nnanji would die of shame if he knew that his hero was even contemplating such a deed.

“Horses,” Nnanji said. “There are only a dozen or so in the valley and they all belong to the guard.” He looked at his liege hopefully.

There was little else to tell. The valley road was so steep that trade goods and farm produce went on oxcarts, passengers on mules. The guard kept a few horses to service the advance post at the ferry, where there was usually a picket of three swordsmen and a priest. The temple stable was close by the gate. There was a guard of three men there, also.

“Not likely!” Wallie said. “I shan’t go near it, I’m too conspicuous.” They could steal the horses. That would be only a crime, not an abomination, and probably no one would question a Seventh’s right to help himself to whatever he fancied. The horses must legally belong to the temple itself, so perhaps he could even make a deal with Honakura to buy them ahead of time. But that left the guards . . .

“I think you have found the answer, vassal,” Wallie said. “Horse thieves we shall be. But I don’t know if I can handle a guard of three men by myself, not without a massacre, and I’d much rather not have that. Overpower them and tie them up . . . I need a good swordsman to help me.”

“So you’d better get back to practicing,” Wallie said. “I need you. The sword needs you. The Goddess needs you, Nnanji.” He pointed at the mirror. “One hundred lunges with a straight foot. Then we’ll work upward.”

Now that he had money, there were things to do. But his feet were throbbing, and he wanted to emphasize his lameness, so he used the bellrope to summon a slave. Then he sat back like the royal guest he was and had the barracks minions dance attendance on him for the rest of the afternoon, while Nnanji lunged away like a piston in front of the mirror. The tailor brought swatches and measured him. The cobbler traced his feet on leather, although he would have to guess an adjustment for shrinkage when the swellings went down. Whatever Shonsu had been doing for the last couple of months, he had not been getting his hair cut, so its new owner summoned a barber. Coningu had to have a gratuity, and Janu likewise, for she could make Jja’s life a misery. Honakura’s healer nephew came to change bandages and mutter a few prayers over Wallie’s feet.

Wallie ordered his slave sent up at sundown, and a private meal for the same time. That was a breach of the precautions he had listed to Honakura, but for his first night with Jja he was willing to risk poison. He planned to recreate that strange candlelit dinner they had shared in the pilgrim hut, even if his quarters were now a hundred times as large. A cozy dinner, an intimate conversation to build a few dreams and find what common ground linked their vastly disparate heritages in the human experience . . . and then lots of that Olympic-class loving!

The afternoon wore on. He had hot water brought and took a bath, but this time without assistance. He kept an eye on Nnanji as he lunged and lunged and lunged.

He worked his vassal to exhaustion and made no progress at all. Finally, as the sun grew low, Wallie called a halt. Nnanji was ready to weep as he drooped on to a stool like a discarded shirt.

Nnanji colored and straightened up, taut and defensive. “Yes, my liege,” he said, almost snapping the words.

Now what had Wallie said? “I wondered if you might want to go and visit them this evening. I shall be busy demonstrating swordsmanship to my slave and I don’t need your help for that.”

“You’ll have a few things to tell them, I expect,” Wallie said and got a grin. “And you’d better warn them that you’re leaving soon.”

BOOK THREE:

HOW THE SWORD WAS NAMED