THE DESTINY OF THE SWORD

For a swordsman of the seventh rank to hide—from anyone or anything—was unthinkable. Nevertheless, Wallie was being deliberately inconspicuous, to say the least.

He had spent the morning on deck, leaning on the gunwale and witnessing the tumult and bustle of the docks at Tau, but he had unclipped his swordsman ponytail, letting his thick black hair fall free to his shoulders. He had removed his harness and sword and laid them on the deck at his feet. The side of the ship concealed his blue Seventh’s kilt and his swordsman boots. Passersby would therefore see only a very large young man with unusually long hair, unless they came close enough to note the seven swords on his brow. The dock was low in Tau; it would take good eyes to do that.

Two weeks of uninterrupted sailing from Ov had left Sapphire with stores depleted and much unfinished business. Mothers had herded children off to seek dentists. Old Lina had tottered down the plank to haggle with hawkers for meat and fruit and vegetables, and also flour and spices and salt. Nnanji had taken his brother to find a healer and have the cast on his arm replaced. Jja had gone shopping with Lae. Young Sinboro, having been judged to have reached manhood, had strutted off with his parents in search of a facemarker—there would be a party on board that evening.

Normally Brota sold the cargo and Tomiyano scouted for another, but now the sailors were fretting about ballast and trim, so the roles were reversed. Big fat Brota strapped on her sword, took Mata along to wield it if necessary, and waddled away in search of profit. Tomiyano ordered two bronze ingots laid at the foot of the plank, stood young Matarro beside them, and headed back on board to attend to other business.

He was not left long in peace—traders arrived and Matarro fetched the captain. As a bargainer, Tomiyano was very nearly as shrewd as his mother. Wallie eavesdropped happily from his post on the rail while the discussion raged below him. Eventually the price range was narrowed, and the traders came on board to inspect the main cargo in the hold. Wallie turned his attention back to the dock life.

Tau was Wallie’s favorite among all the cities of the Regi-Vul loop, although to call Tau a city was to stretch the term to its limit. As in most towns and cities, the dock road was too narrow for its duties, cramped between the bollards, gangplanks, and piles of unloaded cargoes on one side and the traders’ warehouses on the other. The sun was unusually warm for a day in fall and it shone on a scene of loud and colorful disorder. Wagons rumbled and clanked, pedestrians milled, slave gangs sweated, hawkers pulled carts and shouted their wares. There were no rules—traffic went wherever it could find a space. The clamor of wheels mingled with oaths and insults and abuse. Yet the People were a good-natured race, and in the main the tumult was without rancor. The air smelled of horses and dust and people.

Wallie enjoyed watching the horses of the World. They seemed so mythological—the head of a camel and body of a basset hound. They smelled Earthlike enough, though. During the morning he had observed a herd of goats being unloaded. He had been amused to learn that goats had antlers, not horns. Goats smelled very earthy.

The backdrop for all this noisy confusion was a facade of two-story warehouses that fascinated him—dark oak woodwork and beige parqueting like a movie set of Merrie England; diamond-paned windows and beetling roofs of fuzzy thatch. Yet, however medieval or Tudor the architecture might seem to him, there were no farthingaled damsels or beruffed Elizabethan gallants strutting this stage. The dress of the People was simple and plain—kilts or loincloths on the men and wraps for the women, with the elders of both sexes decently concealed in robes. Youngsters ran naked. They were a brown-skinned, brown-haired folk, lithe and merry, and brown also was the dominant shade of their garb, the color worn by Thirds, qualified artisans of the three hundred and forty-three crafts of the World. The yellow of Seconds and the white of Firsts brightened the texture, with the rarer orange and red and green of higher ranks scattered around in the surging, scurrying throng.

A skinny youth in a white loincloth ran past Wallie and dashed down the plank to go racing and dodging off through the crowd, narrowly avoiding death under the wheels of a two-horse wagon. He was one of the traders’ juniors, so he had undoubtedly been sent to fetch help. That meant that Tomiyano had made a sale. In a few minutes the captain emerged on deck and saw his visitors off. The smile that he then allowed himself told Wallie that the price had been more man satisfactory.

Tomiyano was an effective young man, aggressive and muscular, weathered to a dark chestnut, with hair approaching red, although not as red as Nnanji’s. He wore only a skimpy brown breechclout, plus a belt and dagger to show that he was captain. Craftmarks of three ships were marked on his forehead, but he was a very competent sailor, who could have qualified for much higher rank had he wished. The scar on his face had been made by a sorcerer, and Wallie now knew that it was an acid burn.

Yet Tomiyano was a mere stripling alongside Wallie. Swordsmen were rarely big, but Shonsu had been an exception—very big. The sailor had to tilt his head back to meet Wallie’s eyes. He did that now, and his face was full of astonishment.

The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Is that how swordsmen behaved in your dream world, Shonsu?”

It was only within the last couple of weeks that Wallie had taken the crew of Sapphire totally into his confidence, explaining that he was not the original Shonsu, swordsman of the seventh rank; that his soul had been brought from another world and been given the body of Shonsu, his skill with a sword, and his unaccomplished mission for the gods. Tomiyano was a skeptical man. He had learned to trust Lord Shonsu—learned with difficulty, for the crew of Sapphire had little liking for swordsmen—but he still had trouble accepting so incredible a story. And tact was not the captain’s most conspicuous trait.

Wallie sighed, thinking of plainclothes detectives and unmarked patrol cars. “Yes,” he admitted. “They did this quite a lot.”

Tomiyano snorted in disgust. “And last time we came to Tau you were screaming because you couldn’t find a swordsman. Now the place is full of them.”

That was what he had been studying—swordsmen. Their ponytails and sword hilts made them conspicuous as they strode through the crowds, and sane civilians made way for swordsmen. They walked in twos or threes, sometimes fours or fives. Brown kilts were the most common, of course, but Wallie had seen several Fourths, two Fifths, and even—surprisingly—one Sixth. He had counted forty-two swordsmen in the last hour. Tau indeed was full of them.

Wallie leaned his elbows on the rail and attempted to put his concern into words. “Work it out, Captain. Suppose you’re a swordsman. The Goddess has brought you to Tau and you’re on your way to Casr. You have a protégé or two with you. You’re a Third, or a Fourth, maybe. There must be hundreds of swordsmen in Casr now . . . What’s the first thing a swordsman will want when he gets there?”

“Right! They’re going to start banding together. Every one of them will be looking out for a good senior to swear to.”

Wallie grinned at him. “Have you room on board?” There would be few Sevenths around, and some of those would be getting old, for only rarely could a swordsman reach seventh rank before he was thirty and already at his peak, although Shonsu had obviously done so—Wallie had frequently studied his face in a mirror and decided he must be somewhere in his middle twenties. He was young, therefore. He was big and steely-eyed. If he were to stand at the top of the gangplank with his blue kilt visible, he would be fighting off would-be recruits in no time.

“No!” the captain said firmly. The thought of a few dozen swordsmen on his beloved Sapphire would be enough to loosen his teeth. He smiled faintly and muttered, “Considerate of you!”

The swordsman Sixth was returning and now he marched at the head of a column of ten. A Fifth leading two Thirds passed them, and sunbeams streaked from blades as salutes were exchanged. Civilians dodged, doubtless cursing under their breath.

Tomiyano grunted and went off to attend to business, while Wallie mused that his explanation to the captain had been less than half the truth. The juniors would be seeking mentors, true, but the seniors would be even more actively recruiting protégé’s. Followers brought status. Status would be a much sought-after commodity in Casr now.

Which raised the possibility that perhaps he ought to be recruiting an army. He bore the Goddess’ own sword, he was Her champion . . . maybe he was supposed to arrive at the tryst with some status of his own. It would not be difficult. He could accost that Sixth and take him over, together with his ten flunkies. If he balked, Wallie could challenge—no Sixth had a hope against Shonsu. Afterward the man could be bandaged and sent out to round up more.

Might that explain why the Goddess had delivered these particular swordsmen to Tau instead of directly to Casr?

The thought held no appeal for Wallie. The whole tryst held no appeal. He still had not decided whether he was going to collaborate or not. So he let the green-kilted Napoleon continue his parade along the docks unmolested. If the gods wanted that man to swear to Lord Shonsu, then neither of them would be able to leave Tau until they cooperated. Their ships would merely return to Tau instead of going on to Casr.

Casr was a monstrous thundercloud on Wallie’s horizon. He did not know what he wanted to do there, or what might be awaiting him. He knew that the original Shonsu had been castellan of the swordsmen’s lodge in Casr, so Wallie must expect to be recognized when he arrived. He might find family or friends—or enemies. Nnanji, for one, was convinced that Shonsu was destined to become leader of the tryst. That might be the case, for certainly he knew more about the sorcerers and their un-Worldly abilities than any other swordsman. But he also knew enough to believe that the tryst was a horrible error. He was almost more inclined to try to block it than to lead it.

Tomiyano had rounded up his men. Holiyi, Maloli, Linihyo, and Oligarro—two cousins and two cousins by marriage. They were taking off the hatch covers and stacking the planks out of the way. Up on the poop deck the remaining children were playing loudly under the watchful eye of Fia, who wielded the unarguable authority of a twelve-year-old.

A wagon drew up alongside and unloaded a slave gang. The trader, a plump Fifth, began shouting unnecessary orders in a squeaky voice, and the derrick was swung out and put to use. Wallie watched as the bronze ingots from Gi were borne away. He wondered idly which one of those ingots had saved his life from the sorcerers’ muskets in Ov.

Slaves wore black and little of it, for no one wasted cloth on a slave. They were a cowed and smelly bunch, that slave gang—skinny men in skimpy loincloths, working like fiends, streaming sweat while their bony rib cages pumped. Their backs were scarred. They ran, not daring to walk. They strained at the windlass handles until their eyes popped. Wallie could hardly bear to watch, for it was slavery more than anything else that brought home to him the faults of this barbaric, iron-age World. The thatched warehouses might teem with rats and the people with fleas, the alleys smell of urine and the streets of garbage . . . those he could tolerate, but slavery tested his resolve. The slave boss on the wagon brought out a whip and cracked it a few times to increase the pace. He did not recognize the danger looming above him at the ship’s rail. Had he made one serious stroke—just one—he would have found himself lying on the cobbles, being mercilessly flogged . . . but he did not know that and he did not find out.

The wagon was filled and departed. Another took its place. Some members of Sapphire’s crew came wandering back from their explorations and paused to talk with the big man in the blue kilt. Tau was a turbulent place, they reported. Two hundred swordsmen had passed through on their way to the tryst, plus several times that many followers. Tau was a small town. The natives were restless.

Tomiyano went down to the dock and began weighing the traders’ gold. Wallie continued to survey the scene, noting that the swordsmen were bunching as he had predicted. Couples were very rare now. A Fifth had collected seven, and later the triumphant Sixth paraded past again with fifteen.

Then Katanji returned, a snowy new cast on his damaged arm outshining his white kilt. He seemed smaller than ever, his face a paler brown than usual, and his wide, dark eyes not as sparkly—perhaps the healers had hammered a little too hard when removing the old plaster. His hair was beginning to reach a more respectable length for a swordsman’s, but it curled up in a tiny bun instead of making a ponytail. He wore no sword, of course. Barring a miracle, he would never use that arm again—but miracles were not uncommon around Shonsu.

He managed an approximation of his normal pert smile, white teeth gleaming in dark face, while his eyes noted with surprise Wallie’s unarmed, undressed state.

He need say no more. Nnanji was still in a state of witless infatuation over the lithesome Thana, but it was four weeks since he had been ashore for recreation.

Katanji rolled his eyes. “The poor things are worn out, they told me.” He scowled. “And they’ve raised their prices!”

Innocent little Katanji, of course, had seduced Diwa, Mei, and lately possibly Hana on the ship, and his need would not have been as great as his brother’s. It would take more than a woman to make Katanji lose his head.

Wallie nodded and went back to his spectating. His mind began to wander, reverting to its ever-present worries about Casr and the troubles that must await him.

Tomiyano came striding back on deck, swinging a leather bag. He grinned happily at Wallie, jingled the bag gloatingly, and then went to peer down into the forward hatch and hold a shouted conversation with Oligarro and Holiyi, who had gone below to inspect ballast. The slaves had completed their work and were dragging their feet back down the gangplank.

Wallie forgot sailors and slaves. Two swordsmen were striding across the road, obviously heading for Sapphire. The vacation was over! With a muffled curse, he ducked down out of sight and scrabbled for his sword. He was still on his knees and frantically fastening harness buckles when boots drummed on the gangplank. The two swordsmen came on deck and marched right by him.

Tomiyano spun around as if he had been kicked. In two fast strides he moved to accost the newcomers, feet apart, arms akimbo, and face thrust forward aggressively, his anger showing like a warning beacon.

Wallie noted the swordsmen boots with surprise: tooled leather, shiny as glass. Above them hung kilts of downy wool, of superlative cut and texture, the pleats like knife edges—red for a Fifth and white for a First. His eyes strayed higher. The harnesses and scabbards on the men’s backs were as opulent as their boots, embossed, and decorated with topazes. Higher yet—the sword hilts bore silver filigree and more topaz. The hairclips were of silver also.

He rose silently to his feet, scooping back his hair and clipping it with his own sapphire hairclip, while he analyzed these strangers. They were not free swords, obviously, for the frees prided themselves on their poverty. They might be garrison swordsmen, but few cities would willingly clothe their police like that. Could any swordsmen come by such wealth honestly?

Wallie twitched his shoulder blades, tilting his sword to the vertical so that its hilt was behind his head. Then he leaned back with his elbows on the rail and waited to enjoy the fun.

The Fifth was trespassing. That might be from ignorance, but he knew enough to salute the captain as a superior and to refrain from drawing his sword on deck. He used the civilian hand gestures: “I am Polini, swordsman of the fifth rank, and it is my deepest and most humble wish that the Goddess Herself will see fit to grant you long life and happiness and to induce you to accept my modest and willing service in any way in which I may advance any of your noble purposes.”

No titles or office mentioned? He was a tall, rangy man, probably in his early thirties. His voice was cultured and resonant. On first impressions and restricted to a rear view, Wallie was inclined to approve of this Polini. Tomiyano was not. He waited a long, insulting minute before speaking, his eyes slitted. Then he made the ritual reply without sounding as if he meant a word of it: “I am Tomiyano, sailor of the third rank, master of Sapphire, and am honored to accept your gracious service.”

The First was a mere kid, slim and slight and much shorter man his mentor. Lowranks were not normally presented. He stood rigid and silent on Polini’s left. Maloli and Linihyo drifted unobtrusively closer to fire buckets, whose sand contained knives. Tomiyano must be able to see Wallie in the background, but he was keeping his eyes on the Fifth.

“Captain,” the Fifth said, “I wish passage on your ship for my protégé and myself.”

Tomiyano hooked thumbs in his belt, his right hand close to his dagger. “This is a family ship, master. We carry no passengers. The Goddess be with you.”

“Two silvers for you, sailor! If She wills, you should return within the day.”

Oligarro and Holiyi floated out of the fo’c’sle door. They, also, edged close to fire buckets. The children on the poop deck had fallen silent and lined up along the rail to watch. Sounds of wagons and horses drifted up from the dock.

The back of Polini’s neck was turning red, but he kept his voice calm. “From Plo. Not that you will have heard of it.”

The captain still refrained from looking at Wallie, but his reply was meant for him, also. “Of course I have heard of Plo. The most beautiful woman I have ever seen came from Plo. Far to the south, I understand.”

Very few swordsmen could have taken that from a civilian, very few. The youngster made an audible gasping sound, and Polini’s sword arm twitched. Somehow he kept himself under control. “That was not itself a good demonstration of manners, sailor.”

“I have told you that we wish passage. I shall be generous—five silvers and I shall overlook your impudence.”

The captain shook his head. “The garrison of Tau is organizing a ship for the swordsmen, due to leave tomorrow. Yesterday one reached Casr within an hour, by Her Hand.”

Tomiyano’s eyebrows shot up. “Doesn’t want to go to Casr, huh?” There was a strong implication of cowardice in the way he spoke. Wallie expected the explosion.

It did not come, but it was close. Polini’s voice dropped an octave. “No. I do not plan to go to Casr yet, if She wills.”

The swordsman’s fists were clenched. Wallie prepared to intervene. It was fun, but very dangerous fun.

“Your insolence becomes tiresome. Swordsmen serve the Goddess and are owed your help. Do not provoke me further!”

Incredibly, Polini still did not draw, although the First was staring up at him in stunned fury.

“Which friends, Captain?” Polini asked contemptuously, glancing at the other sailors.

“That one for a start.” Tomiyano nodded at Wallie. The First wheeled around. The Fifth, suspecting a trap, did not.

The First squeaked, “Mentor!” and then Polini turned. He gaped in horror—blue kilt, seven sword facemarks . . . and a bigger man than himself, which must be a rare surprise for him.

For a moment no one spoke. Wallie was enjoying the effect, but also feeling rather ashamed of himself. Polini was obviously noting his battered boots, his shoddy kilt, and the contrast of the magnificently crafted harness. Then the Fifth recovered and saluted.

Wallie made the response. It was his privilege to speak first, and the captain would expect him to send this impudent interloper off promptly with his tail down; but Wallie was now very curious, and not without admiration. Polini had a craggy, honest-looking face. The First was being impassive, but he blinked and Wallie caught a glimpse of his eyelids. Aha!

“My congratulations, master,” Wallie said with a smile. “Not many swordsmen keep their tempers when dealing with Sailor Tomiyano.”

“Your lordship is gracious,” Polini replied stiffly. “I see that I unwittingly erred in choosing this vessel. Obviously it is bound for Casr.” He would be thinking of Tomiyano’s imputation of cowardice, probably suffering a thousand deaths at the thought of a Seventh having heard it and likely agreeing. “With your permission, my lord, I shall depart.”

Wallie was not going to let him escape without an explanation, but first he must get in character for a Seventh. “No, master,” he said. “You will share some ale with me. I owe you that much for playing tricks on you. Sailor—three tankards of the mild!”

Wallie gestured to the aft end of the deck. “Come, Master Polini,” he said. “And bring his Highness along, also.”

The minstrels of the World sang ballads and epics of brave heroes and virtuous maidens, of monsters and sorcerers, of generous gods and just kings. Nnanji loved the heroic ones and could quote them endlessly, but one hero was conspicuously absent: Sherlock Holmes. Wallie’s remark almost caused Polini to draw. Tomiyano made the sign of the Goddess, then relaxed when he saw that Lord Shonsu was merely up to his tricks again. The boy paled.

“No, no sorcery, Master Polini!” Wallie said hastily. “Just a good swordsman’s eye—observation.”

Polini glanced suspiciously over his protégé and back to this strange Seventh.

Wallie smiled. “Few mentors would dress a First so well. Fewer Fifths would even take a First as protégé, and you yourself are obviously garbed as a man of high station. But I can go further: I note that his facemark has healed, yet he is so young that his swearing must have been recent. His hair is long enough to make a good ponytail, so his induction to the craft was decided at least a year ago, and only swordsmen’s sons can normally count on becoming swordsmen. Yet his parent-marks show that he is the son of a priest. Elementary, Master Polini.”

Royal houses were usually founded by swordsmen, but kingship was a dangerous trade. No swordsman could refuse a challenge, whereas a priest was sacrosanct. Kings’ sons were mostly sworn to the priesthood.

Polini considered this and bowed his head in agreement. He caught his protégé’s eye and said, “Learn!” The boy nodded and regarded the Seventh with awe.

Confidence having now returned, Wallie directed them smoothly to the far side of the deck, which was marginally farther from the hubbub of the dock. The aft hatch cover was still open, and the planks had been stacked in a neat pile, a low wall that would suffice as a bench. But before he sat down . . . “Present him, master.”

“Lord Shonsu, I am honored to present to you my protégé, Arganari of the First.”

The boy reached for his sword, remembered that he was on a ship, and turned the gesture into the start of the civilian salute. His voice was childish and curiously unmusical, making the statement a question, “ . . . any of your noble purposes?”

Wallie solemnly assured him that he was honored to accept his gracious service. He bade his guests be seated, placing himself on a fire bucket beside the steps up to the poop. That way he was facing them and could also keep an eye on the plank. Above him, a line of youngsters peered down curiously.

The boy was even younger than he had seemed earlier. Wallie thought of the other two swordsman Firsts he knew. Matarro was one of the crew of Sapphire, a water-rat swordsman, and hence a sailor in all but name. Yet he took his craft very seriously, truly believing that to be a swordsman was a great honor. Then there was nipper Katanji, whose skeptical cynicism would have suited a man four times his age. This lad had neither of those qualities. He must surely be excited, for the Goddess had moved him halfway around the World, from far south to far north, and he was very near to the first tryst in centuries. Yet he was displaying only a solemn wariness, unsuited to his years.

“You have a problem, Master Polini,” Wallie said. “Perhaps I can help you with it?”

“It is a trivial matter, Lord Shonsu, but near to my honor.” I’m not going to talk about it.

“Then I shall guess!” Nosiness was a prerogative of Sevenths. “You have come from the temple?”

Polini half rose, again almost reaching for his sword. He sank back uneasily, staring.

Wallie smiled cheerfully. “You are right to suspect sorcery. The sorcerers can change facemarks, so any man or woman may be a sorcerer. I, however, am not.” He wondered if they had noticed the damnable feather mothermark that the god had placed on his left eyelid. That was going to be a serious problem. “I was merely speculating what a man of honor would do in what I suspect to be your situation.” Polini had an honest face. He had been chosen as the most suitable member of the palace guard to be mentor to a prince—a strong tribute to his character. The lad’s worshipful attitude seemed genuine. “For some reason you had cause to embark on a ship. You would have many swordsmen in your entourage if you were guarding a prince. The Goddess wanted them for Her tryst, so here you are.”

Polini and Arganari both nodded, speechless at such acuity in a swordsman, making Wallie feel smug.

“So you find yourself in a dilemma of honor—your duty to the Holiest and your duty to the prince. Your decision was to send the rest of the swordsmen on to the tryst and seek to take the boy home. In that situation I would go to the temple and beseech Her to let me return him safely, making solemn pledge that I myself would come back here immediately afterward, I should throw in a promise to enlist more swordsmen, I think.”

Then Tomiyano himself appeared with a tray, placing foaming tankards on the planks beside each of the visitors, bowing low to offer the tray to Wallie—who should have been suspicious at once.

“May She strengthen your arms and sharpen your eyes!” he said, raising his tankard in salute.

Wallie gagged and gasped and spluttered. His beer had been generously salted. He turned to glare at Tomiyano’s retreating back and saw the grins on the other sailors standing beyond—that would teach him to pull rank on the captain in front of strangers! Wallie hurled the tankard over the side, wiped his mouth, and shamefacedly explained his performance to the others, who were again giving him very puzzled looks.

“No,” Wallie assured him, “there is a sutra that excludes sailors from the normal run of civilians. I just wanted to explain why I put up with my insolent friend over there. On his own deck, that man is at least a high Fifth or even a Sixth at swordsmanship.”

“No, I certainly do not! On land he would be lower, of course, for he has no opportunity to practice footwork. But a civilian with that skill can be forgiven much.”

“I mention that as a warning, Master Polini. Now, tell me why you chose this ship.”

At the return of his own problem, Polini stiffened. “It seemed well cared for, my lord.”

“Your trappings are of much value, master. There are no witnesses, in mid-River, and not all sailors are above a little piracy. Why not exchange your clothes and gear for something less tempting?”

He was not going to take it, though. Wallie sighed. This was the sort of pigheaded attitude that he had been trying to domesticate in Nnanji. Polini could not stomach the thought of arriving back in Plo without his fancy kilt and harness and boots. It would lessen his infernal honor. Wallie had forgotten just how narrow swordsman thinking could be—which showed him how far he had brought Nnanji along.

“And you may well arrive at the tryst yet, master,” he persisted. “Most of the swordsmen there will be frees. There will certainly be no First decked out like Novice Arganari.”

“I see now that this ship would be a poor choice for us, my lord,” Polini said, changing the subject. “Obviously She will require your valiant service in Her tryst. You sail to Casr.”

Now it was Wallie’s turn to become edgy. “Not so! I have been journeying these waters for two weeks since I heard of the tryst.” The wind god had been cooperative since Sapphire left Ov, but the Goddess had not put out Her Hand to move the ship.

“We are making good time, though,” Wallie said. “Another week or so may get us to Casr.”

“You know these waters, then, my lord,” the boy said, and his tone made it a statement, while the words were a question. Now Wallie understood: Arganari was tone deaf. He would make himself a laughingstock if he attempted to chant, and even a royal priest would have to do that. So he had been sworn as a swordsman instead—no other craft had sufficient status for a king’s son.

“I am getting to know them, novice. You see those mountains to the south? They are RegiVul, and the sorcerers’ city of Vul lies somewhere within them.” The swordsmen stared out over the bright waters. Above the low smudge of the far bank, the distant peaks shone faint and blue in the heat haze. The volcanic cloud above them was fainter still. “The River flows all around RegiVul. The left bank, the inside of the loop, has been taken by the sorcerers—all seven of its cities. Set no foot there, or you will certainly die.”

“It is true, then?” Polini said. “There are legends of sorcerers in the mountains south of Plo, but I never believed in such men until we arrived here and heard the news of the tryst.”

Holiyi, a very skinny sailor, came sauntering over to give Wallie another beer and a lopsided grin. Wallie thanked him and washed the foul taste from his mouth.

“It is true. This ship has called at all fourteen cities within the loop, but I freely admit that I hid within the deckhouse when we were in sorcerer ports.”

Polini was shocked, but tried not to show it. “So they are as dangerous as the locals report?”

“Probably more so,” Wallie assured him. “One slew a man on this deck. A sorcerer can kill at a distance. Only speed will prevail against them, a throwing knife would be a better weapon than a sword.” His hearers would have been horrified to hear that he had a knife hidden in his boot and that he practiced with it daily. He did not bother to point out the holes in the ship’s rail that had been made by musket balls.

“But they are not invincible?” Arganari exclaimed, wiping beer froth from his lips. “The locals tell of one swordsman victory!”

The boy beamed and began to chatter in a curious singsong, although Polini was already showing doubt on his craggy face.

“At Ov, my lord, two weeks ago. It is said that swordsmen from a ship attacked a band of sorcerers on the dock and survived the thunderbolts. They charged them in a wagon, my lord, and made great slaughter of the unholy ones. They were led by a Seventh and a very young, red-haired Fourth, my lord. We were told that they could have seized the evildoers’ tower and taken back the city, except that . . . the Seventh . . . chose . . . not to?” Horror spread over his youthful face.

Shouts and thumps drifted up from the dock; white birds soared by on the wind. A windlass on the next ship squeaked painfully.

Sevenths were rare. Sevenths who sailed these waters were as common as square eggs. Sevenths did not appreciate innuendoes of cowardice. Potini was rigid, obviously wondering what his protégé might have provoked.

“Probably,” Wallie said bitterly. He had not expected the story to be up and down the River already. In this primitive World he expected no news to travel faster than the sorcerers’ pigeons, and most to travel hardly at all. But now the Goddess was moving ships around like snowflakes. The news of the battle at Ov would be all along the River, and that meant all over the World—news of swordsmen battling sorcerers, a red-haired Fourth, and a black-hatred Seventh who had called back his troops from the brink of victory. That was another problem, then, to add to his others—one he had not anticipated.

He discovered that he had been sitting in silence and scowling. So he smiled and said, “There may be more to that story than the dock gossip tells.”

At that moment Nnanji came up the plank, saw the meeting in progress, and strode over at once, homing in on visiting swordsmen like a bird dog. He was wearing his usual eager grin, and it seemed even wider than normal, perhaps because of what he had been doing ashore. He was tall, young, lanky, and very red-haired by the standards of the People. And he wore the orange kilt of a Fourth.

“May I have the honor, master . . . ” Wallie presented Nnanji of the Fourth, protégé and oath brother; and after those formalities, he surprised Nnanji by presenting the First.

“Arganari?” Nnanji wrinkled his snub nose as he did when he was thinking. “There was a great hero once by that name.”

“The founder of his royal house,” Wallie said to get his protégé pointing in the right direction.

The boy nodded proudly. “The Kingdom of Plo and Fex,” he said. “My father has the honor to be the holy Arganari XIV, priest of the seventh rank.”

So this Arganari was the oldest son. Polini’s problem was even worse than Wallie had suspected.

“There are many great epics about him!” Nnanji declared solemnly. “My favorite is the one that begins . . . ”

After about twenty lines, Wallie laid a hand on his arm to stop him and suggested that they all sit down again.

Nnanji squatted on his heels between Wallie and the visitors. “And of course, Arganari led the tryst of Xo,” he said. Then he winked at Wallie and said, “With the topaz sword, the fourth sword of Chioxin!”

“He does not wear it,” Polini said. “But it is the proudest possession of his house; and when he was inducted into the craft, Lord Kollorono, reeve of the palace guard, dedicated it to him. He is the first swordsman in the dynasty since the great Arganari, so it was fitting, and a most moving ceremony.”

Polini smiled understanding! “It would take a great swordsman to wear one of the seven for long, my lord.”

The boy’s eyes shone with pride. “The guard is a golden basilisk, holding a topaz. The basilisk means ‘Justice tempered with mercy,’ so that is the motto of our house. And the blade is all inscribed with swordsmen fighting monsters on one side, and maidens playing with them on the other.”

“It is a magnificent weapon,” Polini said, probably glad of an impersonal topic in this awkward interview. “I tried it. The balance, the spring—magnificent! Chioxin’s reputation was well deserved.”

“Something like this?” Wallie asked. He drew his sword and held it out for them to see. The hilt had been behind his head all this time, and they would not have had a good look at it.

“The seventh!” Arganari shouted. “A sapphire and a griffon! And the pictures are much the same. Is it real? I mean, is it really the seventh sword of Chioxin?”

The legendary sword was having a bombshell effect on the swordsmen. Polini had gone perceptibly pale, and the boy quite pink with excitement.

“The six swords are famous . . . the saga has no stories of the seventh. It is said that Chioxin gave it to the Goddess.”

“Perhaps the story is not finished yet?” Nnanji suggested, his enormous grin still firmly in place.

“The griffon is the symbol of royalty. It means ‘Power wisely used,’ ” the boy said, peering at the exquisitely fashioned guard.

“It is in superb condition,” the boy said, his strange way of speaking almost making it a question. “Mine is notched and worn. Just one flaw.”

Polini and his protégé again exchanged glances, then the boy went back to examining the sword. He pointed at the figures engraved in the blade. “You see the cross-hatching, mentor? It is said that Chioxin was left-handed. On all his swords, not just the seven, the cross-hatching goes from left to right.”

“The devil you say?” Wallie murmured, peering. “Like Leonardo da Vinci? I thank you, novice. I did not know that. Then this isn’t a forgery, after all!”

“My lord . . . ” Arganari said and stopped. His mentor rumbled warningly at him.

“You want to know where I got it,” Wallie said, replacing the priceless blade in his scabbard. He shrugged. “It is a reasonable question. I was given it by a god.” He drank some beer.

“He also gave me this sapphire hairclip and told me I had a task for the Goddess.”

Now Polini understood and was impressed. “Then you are to be leader of the tryst, my lord!”

“Perhaps I am,” Wallie said. “If so, then She is in no hurry to get me there, which may be where you come in.” He looked to Nnanji, who nodded thoughtfully.

“I am wondering if we were meant to meet, Master Polini. Stranger things can happen—indeed they happen to me all the time. It is curious that you chose this ship, and even more curious that you and your protegé should be familiar with one of the other seven swords of Chioxin. A tryst might be good training for a swordsman prince. After all, a novice will not be expected to do any fighting, so he will be in no great danger.”

For the first time, the youngster showed some normal boyish excitement. He swung around to his mentor to see what he thought.

Polini rose disapprovingly. “You may well be right, my lord. I hope that you are. But I have already sworn my oath and I must attempt to return my protégé to Plo. If I am wrong, then I am sure that we shall meet again—in Casr.”

The light died in the boy’s eyes, and he stood up dutifully. Princes learned more than flowery speeches, and Firsts did not argue. Then he turned and looked up at Nnanji.

“Adept,” he said, his voice now curiously flat, “was it truly you who led the wagon charge against the sorcerers in Ov?”

Nnanji grinned. “We skinned them! Fourteen dead sorcerers.” He glanced regretfully at Wallie, who had spared an easy fifteenth.

The boy reached up and unfastened his ponytail. “I shall not likely be going to the tryst, adept,” he said. “Lord Shonsu has a hairclip that was given him by a god, so he will not mind. This one belonged to my ancestor, and he wore it on the tryst of Xo. Will you take it for me and wear it against the evildoers?” He held out the silver clip.

“Novice!” Polini barked. “That clip has been in your family for centuries! Your father would not approve of your giving it away to a stranger. I forbid this!”

That settled the matter, of course, but Nnanji, immensely flattered at being called a hero, swallowed hard and said that he also agreed. Reluctantly Arganari replaced the clip, looking very juvenile between the three tall men.

“We thank you for your hospitality, my lord,” Polini said formally. “I wish now to withdraw, with your permission, and seek a vessel. Probably a smaller would be more suitable. With no sailor-swordsmen Sixths!” he added, his smile openly skeptical.

Puzzled and vaguely worried, Wallie led the visitors back to the top of the gangplank, arriving just as Lae came aboard, closely followed by Jja. Jja had discarded the riverfolk bikini sashes she normally wore on the ship in favor of a conventional slave’s black wrap. But the perfection of her figure could triumph over any costume, and her face was the stuff of legends. Wallie smiled her a welcome. He put an arm around her and unthinkingly proceeded to commit a major social blunder. Accustomed over many weeks now to the informality of ship life, he had forgotten the stilted formality of land-based culture in the World.

“Jja, my darling,” he said, “here are visitors from your hometown, Master Polini and his Highness Novice Arganari.”

The swordsmen stared aghast at the slavestripe on the woman’s face. Jja was momentarily paralyzed, also. There was no ritual for presenting slaves, as Wallie should have remembered.

Then Jja fell to her knees and pressed her forehead to the deck. Wallie bit his lip in fury at his own stupidity. Polini was totally at a loss for words. It was young Arganari who reacted first. He stepped forward and raised her.

“Truly I see how Plo earned its reputation for beautiful women,” he said in his singsong, childish voice. “If it did not have it before, then it would now.”

Master Polini headed down the plank with his protégé at his heels. He was probably relieved to escape from the insanity of Sapphire, with its incomprehensible Seventh and its rabid captain. If he breathed a prayer of thanks, then he breathed too soon, for another outrage was in store for him—on reaching the dock he came face-to-face with the returning Brota.

Female swordsmen were a heresy to landlubbers. Fat swordsmen were intolerable. Swordsmen who still bore their blades in middle age were contemptible. Brota was all of those, voluminous in her red robe, her ponytail streaked with gray, and a sword on her back. Wallie saw the encounter and chuckled. Apparently there was something in Polini’s face that annoyed her, for she fixed him with her piggy eye and accosted him squarely. Then she drew and made the salute to an equal. With obvious reluctance, he responded. They exchanged a few words, then Polini set off along the road with furiously huge strides, his diminutive protégé almost trotting to keep up with him. Brota rolled up the plank wearing a satisfied smirk. As a water-rat swordsman she enjoyed baiting the landlubber variety almost as much as her sailor son did.

Polini had probably not even noticed Mata in the background, although she was still a fine-looking woman in her brown bra sash and breechclout. Wallie wondered what Polini would have said had he been told that she, a sailor of the third rank, a mother of four children, could probably give him a fair match with foil or sword.

Wallie had apologized to Jja, cursed himself several times for his stupidity, and then had to tell the beginning of the story to Nnanji, who had nodded in satisfaction and gone off with his head high, probably repeating “hero” to himself. A prince had said it—intoxicating stuff for the son of a rugmaker.

Brota rolled over to Wallie and scowled up at him under her curiously bushy white brows. “I suppose you are in haste to leave now, my lord?”

Wallie shrugged. “Not especially. If the Goddess is in a hurry, then She can speed our passage as She pleases. You found no trade?”

Katanji had commented on the prices in the brothel. Katanji was a very astute young man in money matters. Now Wallie wondered if a tryst would create a local inflation. A few hundred active young men could certainly drive up the price of food—and women—in Casr, but he would not have thought that the effect would have reached so far as Tau.

That raised a whole new series of problems. Who was going to pay for this tryst? Probably most of the men arriving would be free swords. They would be penniless, and Casr would be in trouble. They would expect free shelter and board—and women. The economy of the World was a primitive, fragile thing. The demigod had given Wallie a fortune in sapphires and called it “expenses.” Perhaps that had been another hint that he was expected to be leader of the tryst. Why, then, was he not being taken to it?

He looked across the dock road to the nearest warehouse. “The Goddess has guided you often in the past to the most profitable cargo, mistress,” he suggested. “What do they offer over there?”

“Ox hides!” Brota snorted. “Nasty things! I don’t want my ship full of smelly hides!”

“Hides?” Wallie repeated thoughtfully. Brota noticed at once. Brota and gold had a mutual attraction.

“If we reach Casr . . . if I become leader of the tryst—and those are big ‘ifs’—then I think hides might be of value.”

Brota studied him narrowly. “The sorcerers have driven all the tanners out of their cities. Any connection?”

Brota pouted. Then she wheeled about, shouted for Mata, and rolled toward the plank.

Wallie glanced around. He was pleased to see that Katanji had reappeared on deck and had recovered most of his color. Wallie beckoned him over. “Feeling better now?” he inquired.

The lad gave him a pert and incredibly innocent smile. “Yes, thank you, my lord.” Katanji could be angelically polite or diabolically vulgar, as circumstances required.

“Good!” Wallie said with a conspiratorial smile. “Mistress Brota is now bent on buying leather. I should like to know how much she spends on it.”

Katanji grinned. “Is that all?” He nodded and walked away. He could probably discover details of the tanner’s grandfather’s sex life if Wallie needed them.

Wallie stayed by the rail, watching his spy trail after Brota. There were no swordsmen in sight. Then Nnanji reappeared at his side, suspicious of what his oath brother had wanted with his true brother. Nnanji’s protégé was a constant trial to him, with his unswordsmanlike tendencies, and his mentor almost as bad. Wallie decided not to explain, out of pure perversity.

On their previous visit to Tau, Kionijuiy had been de facto reeve. He had been absent from his post, leaving the town in the care of an inadequate garrison, and that lapse had offended Nnanji’s ideals of swordsman honor. While the subject had not been discussed since, Wallie knew that Nnanji never forgot anything. He would certainly have sought to rectify the matter that morning.

“The new reeve is the Honorable Finderinoli,” Nnanji added. “He and his band arrived at the lodge just before your message got there. So he came on to Tau and put things to rights at once. I did not meet him, but he seems to be doing a fine job.” He nodded approvingly.

“What did he do to the old man?” Wallie asked. Kionijuiy’s father had failed to resign when he grew too old to be reeve. Much worse, though, he had taught his civilian sons to fence. That was an abomination, a breach of the sutras, a violation of the swordsmen’s closed-shop union rules.

“Drained him, too,” Nnanji said simply, studying people on the dock road below.

Thana was coming along the road—Brota’s daughter, tall and slim and ravishing in a yellow wrap. Thana had a classic Grecian profile and dark curls. Whenever Wallie saw her with her sword on her back, as now, he thought of Diana the Huntress. When Thana was in sight, Nnanji would not think readily of anything else.

Beside her was the tiny form of Honakura, ancient priest and one of Wallie’s company—indeed, Honakura was the first person he had spoken to when he awoke in the World in Shonsu’s body. Today the old man had gone to visit the temple in search of news. He was still wearing his anonymous black robe, hiding his craftmarks under a headband, and so being a Nameless One. Wallie had half expected Honakura to end this charade now, but apparently not. He had never explained its purpose; possibly he did not wish to admit that it had none.

Jja was comforting Vixini, who was fretting over another tooth. Katanji came strolling back from the warehouse. Honakura climbed wearily up the gangplank. Nnanji headed toward it to welcome Thana. Seven was the sacred number. When Wallie had left the temple at Hann to begin his mission for the gods, seven had been the number in his party. The seventh, Nnanji’s moronic slave, had gone. If Nnanji had any say in the matter, Thana was destined to replace her. That would bring them back to seven again . . .

Sapphire had taken Wallie to all the cities of the RegiVul loop; its crew had provided his army for the battle of Ov. With Sapphire he had unmasked the sorcerers and discovered their secrets. Now someone—and he still did not know who—had called a tryst in Casr. To Casr he must go. Looking at Nnanji beaming idiotically as he held Thana’s hands, he wondered if his party was about to be restored to the sacred number. Possibly Sapphire’s part in his mission was ended, and he was about to leave this easy, informal River life and complete his quest ashore.

Yet Apprentice Thana was showing few signs of cooperating, although Nnanji now proposed to her regularly—three times a day, after meals, Wallie suspected. She clearly had no illusions about that redheaded idealist who regarded honor as life’s purpose, killing as his business, fencing and wenching as the only worthwhile recreations. Looking at the two of them, lost in their private conversation, Wallie would not have been surprised to learn that his lusty young protégé was describing his morning’s exploits in the brothel. He was quite capable of doing so and then wondering how he had offended. Yet certainly Nnanji had some major part to play in the gods’ mission, for Wallie had been directed to swear the fourth oath with him, the oath of brotherhood.

Oath of brotherhood or not, Nnanji would be reluctant to leave Sapphire without Thana. Suppose she would not go? What would the gods do then?

Two hours later, reeking like a tannery, Sapphire cast off. As she did so, another ship pulled into an empty berth ahead and two nimble young swordsman Seconds jumped ashore without even waiting for the plank. They were at once accosted by a Fourth and three Thirds, whom Wallie had already identified as followers of the head-hunting Sixth. By nightfall that Sixth would have collected all the loose swordsmen in town.

Wallie had gone up on the fo’c’sle to stay out of the sailors’ way. He was leaning on the rail with Nnanji beside him. Thana was next to Nnanji.

“We may be back!” Wallie warned him, watching the two Seconds being marched off to meet the absent Sixth and swear their oaths.

Wallie explained his theory that the Goddess might be wanting him to recruit a private army. Nnanji pouted mightily—he would be greatly outranked by a Sixth.

“I hope that is not the case,” Wallie assured him. “But why else would she have brought all these swordsmen to Tau? It is a long way to Casr. I am sure that the Goddess is capable of better aim than that.”

“Ah!” Nnanji looked relieved. “It is not only Tau! Swordsmen have been arriving at Dri and Wo, also. And Ki San, apparently. Even Quo.”

The ways of gods were inscrutable. Perhaps, though, the docks at Casr could not handle the traffic, and the Goddess was using these outlying ports as way stations . . .

Nnanji chuckled and glanced sideways at him. “It is on the next loop of the River! There is a wagon trail over the hills from Casr to Quo, brother! One day by road and twenty weeks by water, so I’m told.”

“During intermission!” Nnanji leered. Then he remembered that Thana was present, and his face suddenly matched his hair; perhaps his social skills were improving, slightly.

There was also a trail from Ov to Aus, Wallie knew, although land travel was very rare in the World. There were no maps in the World, because there was no writing, and because the geography was subject to change without notice, at the whim of the Goddess. But Wallie had a mental picture of the usual form of the landscape, and he now sought to adjust it. What had Nnanji thought of, to put that grin on his face?

Nnanji looked vaguely disappointed that his mentor had worked that out so quickly. He would have had to consult the sutras.

“Right!” he said. “It has three neighbors, instead of two, like all the other cities.”

Nnanji nodded. The sorcerers had been seizing another city every two years or so. Now they had control of all the left bank, the inside of the loop. River travel was difficult or impossible through the Black Lands, so the RegiVul loop was closed. Their next move must to be to cross the River.

“Casr is very old,” Nnanji added. “It’s mentioned in some of the most ancient sagas. Been burned and sacked and rebuilt dozens of times, I expect.”

Wallie returned to watching the docks as they dwindled astern, masked now by a picket fence of masts and rigging. As the details became less visible, Tau seemed to become ever more like a scene from Tudor England.

Nnanji flashed his huge grin. “Forgotten? Last time we were here you said . . . ” His eyes went slightly out of focus, and his voice deepened to mimic Shonsu’s bass. “ ‘Eventually, I suppose, I’ll settle down in some quiet little town like this and be a reeve. And raise seven sons, like old Kioniarru. And seven daughters, also, if Jja wants them!’ And I said, ‘Reeve? Why not king?’ And you said, ‘Too much bloodshed to get it, and too much work when you do. But I like Tau, I think.’ ”

His eyes came back into focus and his grin returned. Neither commented on the feat of memory—they both knew it was child’s play for Nnanji—but Thana was disgusted. “You weren’t serious, my lord? Reeve? In a place like that?” She turned to stare at the thatched roofs of vanishing Tau.

The next day the wind god deserted them. A strange golden haze settled over the River, smelling faintly of burning stubble, while the water lay dead as white oil. Directly overhead the sky was a pallid, sickly blue, and all around there was only blank nothing. Tomiyano did not even hoist sail, and Sapphire drooped at anchor. Other becalmed vessels showed faintly at times in the distance, like flags planted to mark the edge of the World, but for most of the day Sapphire seemed to be abandoned by both men and gods.

This ominous change made the crew uneasy. Lord Shonsu was needed at Casr, they believed, to take command of Her tryst. Why was She not speeding him there? Had they offended Her in some way? Not putting their worry into words, the sailors performed the usual chores in nervous silence. They cleaned and polished and varnished; they made clothes for the coming winter; they instructed youngsters in the age-old ways of the River and the sutras of the sailors; they waited for wind.

Honakura was as distressed as any. He liked to think that he had been sent along on Shonsu’s mission as pilot, a guide to interpret the will of the gods as it might be revealed from time to time, and he did not know what to make of this sudden change of pace. It was strange that She had not taken Shonsu directly to Her tryst from Ov after the battle with the sorcerers, but likely the swordsman was just being given time to think. There seemed to be many things worrying the big man, things he had trouble discussing, or preferred not to discuss, and he brooded relentlessly, quite unlike his normal self. And the wind god had buffeted them along in spanking fashion—until today.

This was not the first time Sapphire’s progress had been stayed, and each time there had been a reason for it. Either the gods had been waiting for something else to happen, or the mortals had overlooked something they were supposed to do. Honakura had no way of knowing which was the case now, but he suspected that the next move was up to the mortals—why else would the ship have been encased in mist? It was as if they had all been shut in a closet, as he himself had many times in the past locked up an errant protégé to meditate upon his shortcomings. By afternoon he was becoming seriously concerned.

He sat himself on his favorite fire bucket and surveyed the deck. Up on the fo’c’sle, the adolescents were clustered around Novice Katanji. From their antics, he guessed that the boy was telling dirty stories. The women had mostly gathered on the poop, knitting, mending, and chatting softly. A couple of men were fishing . . . without much success, he noted glumly.

For once there was no fencing lesson in progress. Adept Nnanji was sitting on the forward hatch cover with Novice Matarro and Apprentice Thana, grouped around three crossed swords. That was a stupid swordsman custom for reciting sutras. Priests taught sutras while pacing to and fro—much healthier and more sensible, letting exercise stimulate the brain.

Lord Shonsu sat alone on the other hatch. The crew understood that he needed to think and they left him alone when he wanted privacy, as now. He did have his slave beside him, so he probably would not think of himself as being alone. They were not talking, however, and that was unusual. Shonsu was probably the only swordsman in the World who talked with his night slave—except of course to say “Lie down.”

Shonsu was whittling. He had taken up whittling after Ov, spending hours with scraps of wood and tools pilfered from the ship’s chest. He refused to say what he was doing and he obviously did not enjoy doing it. His hands were too big for delicate work—they fit a sword hilt better than a knife handle. He scowled and chewed his tongue and nicked his fingers and spoiled what he was doing and started again. And he would not say why.

A sour sulfurous odor mingled with smells of woodsmoke and leather. They had met that before. Shonsu said it must come from RegiVul, where the Fire God danced on the peaks. A pale dust was settling on the planks.

Honakura sighed and sought a more comfortable position. The pains were getting worse. He remembered how his mother had baked bread when he was a child, and how she had run a knife around the inside of the pan to loosen the loaf so that it would come out cleanly. That was what the Goddess was doing to him—reminding him that death was not to be feared, that it was a beginning of something new and exciting, not an end. When he had left Hann with Shonsu, he had offered humble prayers that he might be spared long enough in this cycle to see the outcome of the Shonsu mission. Now he was not so presumptuous. He thought he might be happier not knowing.

If anyone had suggested to him half a year since that he could ever be friends with a swordsman, he would have laughed until his old bones fell apart in a heap. Yet it had happened so. He liked that huge slab of beef. He could even admire him and he had never admired a swordsman before. Of course Shonsu was not a swordsman at heart, but he tried very hard to obey the dictates of the gods, and struggled to reconcile his own gentle instincts with the killer requirements of his job. They were incompatible, of course. Shonsu knew that and was troubled within himself. But he tried, and he was a decent and honorable man.

Strange, therefore, that his divine master had not trusted him enough to explain exactly what his task was to be. That lapse had obviously bothered Shonsu, and still did. He thought he knew now what it was. He had been quite implacable toward the sorcerers once he met them—implacable for Shonsu, that is. Yet he had gathered wisdom at Ov, wisdom he could not or would not explain, and since then he had been more deeply troubled than ever.

Honakura was certain that he had a much better idea of what Shonsu’s mission was than Shonsu did. He no longer wanted to see the end of it. The gods knew what they were doing and they knew why, even if mortals did not. And they could be cruel.

A sudden ripple of change swept over the ship. Two of the women came chattering down from the poop and headed for the companionway in the fo’c’sle. The men abandoned their fishing at the same moment and went into the deckhouse, muttering about a game of dice. Apprentice Thana, tired of sutras, rose and stretched deliciously. Honakura sighed . . . If the Goddess sent him back at once, then in twenty years or less he would be after someone like Thana. Unless he came back as a woman, of course, in which case he would be looking for a Shonsu.

Adept Nnanji twisted his head round and shouted for his brother. Katanji pulled a face, left off his storytelling, and came down to join the sutra session. Nnanji could continue indefinitely. Despite his youth, he was the most single-minded person Honakura had ever met and he certainly possessed the finest memory.

That made him an incomparable learner. It had been entertaining to watch Shonsu struggle to make himself more of a swordsman—meaning in effect more like Nnanji, who was a swordsman born—while Nnanji strove to be more like his hero, Shonsu. There was no doubt which of the two had more thoroughly succeeded. Adept-and-soon-to-be-Master Nnanji was unrecognizable as the brash, wide-eyed juvenile who had trailed behind Shonsu that first day in the temple, after the death of Hardduju. Yet neither man could ever really succeed. They were as unlike as the lion and the eagle that made up the griffon on the seventh sword.

Then stillness inexplicably returned and motion ceased. The ship lay in its cocoon of golden haze, the silence broken only by a quiet drone of sutras.

Thana had wandered to the aft end of the deck and was sitting on the steps to the poop. There seemed to be something missing about Apprentice Thana. Honakura needed a moment to work it out—she was not wearing the pearls that Nnanji had given her. He decided, then, that he had not seen them for some days.

Of course Shonsu was worth studying from her point of view: huge, muscular—masculinity personified—and a swordsman of the seventh rank, a man of ultimate power among the People.

Brota and Tomiyano were incomparable pursuers of gold, but in Thana that family trait was subtly changed. She saw farther. Thana knew that gold was only a means, and the end was power. For most people gold was the surest means to that end, but power was largely a male attribute in the World, and there was a faster road to it for nubile young maidens.

“When beautiful young ladies frown, they must have troubles,” he said. “Troubles are my business.”

They had all guessed that he was a priest, of course. His way of speaking would have told them that.

“Not a holy one at the moment,” he said gently. “But I am on Her business. Now, what ails?”

“He quoted something Lord Shonsu had said,” she explained at last, “the first time he was in Tau. He talked of being reeve there. Well! A minnow town like that? This is after his mission is over, you understand? It just seemed odd. That’s all.”

She glanced at him in surprise. “Why not? A Seventh? In a scruffy little hole like Tau?”

Honakura shook his head. “Shonsu never asked to be a Seventh. He did not even want to be a swordsman. The gods made him one for their own purposes. You are talking power, my lady, and power does not attract Shonsu.”

“Well, ambition. He has none! He is already a Seventh, so what is left? But Adept Nnanji . . . now there is ambition for you.”

Thana frowned again. “He is a killer! Remember when the pirates came? Yes, it is good to kill pirates. But Shonsu wept afterward—I saw the tears on his cheeks. Nnanji laughed. He was soaked in blood, and loved it.”

Honakura had known much worse killers than that amiable young man. “Killing is his job, apprentice. He welcomed a chance to do his job. He is honorable and kills only in the line of duty. A swordsman rarely gets a chance to use his skills. Adept Nnanji is very good at his job—better in some ways than Lord Shonsu is.”

“You think Nnanji will be a Seventh one day?” she asked idly, but he sensed the steel in the question.

For a moment he hesitated, pondering the inexplicable lack of wind, the breathless pause in Shonsu’s mission. Then he decided to gamble on this sudden hunch of his.

“There is a prophecy,” he told her. “When Shonsu spoke with the god, he was given a message for me. Shonsu did not understand it—it was a message that only a priest would hear. But it comes from a god. So, yes, I am certain.”

“I swear on my sword, holy one—on my honor as a swordsman. If you tell me, I will not reveal it.”

“Then I shall trust you,” he said. “The prophecy is the epigram from one of our sutras. We—the priests, I mean—have always regarded it as a great paradox, but perhaps to a swordsman it will not seem so. The epigram is this: The pupil may be greater than the teacher.”

“Yes, it does. He was destined to be Shonsu’s protégé. He was only a Second, you know. Shonsu made him a Fourth in two weeks. And he is the equal of a Fifth now, Shonsu says.”

He waited patiently and after a while she looked up. “It only says ‘may’ be greater. Not ‘will’ be.”

Honakura shook his head. “Gods do not cheat like that, Thana. The god was saying that Nnanji will be greater. It is obvious! He is absurdly young for even his present rank, and Shonsu says he fences better every day, without exception. He forgets nothing. Yes, Nnanji will be a Seventh—and very soon, I think.”

She frowned. “He thinks he is a Sixth now, but Shonsu will not tell him the sutras—the last few he needs to try for Sixth.”

“I am sure,” Honakura said, and then wondered if he was sure, “that Lord Shonsu has his protégé’s best interests at heart. Nnanji had been very lucky to find a mentor like him—few do. Many mentors grow jealous of successful protegés and hold them back. Indeed, that is the thrust of that sutra I mentioned—that protégés must be encouraged and aided at all costs, not impeded.” He chuckled, thinking of examples he had known. “Even priests can be guilty of that sin, and obviously there are special advantages to a swordsman in having a protégé who can fight above his rank. Whereas, when that protégé gains promotion, he may set off on his own. But I do not think that Lord Shonsu would ever do that to Nnanji. If he is holding him back from trying for Sixth, then it is only because he does not think that Nnanji is ready.”

She nodded. “And when the tryst is over, then Nnanji will not be satisfied to be merely reeve of some polliwog village?”

“Nnanji wants to be a free sword. He would be happy just to lead a band of ragtag swordsmen around the countryside looking for sport, killing and wenching.”

He said, “I think he would be wasted doing that. The Goddess must have more important tasks for a man like Nnanji. He needs guidance!”

Thana blushed. She jumped up and strode away, the yellow tail of her breechclout swinging. She went by Shonsu without a glance, then by the three-man sutra session, which wailed into silence as the chanters were distracted. Then she vanished through the fo’c’sle door.

Honakura chuckled. The chanters went back to their droning. Shonsu continued his whittling—apparently he had not even noticed Thana go by him, although Jja had.

Honakura waited hopefully, but there was no sign of a wind rising, no diminution of the stabbing pain in his ribs. He sighed and told himself to be patient. However, perhaps he had earned one tiny reward—it would be satisfying to know just what that big swordsman was doing, littering Sailor Tomiyano’s tidy deck with shavings.

The old man heaved stiffly off the steps, walked over to the hatch cover, and levered himself up beside Shonsu. He was accustomed to being small, but the big man made him feel like a tiny child. The swordsman turned his head in silence and regarded nun. For just a moment Honakura could imagine that he was back on the temple steps that summer morning when he had so briefly met the original Shonsu—that steady glare, those vindictive black eyes with their promise of carnage. Startled, he reminded himself that this was a man from a dream world, not truly Shonsu, and it was not his fault that his gaze was as deadly as his sword.

“And how is Apprentice Thana?” the swordsman demanded in his distant-thunder rumble.

Another shock! Honakura could have sworn that Shonsu had not even seen Thana depart, let alone noticed the two of them talking together. “She is well,” he said, carefully not showing reaction. Yet he knew that everything about Shonsu was of the seventh rank—his reflexes, his eyesight. Could his hearing be so acute that he had overheard the conversation? Impossible, surely?

The swordsman continued his inspection of Honakura for a moment and then turned his attention back to the peg he was shaping. After a minute or so he remarked, “Apprentice Thana has been surprising me.”

“She has developed a sudden and passionate interest in sutras,” Shonsu growled. “I assume that she plans to seek promotion when Nnanji does.”

“In fencing, certainly,” the swordsman said. “And she has been surprising me with her speed at picking up sutras. Not quite a Nnanji, perhaps, but remarkable.”

There was. “Of course Nnanji is always available to coach her—he can gaze at her without interruption.” Shonsu paused again. “Yet she has been pestering me, also, and even her mother. She sets it up with either Katanji or Matarro, keeping Nnanji out.”

Honakura remembered now that the swordsmen had a limit of three to a sutra session, another foolish custom.

“Perhaps she is equally glad of a chance to gaze at your noble self, my lord.”

The black eyes flashed dangerously at him. “No, she has some other reason. Apprentice Thana always has her impulses totally under control. She is a cold-blooded little golddigger!”

Honakura certainly was not about to say so, but he thought Lord Shonsu rather resented Thana’s cold-bloodedness. With his rank and physical presence he could have any woman for a nod, with no questions asked. Not that he did, but he must be aware that he could. It was precisely because young Thana would have questions to ask—and would require the answers first—that he smarted over her immunity.

“Why are we becalmed?” Shonsu demanded suddenly, probably believing that he was changing the subject.

So he was still brooding over that? “I doubt it,” the priest said. “As you suggested, we should be returned there if that were the case. We must just be patient.”

The swordsman nodded again. “I am perplexed by the encounter with Prince Arganari. That felt like the hand of the god, old man, but I don’t understand what was required of me. How many swordsmen own one of the Chioxin seven? Not more than two or three in the whole World! The rest of the seven have been broken or lost. For us to meet by chance was utterly impossible . . . so why?”

He brooded in silence for a while. “I should have kept him on the ship, I think.”

“Yes,” Shonsu agreed miserably. “But I could have challenged him.” He cut savagely at the peg and nicked his thumb. He swore and stuck it in his mouth. Jja reached up and pulled it out again to look at it.

“Tell me what you are making, my lord?” Honakura asked. “Is it some contrivance from your dream world, perhaps?”

Pain had made Honakura testy. “My lord! The god told you that you could trust me!”

Again Shonsu turned to regard the priest with that deadly killer gaze. “Yes, he did. Was he correct?”

Did that mean he had indeed overheard the conversation with Thana? It seemed impossible.

“Of course!” Honakura said, aware that dignity was hard to project in the garb of a Nameless One.

“Very well!” said the swordsman. “I will tell you what I am making if you tell me about Ikondorina’s brothers.”

Now it was the priest’s turn to sigh. Why had he ever been such a fool as to mention those? It had been a serious indiscretion, even if it had happened very early in their relationship, before he had realized how much he himself was involved. When the god had sent word that Honakura was to tell Shonsu the story of Ikondorina, it had been an obvious chicanery. Even the swordsman had seen through that, but then Honakura had stupidly admitted that he knew of two other references to Ikondorina in the priestly sutras. Later, and even more stupidly, he had mentioned that they concerned Ikondorina’s two brothers, his red-haired brother and his black-haired brother. He had been very tired that evening, he remembered.

“I fear I misled you, my lord,” he said now. “Obviously there was a reference there to Nnanji and Katanji. But that was all—they joined your quest and the prophecy was fulfilled. There is nothing more to tell.”

Honakura turned his head away angrily. Swordsmen! It was so childish! Then he noticed that Apprentice Thana had reappeared on deck and was wearing the pearls again. Aha! And she had gone to lean on the rail where Nnanji would notice her. Sutra time would end soon, then.

He turned back to Shonsu, who was looking at Jja, and Honakura was just in time to catch the tail feathers of a vanishing grin on the slave’s face. They were laughing at him!

“The stories are quite irrelevant!” he said angrily. “And trivial! The sutra that mentions the black-haired brother, for example—the epigram says merely Water pipes are made of lead.”

The swordsman flashed Jja another glance that the priest could not see. He could not be winking, surely?

“Certainly!” he said. “A water pipe adds nothing and takes nothing away; it merely transmits a substance, water, from one place to another, just as Mistress Brota and her ship transmit goods from one port to another. But these are services vital to the well-being of the People. Water pipes are useful things, yet lead is the lowliest of metals. Conclusion: Humble folk, who may originate nothing themselves, may yet perform valuable duties, not to be despised. Correct, learned one?”

Angrily Honakura agreed that he was correct. After all these weeks, he should have remembered that this was no ordinary swordsman. Few priests, even, could have worked that out for themselves, and so quickly.

“The epitome, I would presume,” Shonsu said, “would deal with the value of labor—no, commerce!”

The priest was about to protest once more that he could not reveal arcane matters when he caught Shonsu’s eye. A shy smile crept over the swordsman’s face, making Honakura think of granite slabs being thrust aside by tree roots. But it was affectionate amusement—it invited him to share. Suddenly they both laughed. The knife twisted in Honakura’s chest, but he felt better afterward.

“Very well, my lord! I suppose you have earned it. But I warn you that it is a foolish and banal doggerel.”

Ikondorina’s black-haired brother
Late at night to village came,
Weary from a long day’s plodding,
Very hungry, dry, and lame.

Heard two peasants loud disputing,
Also heard a farrow squeal.
“There,” proclaimed the black-haired swordsman,
“I can hear my evening meal.”

“Villagers!” he then addressed them.
“Notice, pray, my honest face.
As a stranger come amongst you,
Let me judge this sorry case.”

The peasants laid the facts before him—
Each one claimed he owned the beast.
Swordsman, drawing his sword to slay it,
Bid the peasants share his feast.

The big man had a big laugh, and now Shonsu put his head back and uttered one enormous bellow of laughter, like a clap of thunder. Chanting stopped. From bowsprit to rudder, heads turned in astonishment. Smiles appeared, the sailors pleased that their hero was restored to his normal good humor.

“That’s marvelous!” Shonsu said. “No artist could have drawn him better—Katanji to the life! Honest face! And you said it was irrelevant? Come now, holy one, share the other with me!”

“Not fair, my lord!” Honakura protested, although he no longer cared very much what Shonsu was doing. He must certainly not be told the other sutra.

“Half a truth deserves half a truth!” the swordsman persisted. “I figure that if Vixini can work this, then perhaps the swordsmen can . . . Why will you not tell me?”

“The god said you could trust me,” Honakura replied. Nnanji and Thana were deep in a world of their own by the rail.

“My lord!” Honakura displayed shock—but secretly he knew that he shared that doubt. It would depend how one defined trust, of course.

The swordsman was studying him closely. “Why would he not tell me exactly what is expected of me? How am I supposed to serve him under those conditions? What should I do, priest? You tell me, then, if you are so trustworthy.”

“You’re a priest when you want to be!” Shonsu roared. “All right, then, answer this one! After the battle on the holy island, the god put a swordsman fathermark on my right eyelid. Fair enough—my father in the dream world was a sort of swordsman. But after the battle of Ov, I was given a sorcerer’s feather on my left eyelid. What does that mean? How can I ever expect the tryst to follow a man with a sorcerer for a mother?” Honakura had no idea. He had worried about that since it happened.

Before he could reply, however, they were interrupted. Nnanji and Thana stood before them, hand in hand. Thana had her eyes demurely lowered, her pearl necklace shimmering with a virginal white glow like dawn over the River. Nnanji’s face was as red as his hair, and his eyes bulged with excitement and joy.

“My lord mentor!” he shouted. “Your protégé humbly requests permission to get married.”

Of course Wallie gave his permission, choking down misgivings over the romantic, idealistic Nnanji being bound to that mercenary minx. Ignorant of the marriage customs of the People, he was carefully coached and then prompted by his sniggering protégé as he formally negotiated with Thana’s mentor for the betrothal, tendering one copper as bride price. Brota accepted, but he suspected that she doubted the wisdom of the match as much as he did.

Even Wallie thought Thana worth more than one copper, but apparently it was that or serious bargaining—and then Brota would have taken everything both swordsmen possessed.

There was much hugging and kissing and laughter as the family acquiesced. The ship was at anchor, and the sun god would set in a couple of hours—of course the party must begin at once. Tomiyano produced some vials of the sorcerers’ ensorceled wine, whose effects could be heard and seen almost immediately. Oligarro’s mandolin and Holiyi’s pan pipes and young Sinboro on his drums . . . there was dancing and singing. Children screamed with excitement as ancient Lina brought forth delicacies from some secret store—crystallized fruits and knots of preserved ginger and yet-stranger sweetmeats that Wallie could not identify.

He wondered how long engagements lasted in the World and what elaborate ritual the marriage itself would require. For him to say good morning to another Seventh required forty words and six gestures. On that scale a wedding service could take hours. And what gift would a highrank swordsman give his protégé? Not a microwave oven, certainly . . .

He danced with all the women and all the girls. He joined in some of the more raucous River shanties. He laughed at the bawdy bantering and Nnanji’s boastful ripostes. He grew steadily more miserable.

The calm persisted, the sun god faded down into luminous mist, and the putrid sulfur stink from the volcanoes dissipated, leaving only the pungent aroma of the ox hides in the hold. The sky began to darken. Eventually Wallie slipped away and climbed alone to the fo’c’sle, where he could lean against the rail beyond the capstan and gaze out over still waters. He listened to the music and laughter and sometimes, when they momentarily waned, to the playful slap of wavelets against the bow. The mist grew cool and damp against his skin.

He brooded over this injustice and at last decided that a married protégé was just one more tiny worry to add to all his others. He began to list them again in his mind. The catalog never seemed to shrink, it only grew longer. Nnanji himself was becoming a pest, demanding that he be allowed to try for sixth rank, and Thana would add her nagging now, seeking to further her fiancé’s career.

Honakura had instigated this stupid engagement! Wallie had overheard just enough of that whispered conversation to be sure. Certainly he had heard the word “prophecy” and he knew that must refer to the story of Ikondorina’s red-haired brother. The old man’s reticence on the subject was ominous, especially now that Wallie had wormed the other story out of him, and that other story had so obviously matched Katanji. What could have been prophesied about Nnanji that Wallie must not be told? He wished he had been able to hear more of what the old man had been telling Thana.

He wondered if those sutras had been changed by a miracle to fit the requirements of his mission. The demigod was quite capable of rearranging the memories of all the priests of the World. Indeed, he need change only Honakura’s. Wallie decided be would search out a priest in Casr and ask him if he had ever heard of Ikondorina.

No, that would not work. A mortal could not outwit a god. Yet Nnanji was hardly a worry to compare with his others. What might Wallie find in Casr when he met men and women who thought they knew him, who had known Shonsu? At least he need not worry about remembering names, because any conversation would begin with a formal salute. Those were as useful as the cutesy name tags of Earth: “Hi there, my name is . . . ” Nor need he worry about being challenged. Only another Seventh would do that, and a brave one, for Shonsu’s paramount skill must be known in Casr.

A greater danger was that he would be denounced, tried, convicted of cowardice, and executed. That was very likely, and his swordsmanship would not save him from that.

Explosions of laughter made him turn to look at the main deck. The center of amusement was a squirming heap of male adolescents. Even Holiyi was in there. Then it broke apart, revealing Nnanji underneath. Matarro had Nnanji’s kilt and ran off waving it, with Nnanji leaping up to race in howling pursuit around the deck, while the spectators jeered and cheered.

Not so very long ago, such treatment from civilians would have provoked Nnanji to mayhem.

Wallie sighed. He ought to be down there, joining in the fun, not skulking up here being such a sourpuss. Sorcerers!

They were the big problem, obviously. Mostly they were fakes and charlatans, their magic almost all sleight of hand, aided by the carefully prepared gowns, loaded with tricks.

Originally they must have been scribes, for their feather craftmarks represented quill pens. He had worked out a history for them. He had no evidence, but it all made so much sense that he was certain now that it must be the truth. Whether writing had been a gift of the gods or a mortal invention, it had been assigned to a separate craft, but reading and writing were such useful skills that the priests had coveted them. The scribes had resisted. Perhaps they had even initiated the violence. The swordsmen had sided with the priests—that was both obvious and inevitable—and driven the sorcerers away. They had taken refuge in mountain strongholds, like Vul, far from the River and the Goddess, claiming magical powers in self-defense. They had also roamed the World in disguise, preserving their monopoly by assassination. That explained both the present absence of writing and the swordsmen’s implacable hostility.

Literacy made knowledge cumulative, and over the ages the sorcerers had accumulated knowledge, until now their fakery was assisted by primitive chemistry. Certainly they knew of gunpowder, phosphorus, some sort of bleach to remove facemarks, and the acid that had scarred Tomiyano. They might have other things, but nothing very terrible. Their guns were crude in the extreme, one-shot gadgets, slow to reload and not very accurate. The sorcerers themselves were only armed civilians. Faced with swordsmen in Ov, they had panicked. They would be little problem out in the open.

The towers were the danger. Wallie knew that the tower doors were booby-trapped and he could guess at cannons, shrapnel bombs, and other horrors. If the swordsmen tried to take a tower, they would be slaughtered. It could be done, of course, but not in the traditional ways of the craft, not going by the sutra.

There, it would seem, was where Wallie Smith came in. That was why the Goddess had put the soul of a chemist into the body of a swordsman—so he could take over the tryst, win the leadership by combat, and lead the swordsmen to victory. But why, oh why, had She chosen so fainthearted a mortal as Wallie Smith? There must be no lack of bloody-minded chemists in the universe. He hated bloodshed. He still had nightmares about the battles he had fought, about the jetty on the holy island, about the night the pirates came, about Ov. Why him?

The sky was almost dark, the Dream God gleaming hazily across the south. The ends of the rings were concealed in mist, only the crest of the arc showing. Down on the deck, the party was growing quieter. He must go back and join in.

This fog was bad—good pirate weather—and Sapphire was advertising her presence across half a hemisphere. Tomiyano would set double watch this night.

But were they? All the magic he had seen or heard of he could now explain—with one exception. When he had so stupidly gone ashore at Aus and met with sorcerers, they had told him what he had said to Jja before he left Sapphire’s deck. When a sorcerer had come on board at Wal, he had known Brota’s name. In each case, that knowledge smelled like telepathy. Wallie could think of no other explanation. That was the only magic he could not rationalize away, and he had worried over that more than anything else since Ov.

Sorcery . . . science. They were incompatible, were they not? Surely he need not fight both at once?

And Jja had not gone ashore in Aus. He had asked. That had shown him how worried he was—that he could even doubt Jja.

No. That was not the worst. There was another, hanging over him like the blade of a guillotine: Whose side was he on?

Then cool fingers slid around his ribs and linked up on his chest. A cheek was laid against his shoulder blade.

Jja was concerned about him. He had not tried to explain all his troubles to her, for she could never have understood them properly. She did not resent that, he was sure. She did what she could, offering wordless sympathy for unspoken pain, as now. He cherished it in silence for a moment.

He twisted around and returned the embrace, pulling her tight and feeling her warmth against him through the thinness of cotton. “What are you babbling about, wench?” he asked gently.

“Silly man!” she said, but in a tone no slave owner could have resented. “What does it matter? I am much more married than Thana will ever be.”

And much more beautiful, he thought. Jja was no skinny wraith, no fashion model. She was tall and strong and deep-breasted and the most desirable woman in the World.

“I was sent to fetch you, my lord Wallie,” she whispered, “for they are waiting.”

“Yes!” Chuckling, she led him to the steps, and they picked their way down carefully in the dark.

No bridal gown, no bridesmaids, no orange blossoms? Nnanji and Thana were standing together, with Brota positioned behind Thana, and all of them facing Tomiyano. Obviously a ship’s captain could perform a marriage, as a captain could on Earth. Wallie stepped into position behind Nnanji, who had retrieved his kilt and now turned to welcome his mentor with a broad leer. The rest of the crew, the family, had gathered around, vague faces smiling and silent in the night.

The ceremony was unbelievably short and even more revoltingly one-sided than Wallie had expected in this sexist World.

“Adept Nnanji, swordsman of the fourth rank, do you take Thana, swordsman of the second rank, as your wife, promising to clothe and feed her, to feed her children, to teach them obedience to the gods and claim them as your own, to find them honorable crafts when they reach adulthood?”

“Apprentice Thana, swordsman of the second rank, do you take this Nnanji, swordsman of the fourth rank, as your husband, offering your person for his pleasure and no other’s, conceiving, bearing, and rearing his children, and obeying his commands?”

Along with one copper, Wallie thought, Brota was not obtaining much of a commitment from Nnanji, in return for exclusive enjoyment of Thana’s person.

And now, obviously, all that was required to seal the marriage was a kiss. Eyes shining, Nnanji turned and put his arms around Thana. She raised her face.

And then Wallie heard it also in the sudden silence, drifting across the water out of the darkness—the sound of clashing swords.

Yes, there was something there, uncertainly visible through the dark and fog, something pale and glimmering, drifting slowly downstream toward Sapphire’s bow as she lay at anchor.

By the time Wallie had established that fact, Tomiyano had the tarpaulin off the starboard dinghy, and his orders were crackling through the night. The wine fumes had vanished and a well-trained crew was leaping to stations. Swords and boat hooks . . . the four adult male sailors would row, Tomiyano steer . . . the two swordsmen . . .

“Yes, Thana!” Nnanji said firmly. There was a moment’s pause. Then Tomiyano nodded and carried on; she was Nnanji’s wife now, and he would decide. The boat went down with a rush to the water as Wallie vaguely registered Nnanji’s thinking . . . Thana was as good a swordsman as any, and families were not divided on the River, for the Goddess could be fickle. Had Wallie not been there, Sapphire’s crew would probably not even have gone to investigate. They might have done so, for She would not penalize an act of mercy, but he wished he had Jja with him.

Then the four men were pulling the dinghy through the inky River with long, sure strokes, rowlocks squeaking, water hissing by in surges. Thana sat by her brother at the tiller. Wallie and Nnanji crouched in the bow—their amateurish efforts would only hinder if they tried to help with the rowing.

Stroke. Stroke. Silver flecks flew from the oars in the chill air. The Dream God was a road of shining mist through the dark sky, his light blurred and ineffective.

Stroke. Stroke. Metal clanged again in the darkness ahead, less faintly now. A cold cramp of fear knotted Wallie’s gut—he thought he could guess who was out there. He took a deep breath and cupped his hands.

It was coming clearly into sight, the fog darkening and congealing into the shape of a small ship, barely more than a fishing boat, with fore-and-aft rigging. Her sails were raised, but there was something wrong with the foresail. She was listing slightly, drifting sideways.

“Lord Shonsu.” Again that high voice. Wallie was certain of it now, an adolescent voice made shrill by stress.

More strokes of the oars, more clattering of blades, and then a male voice, hard and breathless: “Polini, my lord!”

The fear had expanded. It filled Wallie with ice. He clenched his fists so hard that they hurt. He peered through the cold night air at that pale blur slowly growing. So slowly! He was going to be too late. The swords were ringing faster, and there was shouting and cursing. The victims would be murdered and dropped overboard before he could arrive. The piranha would dispose of the evidence.

“Polini! Hang on!” he roared. “We’re coming!” He wanted to weep and scream with frustration. He drummed fists on the gunwale.

Stroke. Stroke. Someone cried out—high, shrill, full of pain. Then the hull loomed suddenly close. Tomiyano swung the tiller and yelled to ship oars, barked a warning not to stand up yet. The dinghy veered and struck hard alongside; rocked. Swords glinted above them, faces showed as lighter blurs. Nnanji caught the rail with a boat hook. Holiyi stood and swung an oar. Wallie ducked under the stroke and caught the rail with his left hand as he drew the seventh sword with his right. Then he was up on the gunwale, parrying a blade. Nnanji was there, also. Metal rang in the night.

Polini was dead, killed in that last desperate attack. Young Arganari was going to die very soon. He had been run through, and there was nothing that all the healers in the World could do for him now. He lay on the black-stained deck, with Wallie kneeling at one side of him and Nnanji at the other. Fortunately the light was so poor that nothing was very distinct.

Amidships lay Polini’s body, and two others. Three live men were penned at the stern, hemmed in by a line of dragons’ teeth—swords held by Sapphire’s crew, angry and silent and waiting.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice quavering. Then he turned his face and vomited a rush of blood, black in the night.

“What happened?” Wallie demanded, but he had already guessed. Of course the victims still wore their expensive boots and kilts and harnesses, their silver hairclips. Polini had not taken Wallie’s advice, as Wallie had known he would not. The World was a place of poverty. Murder could be committed for much less than fancy clothes. Now the fancy clothes were all soaked with blood.

“They took our silver,” the prince said. “We paid them.” Even his whispering had a singsong strangeness to it, “They came for us last night.” He gasped with sudden pain, and Nnanji took hold of his hand. “Master Polini held them off.”

All night and all through the day? Stalemate—the big swordsman had made his stand in the bow, holding back five men, defending his ward. One against five. The boy would have been no use.

Polini had cut the forestay, causing the foresail to collapse. That would have made the boat unmanageable. Perhaps he had hoped, too, that it would attract attention and bring help. All night and all through the day until, when he had been weakened by exhaustion, by lack of food and water, they had come for him again.

“I think I wounded one, adept.” Arganari was ignoring Wallie now. Nnanji was his hero, the young Fourth who had killed sorcerers at Ov. Perhaps only three years lay between them, Wallie thought with sudden wonder, five at the most.

“You’ve done very well,” Nnanji said. His voice was always soft, and now it was even softer, calm and level. “We’ll get a healer to you shortly.” He sounded totally under control. Wallie was beyond speech, his throat and eyes aching fiercely.

“Yes, all right,” Nnanji said. “I’ll take it and wear it against the sorcerers. I’ll wear it to Vul and when I get there, I’ll tell them that you sent me. ‘Novice Arganari sent me,’ I’ll say. ‘I come in the name of Arganari.’ ”

There was no point in trying to move the boy. It would not be long. He gagged and then threw up more blood.

So Nnanji related the battle of Ov, his tones quiet and matter-of-fact. The anchor chain creaked slightly and there was a low mutter of voices from the stern.

Then Arganari interrupted. Probably he had not been understanding very much. He was obviously in agony, trying not to whimper. “Nnanji. It hurts. I’m going to die?”

“Yes, I think so,” Nnanji said. “Here, put your hand on your sword hilt. You promised to die holding it, remember?”

“I’ll tell the minstrels at Casr,” Nnanji said. “In the saga of the Tryst of Casr, your name and Master Polini’s will be first among the glorious.”

There was no reply, but Nnanji rose and held out his hand to Wallie. Wallie stood also, passed over his sword, and turned away quickly. He could not do what Nnanji was now doing—not even if the boy was unconscious, not in a thousand centuries. Yet it would have been his swordsman obligation. Fervently he thanked the Goddess that it had been Nnanji who had been asked.

He stared into the dark and tried not to listen. He heard nothing. Swordsmen must not weep.

Wallie turned round and accepted his sword back again, not looking down, not looking near his feet. “No. Not yet,” he said, and the two of them headed aft, side by side along the obscurity of the deck, until they stood behind the line of sailors fencing the captives.

Now even Nnanji’s voice took on a harshness. “Lord Shonsu, I denounce these men for killing swordsmen.”

“Have you any defense?” Wallie asked. He was the judge and a witness and he would be executioner.

A trio of voices began shouting indignantly. They all sounded quite young, but they all wore breechclouts and so were legally adults.

Then one voice drowned out the other two. “They took our ship at swordpoint, my lord! There were four of them. We got the others . . . ”

Wallie was about to move, but Nnanji put a hand on his shoulder. “Let me do it, brother?”

Perhaps Nnanji thought Wallie did not want to do it, or was not capable, but he was shaking with rage, gripping his sword with every ounce of strength, his limbs quivering as if with eagerness. Shonsu’s manic temper raged within him. Wallie Smith was just as insanely furious. He was brimming with hatred and contempt, and nausea also. He wanted to take these murderers by the throat, or tear them apart with his fingers.

“Stand aside!” Wallie barked. He pushed between Tomiyano and Holiyi, stepped forward, and began to slash at three unarmed youths. They screamed a lot and tried to parry the seventh sword with bare hands. He could not see properly, so he hacked them to pieces to make sure. It was no pleasure, but he had no regrets.

He was senior. He spoke the words of farewell for Polini. At the end his voice cracked, and he asked Nnanji to perform the office for Arganari. As he listened his eyes began pouring tears, he trembled, he struggled desperately not to let the sounds of his sobbing escape into the night.

He watched the River boil and hiss as piranha consumed the bodies in instantaneous frenzy.

They said no words over the assassins, but the River boiled as hard for them as it had for honest men.

Then Wallie clawed back to self-control. “What will you do with the boat?” he asked Tomiyano.

That seemed out of character, but Wallie knew that a sailing ship could not tow another vessel, and to put a prize crew on her would divide the family. So Sunflower would be left for the Goddess.

Wallie climbed miserably into the dinghy for the return. A foggy spark of light showed where Sapphire waited.

He had not heard the message . . . No, he could not have stopped Polini leaving. He could not have kept the Fifth on board Sapphire without a challenge and almost certainly a fight. Polini would not have made obeisance. He would have accepted an impossible match against a Seventh, would perhaps have refused to yield even after Wallie had wounded him. Then Wallie would have had no choice but to kill him.

But he could perhaps have changed the man’s mulish, pigheaded mind about something else, had he insisted.

He had not seen why that meeting had been ordained. He had failed. Six men and a boy had died, so that Nnanji could have a hairclip.

Brota was holding a lantern. Wallie had not known that there was such a thing on the ship. One by one the would-be rescuers stepped to the deck and were greeted by the ring of solemn faces, shining gold around the circle of light. The story was told, briefly and in hushed phrases. There was no comment. The World was a bleak place—sudden, senseless death was no stranger to Sapphire, but it would never be a familiar friend.

Wallie laid a hand on Nnanji’s shoulder. “I’ll take your watch tonight,” he said. An hour ago that would have been cause for ribaldry. Now Nnanji merely nodded and put an arm around Thana to lead her away.

His kilt was damp against his thighs. He was drenched in blood, a figure of horror. He was perversely proud of it, hating it and yet determined not to wash it off until morning. Childish, of course: See what you have done, Goddess?

How could he serve such gods? Where was faith now? Before him in the darkness the face of that solemn, dutiful boy hung like a blazon of shame. The tuneless adolescent voice echoed still in Wallie’s ears.

Loyalty to the gods—loyalty to anything . . . The sorcerers were killers, also.

There was the big one, the greatest of his worries. If he could have leadership of the tryst for the asking, did he even want it?

He would return the sword to the Goddess at Her temple in Casr, and its destiny could be to lead the tryst. Let some other butchering swordsman win the leadership and have it—Shonsu would stay with Sapphire and be a water rat.

Yet even as he made the resolve, he knew that he was deceiving himself. Bearing the seventh sword was like owning the Mona Lisa or the Taj Mahal. He would never be able to part with it, not if the Goddess Herself were to rise from Her River and demand it back. He could go to the temple, but he would still be carrying the sword when he left. When he had lain wounded on the ship, Nnanji had guarded it for him—and would have died to save it, had that been required of him. Given such an opportunity, almost any other swordsman in the World would have vanished at once, taking the sword with him. Nnanji, of course, would not even have been tempted.

So Wallie would die holding it, as he had promised. In a few years, when his speed began to fail, then the challenges would start. The ambitious and the greedy . . . they would come forward, and one day one of them would succeed.

Jja emerged from the darkness, holding a cape. He muttered thanks and slung it over his shoulders to keep out the dank chill of the fog. It was growing thicker. That made his watch easier, for even pirates could not find their way through such a murk.

He had told her never to call him that . . . but he had also vowed never to give her another order.

Then they were embracing and did not stop until he discovered that she was weeping.

“Oh, yes!” She sniffed and wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Too happy! I so want to give you sons, my darling master, and nothing seemed to be happening. So happy . . . and they will be free?”

“How could you even ask?” he said. “And daughters will be welcomed, also.”

So then he promised that he would come down to the cabin when his relief came and he persuaded her to go to bed.

A child? Biologically Shonsu’s, of course, not Wallie Smith’s. Yet that would not worry him. Vixini called him Daddy, and he loved the little tyke. Any child of Jja’s would be dear to him. But what sort of world would these children inherit?

Technology—it would tear the World apart. The sorcerers were a thousand years ahead of the rest of the culture. So far they had done a good job of keeping their secrets, but it could not last—not now they had emerged from their remote refuges. Firearms and distillation, even writing itself . . . those would escape. Change would explode upon a world that did not know how to handle change. Chaos and upheaval, then war, then famine . . . Surely this was the danger that the Goddess foresaw, that She wanted Wallie Smith to prevent. The demigod, Her messenger, had said it was important. Wallie had not then dreamed how important.

And yet the sorcerers were not so very far behind the Earth he had known, a few centuries at most. There was the temptation, for if they had such trivia as gunpowder, then they could not be far from anesthetics to relieve suffering, and antibiotics to succor sick babies, and steam power to supplant slavery. Even a simple written register of ship ownership could stamp out the piracy that plagued the River. Three hundred years, or four . . . The sorcerers held so much promise! They were even trying to foster trade in their cities—an idea that the swordsmen would treat with contempt, but one to appeal to a Wallie Smith, erstwhile citizen of a mercantile culture.

His mission, obviously, was to drive the sorcerers back into the hills and restore the rule of swordsmen in the seven cities. Now that he knew what it was, he also knew why his divine master, the demigod, had been so chary of defining it. What would Wallie have replied, on that day when he received the sword, had he been told: “Go forth, Shonsu, and make the World safe for barbarism!”?

A whisper: “My lord?” It was Honakura, frail as a dry leaf in the forest darkness.

“Go away!” Wallie said harshly. “I want none of your priestly dissertations tonight.”

“None!” Wallie shouted. “Yes, I know all the standard palliatives. You can soothe all hurts and calm all misgivings and have me laughing and giggling inside ten minutes. I must not judge the gods, you will tell me. I do not know all the story, you will say. The boy may have a brother who will make a better king than he, we may surmise. He may be rewarded in another life, very likely. Stock phrases, old man, threadbare promises! Just the old excuses that men make for gods.”

He should have known that he could not scare Honakura away. The little priest merely stood there with his head bowed until Wallie ran dry like a water clock. “It was my fault, my lord.”

“Yours?” Wallie gaped. Then: “No! It was mine. Do you know why it happened, old man?” He dropped his voice to a hiss, remembering in time that there were portholes below him and there would be many folk not sleeping well this night on Sapphire. “It happened because your precious gods wanted Nnanji to have a hairclip!”

“A silver hairclip, very old. It belonged to the great Arganari. Nnanji will love it! I can’t think of anything in the World that would please him more, A generous wedding gift for a loyal . . . you knew?”

“Pardon, my lord,” Honakura said, “I must sit . . . ” He tottered over to the helmsman’s bench. Wallie followed with suspicion, wondering if this was some ploy for sympathy. But the old man had been unusually subdued these last few days. Sparing a thought for something other than his own troubles, he now realized that Honakura had seemed very gray and shrunken lately, more so even than normal. He was incredibly old, of course, and this was not his former serene life of pampered luxury.

The priest settled on the bench, an indistinct hump in the darkness. Wallie stood before him, keeping a wary eye on the River beyond.

“My fault, my lord,” he wheezed. “The god said that you could trust me . . . but I did not trust you, you see.”

“I have known many swordsmen, my lord. So I did not trust you. You remember the curse?”

Honakura coughed as if coughing hurt. “When you first met Adept Nnanji—Apprentice Nnanji, then. He could not fight his way across an empty courtyard, you said.”

Wallie believed that Nnanji had laid that curse on himself, a mental block caused by his ambivalent feelings toward the corrupt swordsmen of the temple guard—but this was no time to start discussing Freudian psychology. “Why?”

Wallie tried to imagine the young Nnanji without that impediment. He would have shot up the ranks of the guard like a cat up a pole, even with the inferior instruction, a swan among the ducks. And Nnanji was incorruptible.

“And Lord Hardduju,” the old man agreed in a whisper. “They would have killed him. So the Goddess protected the only honest swordsman in Her guard, by hiding his talent. Seniors can impede good juniors. I have seen it happen, my lord, many times. In the case of swordsmen, the impediment may be permanent . . . I did not trust you.”

“Nnanji?” Wallie scoffed. “Nnanji a threat to me? But we are oath brothers now! He would not hurt a hair on my head. He was willing to throw his life away to avenge me . . . You thought that I was frightened of Nnanji?”

The fog was moving in thicker around the ship and over the deck. Honakura rasped another half cough.

“Nnanji is no threat,” Wallie said. “He fancies himself as a Sixth, but he isn’t there yet. Another couple of years and he’ll be a Seventh and a damned good one. But not yet—and I’m not worried about Nnanji anyway. Not my oath brother!”

“Not worried, my lord, no,” the old man persisted. “But I thought you might become jealous. That was why I would not tell you the tale of Ikondorina’s red-haired brother. I only thought you might be envious.”

Again the old man coughed. “I have not. But I had asked Adept Nnanji to recount the meeting in Tau, my lord, when Master Polini came aboard—like you, I thought it strange. Of course he gave me every word, and I heard of the hairclip.”

Wallie’s mind reeled. Of course, Nnanji was still so young. It was hard to imagine him five or ten years hence.

“I believe so, my lord. I don’t think the prophecy has anything to do with your quest. I think it happens afterward. That was what I hinted to Apprentice Thana today—that Nnanji is too good to remain a free sword. The Goddess will have greater plans for him. The clip was a message to Thana, not to you.”

Now Wallie understood the old man’s machinations. But Nnanji as a king would take a lot of thought. He was conceivable as a revolutionary, perhaps, but not as a ruler. Like a dog chasing a car—good sport, but what did he do when he caught it? It was not hard to see Thana as Lady Macbeth, though, urging him on.

Wallie joined Honakura on the bench. The fog had thickened until the water around the ship was invisible and even the old man was hard to distinguish. All that guards could do in this weather was listen. There would be two of them on the main deck and another up on the fo’c’sle, standing in silence. Even to pace up and down would make noise—better to remain still and let possible marauders float by, unaware of a juicy prey lying in the gloom.

“If you wish, my lord,” the old man croaked. “But it is even more trivial than the other, it does not even rhyme.”

Ikondorina’s red-haired brother came to him and said, Brother you have wondrous skill with a sword; teach me, that like you I may wrest a kingdom. And he said, I will. So Ikondorina taught, and his brother learned, and then Ikondorina said, I can teach you no more, now go and find your kingdom; and his brother did so, and his realm was more vast and much greater.

“Had I told you sooner,” Honakura whispered, “then you would have recognized the significance of the clip when it was first offered . . . ”

Sutras could be long or short, complex or simple, banal or inscrutably devious. They could contain epitome, episode, and epigram, or any combination of those. But Wallie had never met one quite so puerile as that. A nasty worm of suspicion began wriggling around inside his mind.

And Wallie’s suspicions collapsed in a heap of guilt. Every craft had its oath, except the priesthood. A priest must never lie, not ever. For a priest even to compliment the chef was perjury, if the meal was bad. Honakura was as devious as a waltzing snake, but he would never tell an outright falsehood. Hastily Wallie begged forgiveness for his doubts.

King Nnanji? Obviously the old man had been correct. This was Nnanji’s destiny, after the tryst, after the sorcerers. It had nothing to do with Wallie at all.

He discovered that he was relieved to know that—and so he had been worried! That was perhaps why he had been so relentlessly chewing at his other troubles: He had been keeping his mind off Nnanji and his griffon hairclip.

Then Honakura began to cough again, and Wallie’s conscience sank its teeth into him. It was unkind and very foolish to keep the old man there in that cold dampness.

“Come, my reverend friend,” he whispered when the attack had passed. “I shall guide you down the steps. This weather is not for you.”

Wallie saw Honakura safely to his cabin and returned to his post. When Holiyi came to relieve him, he fulfilled his promise to Jja and went to her.

She was awake and waiting for him. They made love to celebrate her good news, and Jja, who had great skill in such matters, made sure that it was a long and very strenuous session of love-making, rousing her owner to innumerable peaks of passion and superhuman accomplishments of joy, finally wearing him out so thoroughly that he slept, when he had not expected to.

In the next cabin but two, Adept Nnanji had consummated his marriage with dispatch, expertise, encores, and vast satisfaction. He slept, also, while his young bride lay awake at his side, pondering their future.

Three cabins farther aft lay Novice Katanji, in Hana’s bed, where he had no right to be, dreaming of Mei, whom he had visited earlier.

While in yet another cabin, Honakura, priest of the seventh rank, spent the rest of the night on his bony knees, weeping softly and begging his Goddess for forgiveness.

And in the morning the fog had lifted, and Sapphire was anchored about seven lengths offshore, at Casr.

BOOK ONE:

HOW THE SWORDSMAN WEPT