THE DESTINY OF THE SWORD

As a man may have an off day, so Casr was having an off century, and nothing showed that more clearly than the temple. A smaller version of the great archetype at Hann, it faced its seven arches toward the River whose Goddess it honored, although here the arches had been glassed in, as a concession to a colder climate. Two of the seven spires had fallen and much of the gold leaf had peeled from the others. Many of the glass panes were missing, also, and even some of the stone filigree that had held them. As the sun god rose over RegiVul, his glory was mirrored in this façade with black gaps spotting the reflection like mildew. Adjoining the temple and its complex of buildings, on the upstream side, lay a wilderness of unkempt trees, shrubbery, and ruins, with a deserted, ramshackle pier. This had to be the jetty that Honakura had recommended, and when Wallie was rowed ashore, shivering slightly in the cool dawn air, he was met by a delegation of priests. After much ritual hand waving and bowing, he was led through wet and tangled undergrowth to an abandoned refectory, a huge room, half underground, with a high, barrel-vault ceiling and stone-slabbed floor. It was dank and musty, but it would have been perfect for his purpose had the lighting been stronger. As it was, it would do very well. The windows were few and located high in the walls, partly obscured by moss and ferns. The sound of foils would barely be heard outside. And of course the refectory had an adjoining kitchen, filthy and littered, but ideal for the distillery he needed and convenient for him to supervise. The priests waited anxiously for his verdict, and he said yes, it would serve.

Brota and Pora would go shopping for silk and waxes and oils, Lae for some heavy blue material. Tomiyano and Oligarro would hunt for ships. Thana and Jja and Katanji had been warned to stay on board Sapphire. With all those details under control, Wallie could start on his fencing right away. He dismissed the priests, asking that Honorable Fiendori be brought to him as soon as he arrived.

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dimness, the great stone room looked like an excellent gym.

“Right, Master Nnanji,” he said. “As I have no one else here to butcher . . . you’re first!”

Nnanji grinned cheerfully. “My secrets are your secrets, brother?” he asked.

“Of course,” Wallie said. “Don’t think I don’t trust the sailors, Nnanji, it’s just that any false word could kill us. I’m sure that the sorcerers have spies in Casr.” He wandered over to a scabrous wooden bench, but decided it needed cleaning before it could be used. “What I have in mind is this. Shonsu lost, and lost badly. At Aus, I lost. That’s two losses, right? At Ov, we won. We need another win! And I want a thunderbolt!” Had he not been knocked senseless at Ov, he would have gathered up the dead sorcerers’ weapons. Nnanji had not thought to do so, but could not be blamed for that lapse.

“I hope so,” Wallie said. “Alive, if possible. But mostly I want his thunderbolt—I’ll use it to kill an ox or something for the tryst and show them what they’re up against. Maybe then they’ll listen to me!”

His young friend did not look as excited and pleased as Wallie had hoped. He looked worried. “When, though? It’ll take us a week, at least, to go to Sen and back; longer to Wal. How long until the swordsmen are sworn?”

Nnanji chewed his lip. “Once the tryst is sworn, brother, it’ll be too late. There will be nothing you can do then!”

Perhaps that was true, but Wallie did not see that there was anything he could do before the tryst was sworn, either—not if the swordsmen would not accept Shonsu as leader. He was flying blind.

At that moment Fiendori was ushered in, accompanied by another Sixth, Forarfi. He, as Wallie soon learned, had been a free sword, one of the first to be delivered to Casr by the Goddess. He had summed up Tivanixi as a good man and sworn to him within the first couple of days.

Any Sixth relished a chance to practice against a Seventh, so the masks went on and the work began. Fiendori was erratic, but at his best a fair Seventh with a foil. Forarfi was consistent, a high Sixth—and left-handed. Wallie enjoyed the challenge, the exercise, and the joy of doing something that he was good at, offering advice sometimes, trying new things, dredging up unusual routines from Shonsu’s skills, finding a half-forgotten sharpness creeping back as he faced these experts. Fiendori and Forarfi were enthusiasts—like Nnanji they would cheerfully fence all day. Nnanji certainly could not see why two keen fencers should stand around idle, so usually there were two matches going on in the high, echoing refectory, two clouds of dust rising, eight feet pounding.

Not even Shonsu’s physique could keep it up without a break, of course, and common sense dictated that Wallie not work himself to exhaustion, lest a certain tall Seventh should appear with a smirk and a challenge. In any case there were constant interruptions. Honakura appeared, bringing the high priest, Kadywinsi of the Seventh, to meet the honored guest. Kadywinsi was almost as tiny and ancient as Honakura, but he had a few teeth left and a halo of silver curls floated like evening mist upon his scalp. He was pleasant and gracious and did not seem especially senile, except in contrast to the chisel mind of Honakura. Later Honakura brought other priests to discuss Wallie’s sapphires, then took them off to consult the temple bursar.

Lae returned with blue flannel, the closest material she could find to the weighty stuff the sorcerers used for their gowns. She also brought a very large brown robe for Wallie to try. It was a fair fit, except across the shoulders, and she took it away to use as a pattern.

Mata set up the copper still on a range in the kitchen area with Sinboro and Matarro as stokers. Soon a heady odor of alcohol and woodsmoke came drifting through the hall.

The next morning the fencers went at it again, all four of them stiff and aching and determined not to admit it. Later that day Tomiyano and Oligarro arrived to announce that they had found a ship that met Lord Shonsu’s specifications. They described it in detail, most of which Wallie could not follow, but what he understood seemed to be satisfactory.

“Oh, he wants twenty-eight hundred,” Tomiyano said. “But he’ll come down in a day or two.”

Jja came from Sapphire to display samples of her work with the silk and Wallie was delighted. The seams were incredibly fine.

But waterproofing was a problem. Brota and Fala tried their best, but they produced sticky silk, oily silk, stiff silk, not what he needed. Experimentation was not in their culture—they required a sutra, and Lord Shonsu could not produce one, for he only knew what he wanted, not how to do it. Then he remembered Katanji, sulking under ship arrest because his cast was so conspicuous. Katanji was an original thinker and too young to have been frozen into the conventional thought patterns of the People. At lunchtime that day Wallie returned to Sapphire and explained the difficulty. By nightfall Katanji had solved it for him with a mixture of oil, two waxes, and some of the double-ensorceled wine.

That lunchtime, also, Wallie inspected his new ship. Compared to Sapphire she was only a pointed box with a mast. She was filthy, stank nauseatingly, and had not seen paint since Casr was a hamlet, but her fore-and-aft rigging would give her a fair speed and require only a small crew, or so the sailors said. Belowdecks she had a single, grubby hold, with one tiny cabin aft. Wallie explained to Holiyi the alterations he needed. Holiyi smiled and went to fetch his tools. Her sails were new and satisfactory, Tomiyano said.

The days fled. Sapphire was moved frequently. It would have taken a suspicious mind and a sailor’s eye to pick her out each day in the ever-changing flotilla anchored offshore, to note that this ship was a resident. Brota and a few of the older crew members spent their days among traders and sailors on the waterfront, working on preparations of their own.

Wallie could feel improvement in his fencing, which Fiendori confirmed, but while Wallie was recovering lost ground, Nnanji was exploring new territory, climbing through fifth rank and undeniably now approaching Sixth.

Honakura bustled around, amusing himself by bullying the priests to provide whatever Wallie needed, making excuses when they wanted to hold formal dinner parties for him, bringing gossip and news. Physically he was failing, Wallie was sure, but he would hear no talk of taking life easy. His mind was as sparkling as ever, and he was obviously enjoying himself hugely, subverting the local priesthood to his own use.

Near the evening of the third day, while the fencers were taking a break, drooping in the dim refectory on the two rickety wooden benches, the old priest came shuffling in and sat down to make conversation.

After a while he looked at Fiendori and remarked, “I understand that the minstrels have been singing new songs?”

“True, holy one,” the Sixth muttered with a worried glance at Wallie. “I heard some last night.”

“Ten Renegade Swordsmen?” Wallie asked, and got a nod. “What else about ‘blood-headed’ Nnanji?”

“How Adept Nnanji Fought the Pirates, my lord, and How Relief Came to Gi. There’s two or three versions of The Battle of Ov.”

It sounded, then, as if Nnanji was getting most of the publicity, as Wallie had feared.

“Nnanji’s Farewell to the Prince,” Forarfi said “Now there’s a sad one!”

“I should like to hear those,” Nnanji said eagerly. “Are they as well done as the Renegades?”

“What about the Katanji thing?” Honakura inquired with great innocence. The two Sixths both scowled.

It seemed there was a song going round the town: Novice Katanji to the Dark Tower Came, a catchy jingle with a good time and comic words. Juniors sang it when the seniors were not listening. The townsfolk had picked it up, and the street urchins chanted it behind marching swordsmen. Wallie demanded a sample and got one verse and the chorus from Fiendori, embarrassed and unsure of his key. A swordsman disguised as a slave was not funny in his eyes, and sorcerers were not figures of fun, either. Wallie made no excuses, for he knew of no way to fight ridicule, but obviously his popularity with the highrank swordsmen would be lower than ever.

Honakura chuckled and went wandering off, humming the tune. Nnanji scowled hideously and deliberately changed the subject.

“Brother,” he said. “Explain: A tiger that looks like a mouse is as dangerous as a tiger; a mouse that looks tike a tiger is more so.”

“It is a mentor’s obligation and privilege to teach his protégé the sutras, your honors, is it not?” Wallie said.

On the fourth afternoon, while Wallie was fencing with Fiendori and Nnanji with Forarfi, two figures appeared in the doorway, dark against sunlight. Wallie noted through the grid of his mask that one was a swordsman and thought that Boariyi had found him. Then he saw the visitors were the high priest and the castellan. He removed the mask, gathered his sword from a bench, and advanced to make his salutes, still breathing hard. He felt grubby and scruffy in comparison with their cool elegance.

“Pray continue your match, my lord,” Tivanixi said. “I was enjoying it.”

Wallie declined and led them over to the benches. The newcomers sat on one bench and he on the other. Nnanji and the two Sixths tactfully departed.

“From the little I saw,” the castellan remarked, “you have made good use of your time.”

Tivanixi was not in a smiling mood. “I could not. I have never seen Boariyi fence against Fiendori. He is too uneven to use as a standard, anyway.”

“I fear so. No swordsmen have arrived for two days now. The other Sevenths are unanimous in interpreting this as a sign—the Goddess wishes the tryst to proceed. Lord Kadywinsi concurs.”

Wallie sighed. The ship would be ready by evening, alterations complete, stores loaded. The sewing and waterproofing and distilling were done. Now he must decide whether to use them—to go ahead with the insane gamble he had planned, or to scrap it all and play by the swordsmen’s rules.

“Impossible! The town is ready to riot. We had eight challenges yesterday, and today already three. There will be no one left to swear if this goes on. I fear a duel may wax into pitched battle. No, my lord, we must proceed with the invocation of the tryst and selection of a leader.”

Wallie leaned his elbows on his knees and stared glumly at the floor. “Your judgment, then, please, my lord. Have the minstrels helped? If I can beat Boariyi, will the tryst accept me?”

Tivanixi hesitated, looked to the priest for aid, and got a useless bland smile. “Some will, some won’t. If you get enough, of course, you can force the rest at swordpoint.”

That would not do, and they both knew it. A reluctant tryst would obey orders, but grudgingly and sloppily, and any leader would need much more than that. Wallie stared at Tivanixi thoughtfully.

For a long moment there was no answer. Then Wallie reached up and undipped his hair.

Perhaps the impact of the seventh sword had worn off. Perhaps Boariyi had been charming Tivanixi as he had charmed Nnanji. But Wallie had a hunch that it was the ridicule of Novice Katanji to the Dark Tower Came that had tipped the scales. He would never know.

“Thank you,” he said, and replaced his hairclip. “I can only ask that you hold off the contest as long as you can, my lord. I am leaving town.”

“Then I do not know what you are doing, my lord, or what you have been doing these last four days. There is a very good Sixth who will be eligible to try again for promotion tomorrow. Perhaps he is destined to be our seventh Seventh. Perhaps you should be counted although you have spurned Her summons.” He bowed slightly. “May the Goddess be with you . . . and you with She.”

That ending could be grounds for challenge, but Wallie ignored it. The visitors left. He stayed slouched on the bench, staring morosely at the floor, pondering his best course of action. If he remained in Casr and tried to win the leadership, he would probably be denounced before he got the chance. If he succeeded in fighting Boariyi then he might be killed. If he won, then the swordsmen likely would not swear allegiance to him anyway.

The alternative was a madcap venture, risking both his life and the lives of his friends. Even if it worked, he might not persuade the swordsmen to listen, or he might be too late. Of course, the Goddess could move his ship to Sen and back in a twinkling, but he did not expect that sort of help. Great deeds done by mortals were what the gods wanted, not their own miracles. The People did not regard the geographical mutations as miracles—they were too frequent, like rainbows or lightning—but Wallie certainly did.

Tivanixi would have removed his Sixths, of course, so when a solitary shadow appeared in the puddle of light from the doorway he assumed it was Nnanji—a tall figure with a sword hilt beside the right ear.

It was not Boariyi, either. It was a woman. She walked slowly forward, and he saw her clearly as she passed through the first shaft of dust-twinkling sunlight falling from one of the high windows. She was extraordinarily tall, almost as tall as he was—the tallest woman he had seen in the World. Her hair was long and hung loose. What had seemed to be a sword hilt was the peg-box of a lute on her back. She floated over the flagstones toward him, swathed in a long wrap reaching almost to the floor . . . a sapphire-blue wrap. She was a minstrel of the seventh rank.

Then she reached him and stopped. The etiquette was clear. He was male and a swordsman, she was the newcomer. She must make the salute and he respond; but she merely stood and regarded him.

He had seen her in the lodge, peering over the heads of the other minstrels. He had assumed then that she was a young man, because of her height.

She was not conventionally beautiful. Her mouth was too large and her nose was high-prowed and bony, but cascades of shining brown hair flowed over bare shoulders, and the wrap was supported by firm breasts. Not overly conspicuous breasts, he thought, but she was so big overall that they were quite adequate. The face was plain, but her figure could not be faulted. A goddess! Her sheath was of gleaming silk, almost sheer . . . clinging. She had stature. She had aplomb. Suddenly Wallie was very conscious that this astonishing visitor was a maddeningly desirable woman. And she knew it.

Tivanixi had mentioned some minstrel whom Shonsu should have known. Wallie could not recall the name. Had the castellan brought her, or had she followed him?

He wondered if he ought to kiss her. That might inform him of the relationship she expected. She might run or . . . or he might become even more disconcerted than he was already. He wished she would speak. Her arrogant poise was somehow inflammatory,

He knew the voice, a rich contralto. Nnanji had mimicked it when he sang the Ten Renegade Swordsmen.

“I appreciate a lot of things that I used not to,” he said, wondering what she would make of that.

The lack of formal greeting proved that this woman had been intimate with Shonsu. How intimate? The idea of Shonsu having a platonic relationship lacked all conviction—which meant that his hands had stroked those splendid limbs, those breasts had crushed against his body, those lips . . .

She shook her head. “We went over to Quo and down from there. I met a minstrel, who told me the story. Then I knew that you were still alive, so I came back. What about the tryst?”

She smiled. He was shocked to see satisfaction in that smile. “Wise of them.”

She was regarding him strangely now, her suspicions aroused. “What I always said I would do—sing at your funeral.”

Yet there was still provocation in her posture. Could the remark have been some sort of humor? Which should he believe—her words or her eyes?

“I am reluctant to give you the opportunity, my lady,” he said. “I think I shall leave town again.”

He sat down on the bench and waved at the other. She remained standing. She was certainly wearing nothing under that filmy wrap. He was sweating.

“I told you,” he said. “I have changed. Whatever was between us is over.” That was comfortingly vague. “I would appreciate it if you did not mention to anyone that you saw me here.” He hoped that she would accept his words as dismissal.

“On the contrary.” She unslung her lute. “I feel a ballad coming on. Shonsu the Priest, perhaps, or In the Ruins of the Temple?”

She touched the strings and a ripple of music flowed through the bare stone hall.

She laughed harshly and sat down, facing him. “Not bad, is it? But I think Shonsu the Priest will be better.”

“What I need,” he said, with sudden inspiration, “is Shonsu the Hero. If you would do for me what the minstrels have done for my protégé, then I could be leader of the tryst!”

A smile of catlike pleasure crossed her face. She bent her head over the lute and strummed a chord. “Yes? Yes, I could do that. Why should I?” she demanded, looking up at him.

“For the sake of the Goddess, my lady,” he said. “I know much more about sorcerers than Lord Boariyi does, or any of the others. If I cannot somehow become leader, then the tryst is doomed.”

Her imperious stare was unnerving. “What subject would you recommend? Your visit to Aus? Shonsu the Snake? Shonsu the Worm?”

He sighed. She was an electrifying woman, and the battle of wits was a challenge, but he was wasting time, dreaming dreams, and her overpowering presence was making him fall apart.

“Try Shonsu the Sailor, my lady,” he said and rose to his feet. “I must go and be about Her service. But I do beg of you not to speak of this meeting.”

Where have you taken our boys?
Where have you taken our joys?
Shonsu . . . Shonsu . . .
The hilts of their swords were bright in the sun,
They held up their heads and submitted to none,
Lovers and brothers and fathers and sons . . .

He walked back slowly. She stopped and began again, this time with a slightly changed melody, the pathos and heartrending emotion even stronger, and she added two more lines. It was a dirge for the forty-nine dead—and she was composing it on the spot.

He said, “Tell me if you plan to complete that, lady. For if you do, then my cause is lost.”

Minstrels were the news media of the World. She wanted to see the next Shonsu battle at firsthand, as a war correspondent. He hesitated, Wallie Smith’s mind suddenly aware of Shonsu’s rampaging glands.

“I may disappoint you, of course. I may triumph. You had better stay home with the children.”

She pouted and seemed to bargain. “If you do succeed, I shall compose an epic for you, Shonsu the hero. It will make you leader.”

The old man was meddling again . . . but surely this was the hand of the Goddess? Nnanji, Katanji, Honakura himself—they were all extraordinary people, sent by the gods to help in his mission. Certainly this superlative minstrel was another. She was a genius. Honakura had seen that and had recruited her. Typical of the old rascal not to give warning!

She shrugged. “I have met sorcerers before. They appreciate music more than swordsmen do.”

She started toward the door. He stared after her, thinking of the tiny ship and a week’s voyage. What had she been to Shonsu? Then she reached the bright archway. Sunlight struck through the gauzy wrap as she mounted the steps, and she was a naked woman bearing a lute and walking in blue fire. He had lost his wits to Shonsu’s rage before—now suddenly he blazed with irresistible lust. Shonsu’s mistress! He must have her!

Nnanji and Thana were sitting outside on a crumbled stump of a wall, hand in hand, lost to everything except each other. They sprang up as the tall woman reached them. Evidently Nnanji had not met her before and probably not known she was there, for he looked startled. He drew his sword and saluted.

Wallie was just in time to catch her response: “I am Doa, minstrel of the seventh rank . . . ”

It was good to know her name, he thought cynically—in case he wanted to speak to her in the dark.

In sunshine and a rollicking wind, Sapphire’s dinghy romped over the water. Thana held the tiller with Nnanji sitting close, both of them staring in mingled astonishment and amusement at the unexpected recruit. Doa leaned back in complacent contemplation of the scenery, her long brown tresses streaming like a flag. Wallie could not take his eyes off her. His hands trembled.

He had never promised Jja that he would be faithful to her only. He had tried to; she had stopped him from saying the words. Having now heard the People’s version of a marriage contract, he could understand why. He had scoffed at Nnanji’s infatuation over Thana, yet he was behaving like a witless swain himself. He tried to find excuses—this woman had been Shonsu’s mistress and so his reaction was a conditioned reflex.

She might well be a sorcerer spy. He would go and talk with Honakura as soon as he had seen her safely confined aboard Sapphire. Then he saw that Sapphire was not their destination. Griffon had completed her shakedown cruise and was now anchored near the temple. They were almost there.

Thana ran the dinghy alongside and willing hands made her fast. Familiar faces grinned down—most of the males from Sapphire had come along for the ride.

Griffon’s deck was much higher than the dinghy. Wallie wondered how Doa would manage the climb in her impractical silk sheath. He offered a hand. She ignored it, reached for her hem, flashed a brief glimpse of long and shapely legs, and then she was up on the deck, glancing back down at him with a flicker of mockery.

She swung around and made her salute to Tomiyano, who was staring up at her like an astonished boy. Then he recovered his wits and began introducing the others.

Wallie scrambled aboard. “How is she?” he demanded, when the captain was available for business.

“Not bad at all,” Tomiyano conceded. There was, of course, only one vessel that could ever be described as good. “Nimble! We could make her faster if we had a couple more days.”

“That we don’t.” Wallie glanced at the sun; two or three hours of daylight left. “We could leave at dawn?”

Wallie looked to Nnanji and got an excited nod. Why not? Speed was a priceless skill in warfare.

Very good question! “You and me and Nnanji and Thana . . . ” They nodded in turn as he looked their way. “And Lady Doa. We need another sailor.” He turned to the eager group of faces. The youngsters would give their teeth to come, of course: Sinboro and Matarro, for instance. No, he would not fight with children. The obvious choice was the skinny and taciturn Holiyi, who was leaning against the mast with a sardonic smile on his face. He was a bachelor. He had obviously worked it out already.

Wallie sighed. By the rules of the World it would have to be seven. Jja? But she was not present. He had counted Vixini before, so would have to count him this time, making eight, and to separate Jja from her baby would be . . . would be as bad as having Jja along with Doa. Not Jja.

Then he saw hope gleaming in impish dark eyes . . . That seemed ridiculous. With a smashed arm he would be of no practical use. Yet somehow it felt right. He had been ashore in Sen, which was the closest city of the left bank, and must therefore be their destination. An aura of good fortune hung around him . . . and Wallie would much prefer to keep Katanji under his eye than running wild in Casr when he was away.

Katanji it must be, then. The others would return to Sapphire in the dinghy, and the Griffon expedition could sail at once. If Doa were a spy, she would have no chance to report.

Nnanji began calling out the list of requirements: silk bags, ensorceled wine, food . . . Each item was acknowledged by whoever had stowed it aboard.

Wallie went over to Doa, who was leaning on the rail, studying the temple. She turned to give him a sultry glance, and it was all he could do to keep his hands off her. “How much did the old man tell you?” he asked.

The World was a simple place. Possessions were few and paperwork nonexistent. Little time was needed to organize the departure. Wallie himself hauled in the anchor as the sailors raised the sails. The stay-at-homes cheered from the dinghy; Griffon leaned her shoulder to the wind and leaped forward.

She was more than nimble. She was speedy, with a sprightliness that belied her obvious great age. Her deck was much closer to the water than Sapphire’s and it heeled over at an angle that Wallie at first found alarming. She rocked in the tiny waves of the River. Very soon, though, he began to relax. A madcap venture this might be, but for the next two or three days he could enjoy a cruise.

Griffon was a simple ship—one mast and a single flat deck, walled around, of course, because anyone who fell off a ship on the River did not live long enough to call for a life preserver. Her planks were scuffed and shabby and bespangled with fish scales. She had two hatches, a small one aft for people and a larger forward for cargo, both presently uncovered. There was also a small dinghy, upturned on the deck, close behind the mast and almost opposite the gate where the plank went out. Clean her up and paint her to kill the stench, Wallie thought, and Griffon would be a very pleasant little vessel.

Yet Griffon was also now a custom-built sorcerer trap, thanks to Holiyi’s carpentry. Even that innocent-seeming upturned dinghy was part of it.

Bright sun and a boisterous wind . . . and a broad grin on Tomiyano’s face as he sought the feel of the tiller, squeezing speed from this new toy like juice from a fruit. A cargo ship larger than Sapphire was lumbering along ahead, and Wallie was astonished to see how fast Griffon was overtaking her. Already the first great bend was coming up. He faced aft again and saw that Casr had dwindled into the distance. There was much less shipping there now than there had been—the Goddess had closed down Her swordsman delivery service.

The favorable wind was an encouraging omen, he decided. Of course, if he had made a wrong decision, that next bend might bring him back to Casr. The others were making themselves comfortable on the windward side of the deck, leaning back against the bulwarks . . . only four? Where was the minstrel?

Then Doa came scrambling up the ladder. She had ripped her silk wrap into strips and fashioned herself a sailor bikini, as daringly skimpy as Thana’s. She stalked over to the rail to study the scenery.

She was the scenery. Shonsu’s glands went into thundering overdrive again. Barefoot, with waist-length hair surging in the wind, with her unprepossessing face averted and that bare minimum of garment concealing almost nothing, her astounding figure was a fanfare of trumpets to Wallie. Jja was a tall woman, but she was not built on Shonsu’s scale, as this Amazonian minstrel was. He decided it was time to try a little wooing. He had unwittingly offended by ignoring her at the lodge. Wishing he could think of some plausible explanation for that, he walked over to her side and put an arm around her bare flank.

She was fast. Only his own lightning reflexes saved his eyes. He reeled back, fingering a bleeding scrape on his cheek.

The others were tying themselves in knots to suppress laughter, waiting to see what Great Lover would do next.

The sun had set. The sky was darkening; remains of the evening meal were being tidied away by Thana. Griffon’s crew were stretched out at the aft end of the deck.

“Almost time to anchor, Cap’n?” Wallie inquired, pulling a blanket over his shoulders.

“Why?” Tomiyano had at last, reluctantly, given Holiyi a chance to try the helm. “Clear sky, good breeze.”

“Fine!” Wallie had not experienced night sailing on the River since he left the holy island, but evidently Griffon could take risks that Sapphire must not. Heroes were allowed to be lucky. He went back to considering Doa.

The others had been deferential to her rank. Her attitude to them had been haughty and aloof, yet she had replied graciously to their questions and comments, been tolerant or even friendly. Toward Wallie her behavior was the exact opposite—seductive glances under lowered eyelashes, deep breathing, signals imploring intimacy, but the few words she had spared him had been waspish or openly scurrilous. The combination made no sense at all, a welcome sign hung on a locked door, and he was at a loss to know what reaction was expected of him.

Now she was talking with Katanji, a remarkable concession from a Seventh to a First, even a First with his great social skills. Of course it had been Katanji who had supplied the subject matter for her satirical ballad, and now she discovered that he had not yet heard it. She picked up her lute, struck a chord, and launched into Novice Katanji to the Dark Tower Came. Thana and the two sailors hooted with laughter as the tale unfolded; Katanji was soon almost choking. Nnanji’s initial smiles turned rapidly to glares. Wallie tried hard to bury his own resentment under admiration for her troubadour skill, but the satire bit like adders: Shonsu cowering in a ship, sending forth his one-boy army disguised as a slave. The sorcerers were savaged, also, but the swordsmen came off worse.

When she had finished, Nnanji said coldly, “And one for me, my lady? The Farewell, perhaps?”

Pouting, Doa began to strum in a minor key. The conversation between Nnanji and the dying Arganari came drifting across the darkening deck to Wallie. His eyes prickled as memory clenched his heart.

Suddenly Doa stopped. “Junk!” she snarled. “Give me a minute.” She stroked the strings, and Wallie recognized wisps of the lament she had begun in the refectory. In a few minutes she had it ready and began to sing once more: “Nnanji . . . Nnanji . . . ”

The first song had not been junk, but now she made it seem so—genius outshining mere competence. Her lyric was vastly better, and the new melody as haunting and soul-rending as Shenandoah or The Londonderry Air. Soon Wallie found that his cheeks were wet. In silence he wept for a tone-deaf stripling who could not have appreciated one note of the supreme creation his death had inspired. It died away at last, and he saw that the others were as moved as he.

He was awestruck. He felt that he had been present at the unveiling of something that ought to be immortal—and yet it had been an impromptu creation. She was Mozart or Shakespeare, or both. He had found his Homer—if she would deign to help.

That night Griffon danced with the wind god over waters of ebony inlaid with platinum. A red beacon burned for her on the peaks of RegiVul. Tomiyano and Holiyi steered and kept watch, while the others lay in the putrid, damp hold.

Wallie offered Doa the single cabin. She inquired if the door could be bolted, but Holiyi had moved the fastening to the outside, turning the tiny room into a jail. She declined the offer.

Wallie slept there himself, still hoping wistfully that later, under the secretive blindfold of darkness, he might be granted company. But no one came. He slept poorly, unaccustomed to the motion of the ship, harkening to the creaks and water noises, conscious of the foul and fetid stink. And conscious, also, of a savage unrequited desire.

She had been Shonsu’s mistress. Shonsu’s expedition had met disaster. Whose side was Doa on?

Near to sunset of the second day, Griffon dropped anchor off Sen, less than a mile from shore. The wind god had been an enthusiastic helper, and they had made excellent time. Only one thing had been denied them—a short period of calm for Wallie to test his sorcerer bait. His equipment would not work in a strong breeze, but perhaps gods did not appreciate a need for rehearsal. The wind was dropping now, as if made to order. The former Wallie Smith would have been concerned by that, for a dead calm would leave him hopelessly trapped within the sorcerers’ reach. Now he would indulge in superstitious faith and trust the gods.

He was making other wild assumptions, also. He was guessing that the sorcerers were keeping careful watch on the River and its traffic. He was presuming that they used telescopes, and that those were of no great capacity. About a ten power, he thought, would be their limit. Most of all, he was counting on the swordsmen’s reputation. The last thing the sorcerers should be expecting from swordsmen was trickery.

Still, it would be great folly to underestimate the opposition. The swordsmen had never learned by their mistakes, but he was sure that sorcerers would, and they had been grievously mauled at Ov. Shonsu’s arrival at Casr and his subsequent disappearance would be known. They would be especially cautious of a large Seventh or a red-haired Fourth, and he would even give the enemy’s intelligence network credit for reporting that the Fourth was now a Fifth.

Nnanji, therefore, had been banished belowdecks before Sen even came in sight—red hair was rare among the People. Katanji, also, had been sent below, because of his cast. Doa’s great height made her conspicuous and her association with the original Shonsu might be known. She might be a sorcerer agent—Doa was down in the hold, too.

Wallie wore the blue gown that Lae had make for him. He had the cowl raised and he was keeping his face averted from the city. Tomiyano had smeared a cosmetic brown paste over his sorcerer brand. That left only Thana’s facemarks as a danger signal, and Wallie did not think that those would show at this distance. If the watchers were male, they would be studying other things when they looked at Thana, anyway.

The anchor was down, the sails were lowered. He had his equipment spread out on the deck—lying in the shadow of the bulwarks, for the sun was low. There were no other ships near. The wind had faded to a gentle breeze. Wallie had gone over the plan with his helpers a thousand times during the last two days. Conscious of a dry mouth and a thumping heart, he reviewed everything again in his mind, wondering what he might have overlooked and worrying over the million risks he had not.

Had he stayed too far out? Perhaps even ten power was beyond the sorcerers’ skills. He must not look to the city itself, but he could see the bank just downstream from it, and the houses seemed very tiny. What if his bait were not even noticed? What if it did not work at all? What if . . .

“Bah!” The captain walked across to the innocent-seeming scrap of rug that was yet another part of the plan. He adjusted it with one horny foot. “The winds have been singing to your lute, Shonsu! Every time we rounded a bend, the wind backed for us. Where’s your faith, Champion-of-the-Goddess?”

Wallie knelt and tipped alcohol into a copper pan. Playing the part she had been given, Thana lit tinder with a flint—a skill that he had not yet mastered. He slid the tinder into the pan as she steadied it. The flame was invisible, but Wallie could feel heat. He straightened, lifting the apex of the orange silk bag high, mentally crossing fingers. The cup might be too heavy, or not large enough, or the catgut holding it might burn through, or be might set the ship on fire, or nothing might work at all . . .

The bag began to swell. Thana looked up in alarm and Tomiyano made the sign of the Goddess. The bag filled more rapidly. The wind breathed on it and Wallie held it firm with two hands. Then he decided that it was full enough. He stooped and took the copper pan from Thana to raise it, steadying the bag with his other hand as it wallowed free. He felt lift, so he let go.

The World’s first hot-air balloon soared away in the breeze, spinning slowly . . . rising higher . . . floating over the River. He vaguely heard exclamations from his companions, but he was too intent to listen. Surely the sorcerers would never have seen anything like that before? They would think he was one of them, coming to call with a new magic. In a few minutes the balloon would fall from the sky, but by then they would have lost it in the haze and the sun’s glare.

It had gone. He looked around and saw that he was being regarded with superstitious awe. Thana was quaking and Holiyi pale.

There was another bag, the one he had planned to use for rehearsal. “Let’s do that again!” He chuckled, and they launched a second balloon. It climbed faster. Now his magic could not be dismissed as a freak illusion.

“Take her in, Captain!” he said hoarsely, resisting the natural impulse to turn and look at the town. Keeping his face hidden in his cowl, he headed for the hatch.

Would the wind serve, or would it die and leave them stranded? Holiyi and Tomiyano remained on deck, while the others fretted and chewed fingernails in the hold. Even with both hatch covers off, the hold stank. At each tack bilge swirled under the gratings, stirring unidentified nasty things as it did so. There was a ladder below the smaller hatch and a door to the little cabin, but otherwise it was a barren wooden box . . . a communal coffin, perhaps. The bedrolls and foodstuffs formed a small heap in the bow. Ropes for tying prisoners had been laid out, in a show of optimism.

Nnanji and Thana fidgeted, holding drawn swords already. Doa seemed quite relaxed, sitting on a bedroll and sending seductive little smiles toward Wallie. He was tense enough himself now that he found them easy to ignore, and evidently he need not worry about his passenger having hysterics. Katanji sat in a corner with his arms around his knees, making himself very tiny.

How many tacks? There were no portholes and Wallie dared not go near a hatch to peer out. Then he heard a shout from the deck and, in the distance, a clatter of horses.

“Almost there!” he said. “I think we have to add one thing that was not in the drill. Lady Doa will be bound and gagged. Thana, please?”

“I certainly would,” Wallie said. “If necessary I’ll knock you out, or tie you up myself, but I’m not having any warning shouts! Now, which is to be?”

Then Griffon thumped softly against fenders. Pulleys squealed as the sails were taken in. A moment later Tomiyano skidded down the ladder and scuttled over to the others, who were all staying well away from the hatches.

“Lots of room, anyway!” the captain said with a cheerfulness that rang false.

Wallie wondered what that meant, but he was too intent to spare time for conversation. Holiyi had cut two ports in the ship’s side directly below the hawsers. Nnanji and Thana now fumbled to remove their makeshift shutters. Being below quay level, these unorthodox gaps would be invisible to viewers on the dock.

Wallie stepped up on a balk of timber and thrust his head through yet another hole, this one cut in the deck. That put his eyes inside the upturned dinghy, so he could peer out the peephole in its side and watch the top of the gangplank. Unfortunately he did not have as good a view as he would have liked, for he could see only the gateway and not down the length of the plank. His reaction would have to be very swift.

Tomiyano’s scar was obvious at close quarters, so Holiyi must wear the dagger and be captain. Everything now depended on the skinny sailor.

Minutes crawled by. The strain of waiting seemed to grow without limit. Holiyi’s bare feet and bony legs went past the peephole and later returned.

Normally a port official came first, then went ashore. Afterward, if the bait had worked, a sorcerer or two should embark to greet the visitor. But at Ov sorcerers had accompanied the port official—was that a new procedure since the calling of the tryst, or just the way things were done at Ov? Would Holiyi be able to satisfy the port official?

“What if they ignore us?” Thana asked with a giggle that was just wrong enough to reveal nervousness.

No one spoke. The answer would have been that they would have to make an assault ashore and try to overpower a patrolling sorcerer. Sorcerers patrolled in groups and they carried guns.

Wallie was streaming sweat. His neck hurt. The stink was nauseating. He was just making a solemn vow that he would never eat fish again, when Holiyi was convulsed by coughing. That was the signal. A gown came into Wallie’s field of view—a long gown, reaching to the ground. That was no port official . . .

“Now!” As the sorcerer’s shoe landed on the scrap of rug at the top of the plank, Wallie triggered the trapdoor below it. Thana and Nnanji reached out with their swords to cut the hawsers. It was only then, as the victim came crashing down into the hold, that Wallie’s mind registered the overwhelming impossibility. The gown had been blue. He had captured a sorcerer of the seventh rank.

Then many things happened all at once. Tomiyano and one-armed Katanji guided the ends of oars through the ports as Wallie stepped down and struck the sorcerer on the head with a bar of wood. Voices yelled on the dock. Nnanji grabbed Katanji’s oar and heaved, while Tomiyano heaved on his. Holiyi took a running jump through the cargo hatch and his feet hit the gratings with a crash. Griffon surged and began to move, propelled by the oars pushing against the dock. Wallie went to help Nnanji; Holiyi to Tomiyano. The clatter of the falling gangplank mingled with a scream and a splash—possibly a sorcerer had gone to the Goddess—then the oars fell uselessly through the ports and the ship was adrift . . . and no one else had boarded.

“Down!” Wallie yelled, but the others were already dropping to the smelly gratings. A fusillade of shots made three small holes in the planking and a shower of splinters spattered. Then the sound of chaos, familiar from Ov—horses screaming, people yelling, wagons overturning . . .

Griffon rocked gently and calmly. The sunlight below the hatches moved as the ship turned in the current and the wind. How long to reload die pistols? Would the wind hold for their escape? Would Griffon foul another vessel and be invaded by a troop of outraged sorcerers? The prisoner was unconscious. Awkwardly, and without rising, Wallie reached over and tied the man’s hands behind his back.

The noise from the dock was fading. The sorcerers should have been able to reload by now. What were they doing instead? Wallie rose to his feet and dashed for the ladder. Two rungs up he saw rigging over the gunwale, but far away. Then the tower came into view, and the tops of warehouses, all black against the darkening sky. He decided he was out of reasonable musket range and finished his climb to the deck.

At once he saw what Tomiyano had meant about plenty of room. There were many ships at both ends of the harbor, leaving the center strangely empty. The slimy masonry of the dock itself was visible, and the road and the warehouses beyond it. The captain had moored in that long gap—any captain would.

Wallie bellowed for the sailors and began to fumble inexpertly with ropes. Crowds had been running for shelter, horses bolting and rearing at the noise, but the road was clearing rapidly.

Tomiyano and Holiyi appeared and began to hoist sail. There was wind, but not very much. Griffon acknowledged it sluggishly, swinging her bow toward open River with reluctance. As nasty crawling feelings ran over his skin, Wallie studied the dock and waited. He was out of range for pistols, but not for cannon. The two closest ships were flying red flags, so the orders had been to stay out of the flagged area . . .

Nnanji and Thana came scrambling up the ladder, and Wallie yelled to them to take cover again, but Doa was coming up behind them, free of her bonds.

Almost simultaneously, three columns of black smoke jetted skyward beside the warehouses. Two more followed at once. The roar of cannons thumped at his ears and he saw the horses panic once more. Vertical? He raised his eyes and thought he saw one black speck in motion.

“Those were very big thunderbolts, brother,” Nnanji said judiciously. Then waterspouts reared all around and Griffon staggered. A spray of mist blew over the deck. Close!

Mortars would not take long to reload. Wallie was about to order everyone below again, then decided that a cannonball could kill all of them just as easily there as here. They all began coughing as the cloud of gray smoke overtook the ship. Black powder made an astonishing amount of smoke.

“Tack!” he shouted. Tomiyano started to argue and Wallie yelled at him. Griffon changed course slightly as two—four—five more explosions mushroomed from the roadway. This time he certainly saw a couple of the balls in flight and pointed them out. They seemed to take a long time falling. Mortars would have less chance of hitting a ship than cannons, but they would do far more damage, knocking a hole in the keel. Traveling horizontally, a cannonball would merely go straight through the hull, unless it was lucky enough to hit a mast.

Waterspouts again—and one just off the bow. A torrent of water fell against the sails and over the deck, making the ship shudder and heel. Katanji and Thana were hurled down and everyone was soaked. Tomiyano swore angrily and changed course slightly again. Now he could see the need to dodge. Wallie peered into the hatch, but there was surprisingly little water in the hold. He hoped that piranha could not survive being carried aboard in that rough fashion, or the prisoner would be nibbled to tatters.

Much too close for comfort! Their escape was agonizingly slow. The sorcerers would be able to get in at least one more good shot before Griffon was out of effective range. Why was it taking them so long?

His friends were battle-tested veterans. They were tense and most of them were clutching the rail very firmly, but there was no panic. He looked to see how Doa was reacting and saw at once that he need not worry. She was soaked, her hair bedraggled, but her face glowed with excitement. Her eyes were shining. She noticed his attention, smiled happily, and said, “Wonderful!” She was an astonishing woman!

Obviously Griffon had arrived while the sorcerers were rehearsing their reception for the arrival of the tryst. A wide empty space would attract the unsuspecting ships and allow a clear field of fire. That might even explain why a Seventh had been down at the docks.

“Nnanji?” Wallie said in the calmest voice be could muster. “We never heard of a sorcerer city having more man one Seventh, did we?”

“Rotanxi!” Nnanji shouted. “The wizard! The man who sent the kilts to the lodge?”

Before Wallie could answer, smoke gushed once more from the warehouse doors where the cannons were; but this time the jets were horizontal, and there were no waterspouts. As the noise arrived, so the River boiled—astern of Griffon and off to each side. White clouds of mist rose and then faded again. Grapeshot! Wallie shivered convulsively.

The gods might have ruled out miracles, but they were not withholding good luck. The sorcerers had been prepared to repulse an approaching attack, not to destroy a departing fugitive, so initially the cannons had been set in mortar position and armed with balls, for distance. Probably it took time to reset them for their close-range use as cannons, firing grapeshot. Against ships full of swordsmen the grape would be a hundred times more deadly—it would sweep the decks clean. Had the grape come first, while Griffon was nearer, then she would have been blasted to sawdust.

He tried to take the tiller from Tomiyano while the others obeyed orders; there was an argument. Before the matter was settled, the sorcerers tried again. This time the shots fell short. Wallie relaxed and wiped his brow. They were out of range of the grape and only a very lucky shot with a ball could hit them now. Today the luck was with the swordsmen.

Conscious and wearing his cowled gown, the sorcerer would be an imposing figure. He was tall and ruddy-faced, with eyebrows like snowbanks and stark, craggy features. Wallie guessed that he was a well-preserved seventy.

He was beginning to stir and groan. Wallie untied his hands and stripped off the heavy robe. As Katanji had noted long ago, a sorcerer’s gown was lumpy. It held innumerable pockets, bulging with mysterious clunky objects. Wallie thrilled with satisfaction at the thought of unmasking the sorcerers’ craft with this evidence.

His victim was not imposing now. He was a pathetic figure in a short cotton shirt that failed to hide a potbelly and spindly old-man’s legs, blotched with varicose veins. His white hair was thin and matted in two places with dried blood, but his injuries seemed to be confined to those. Wallie dressed him in the fake gown that Lae had made, slung him over his shoulder, and carried him up to the deck.

Pulse, pupils . . . the old man was apparently in fair shape and now he was starting to come around, blinking, groaning, and drooling. Wallie leaned him against the upturned dinghy and turned to Nnanji, whose face bore enough satisfaction to embellish a victorious army.

“Watch him, master!” Wallie said. “He’ll be over the rail in a flash if we let him—and we want him alive!”

The wind was rising again. The sun balanced still on the horizon, bloodied by volcanic dust, so obviously the whole escapade had taken much less time than it had seemed to. Triumph! Heroes were certainly allowed to be lucky. Remembering how close to Griffon the grapeshot had foamed, Wallie dampened his self-congratulation with a silent prayer of thanksgiving. The gunnery had been impressive—but so had the good fortune.

He sat on the deck close to Tomiyano, facing the sorcerer. The others gathered around, chattering and grinning in victory and relief. Nnanji and Thana were cuddling each other, release of tension rousing other instincts. Doa, strangely solemn, was studying the sorcerer and absentmindedly tugging a comb through her wet hair, while Wallie ran his eye longingly over the wondrous length of her shapely legs, conscious of his own instincts in action. She noticed his attention and sent him a coquettishly inviting smile. It was probably no more genuine than its predecessors, but it still raised his heartbeat for a moment.

He passed the wine bottle around and studied the gown spread out before him. it was soaked and smelly with bilge. One of the lumps had seemed to twitch when he touched it, so he started with that. After a cautious peek in the pocket, he reached in, fumbled, and pulled out a bird. Tomiyano said he would be a barnacle’s grandmother.

“Not just a bird,” Wallie crowed. “It’s a pigeon and it has a band on its leg.” The others exchanged impressed glances. He put the bird back in the pocket and tried the next.

“And what’s this?” He set his discovery upon his nose and the audience howled with laughter. Eyeglasses were the first step toward the telescope, of course. Everything had to be explained, and they all tried the glasses.

“And here’s a . . . ” He tried to say “quill pen” and stuttered into silence. “Quill . . . brush?” That came out. “Must be ink in this bottle? Right!” He knew the word for ink, although it meant only what came out of an octopus.

The same pocket also held tiny fragments of vellum, so fine that it might have been bird skin. Wallie chuckled, suddenly remembering his childhood and the Christmas parties when his father had hidden favors in a bran tub for the youngsters to find. This was more fun.

“Will you all promise not to tell anyone else about this?” he asked, and got a ballet of nodding heads. With the quill and the small ink bottle, he drew seven swords on one of the scraps of vellum and held it out for them to look at it.

Then he attempted to draw a griffon. It looked like a pregnant camel. “And what does that all mean?”

“Right you are!” There was still enough light for flying; Wallie waved the vellum to dry it, then retrieved the pigeon and slid the message into its band. “Let’s send the sign back to the tower.” He tossed the bird into the air. They watched it circle and climb and vanish in the direction of Sen.

“That is how they send messages,” Wallie explained. “The ink comes from the squid. You tend to get it on your fingers, of course,” he added ruefully as he recorked the bottle—he was not experienced with a quill. He studied faces. They looked impressed and happy. Nnanji and Thana were paying more attention to each other, sniggering again already. The sailors were grinning. Only Doa seemed worried and puzzled. Katanji was staring at the pen and the vellum, thinking.

“You are becoming a nuisance,” the sorcerer said in a deep voice, glaring. “Lord Shonsu!” He looked around. “Master Nnanji, the wagon driver? And Novice Katanji, who understandably prefers being a slave to being a swordsman. The mendacious Captain Tomiyano, of course. Lady Doa, you keep strange company!”

The audience hissed at this sorcery. Wallie laughed and pointed at Holiyi. “What’s his name?”

The sorcerer shrugged. “It is upon you that I shall set my curses,” he said. “I have summoned demons—”

“Pigeon droppings!” Wallie said. “You have spies in Casr, so you know who we are. I don’t scare with demons and curses, Lord Rotanxi.”

“He probably has a sore head,” Wallie said. “Would you like a drink of water? No? Just speak up if you want a blanket or something. Now, let’s carry on.” Carefully he reached into another pocket. “Any guesses on this treasure? Little sticks with something on the ends!” Matches? He struck one and his audience gasped. That meant phosphorus, so his guess had been correct. “Sorcerer, what’s your name for the stuff you make these with? It’s soft and yellow, and you have to keep it under water or it goes on fire. Come on, man, I know all about it! I just want to know what you call it.”

“Do you know how to make it safer by heating it?” Wallie asked. “It turns red.”

Obviously the answer was yes. “How do you know these things?” the prisoner demanded, shocked.

“That’s a long story. I’m a better sorcerer than you are. I know that you can see a long way from your tower with a thing made of glass. And I know how to make messages with your quill and the ink, although I can’t do it in your words.”

Wallie went back to the gown. “Now what’s in this pocket? Ah, here we have the thunderbolt.” He showed the others the pistol. It was a single-barrel muzzle-loader. He had anticipated a flintlock, but the mechanism used a phosphorus-based friction cap—very ingenious. The workmanship was exquisite, the butt scrolled with silver and mother-of-pearl. More rummaging uncovered lead balls, but also measured packets of gunpowder like cartridges, and fortunately these had stayed dry, in a separate leather bag. He had expected a powder horn.

“This, I suppose, you would call thunderpowder. It’s made from sulfur and charcoal and saltpeter.” Wallie examined the balls and explained how the pistol shot them out. Nnanji scowled and the others were disgusted.

Rotanxi was pale. This display of knowledge must be more of a shock to him than the rough treatment had been. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“My name is Shonsu, as you said. I am on the side of the Goddess and the swordsmen and I am going to take you to Casr and show the tryst this weapon. That was what I came for, and you yourself are only a bonus. I hope that I can become leader, so that the tryst will not do stupid things like making frontal attacks on Sen.”

The sorcerer straightened his back against the dinghy and attempted a triumphant sneer. He had an arrogant, aristocrat’s face—deep-set eyes below those snowy eyebrows, high aquiline nose, long upper lip—a good face for sneering, a Roman fallen among Goths. “You are too late, Shonsu. Yesterday the swordsmen held their absurd ceremony of trying to kill each other to see who is the biggest butcher. The juvenile Boariyi won. How curious to choose a leader by the length of his arms!”

Nnanji muttered an oath and looked at Wallie to see if he ought to believe this.

“That’s very quick work!” Wallie said as innocently as he could manage. “All that food and stuff . . . ”

“Well, then we shall intercept them and warn them about your big thunderbolts.”

“Ha! You can’t! They are going to Wal, not coming here. It is possible that they will change their minds, but Sen is ready if they do.”

“Wal is much farther,” Wallie said, frowning. “It seems foolish, especially since it was you who sent the kilts. Why Wal?”

“They think to outsmart sorcerers!” Rotanxi retorted with an ocean of contempt.

“Seems to me that Lord Shonsu outsmarted you easily enough!” Nnanji snarled. That broke the spell. The old man’s lips tightened. He had said too much.

“But I had not thought Lord Boariyi capable of such subtlety!” Wallie thought for a moment that Rotanxi would say more, but he did not. Probably Wal had been the brainchild of Uncle Zoariyi, and the sorcerer’s hesitation suggested that he might even be aware of that. He was extremely well informed about the tryst, even to its finances.

“I hope not, my lady.” Wallie tried to convey a confidence he did not quite feel. “I took steps to prevent the tryst from departing.”

“My lord?” asked Katanji. “How does he know about Lord Boariyi being leader?”

“Pigeons!” Wallie said. “His spies release pigeons, which return to their mates in Sen. Of course birds fly three or four times as fast as even Griffon can sail, and they don’t have to go around all the bends in the River.”

“Pigeons can’t talk, my lord,” Katanji protested. His face was growing vague in the fading light, but the doubt showed.

“You saw the little piece of vellum I sent with the bird we released,” Wallie explained, his eyes on the sorcerer. “Well, they could have had a code arranged—a triangle for Boariyi, a circle for Ttvanixi . . . ”

He was not fooling the sorcerer, of course, but he did not want to explain writing to the others. That knowledge could be fatal if the sorcerers ever discovered that they had it. It would destroy the sorcerers’ craft if it ever became widely known; it might disrupt the whole culture of the World. That was a threat he might find useful, and must keep in reserve. But he did not think he had convinced Katanji.

The wind was growing chill. He turned his attention back to the gown. “Let’s see what else we can find,” he muttered. But the next thing he found was a wicked little knife. It looked sharp as a razor, and he thought that it was coated with something, probably a poison.

“On second thought, we’ll leave the rest until tomorrow, when the light is better. Lord Rotanxi, you will be confined in the cabin. Probably you will be more comfortable in there than the rest of us will be in the hold. You will be allowed on deck by day, under supervision. You will be fed and well treated.”

Rotanxi snorted disbelievingly. “Indeed? The great Shonsu is well known for castrating men in brothel quarrels. Did you not once burn down a house because a child threw a tomato at you from the window? Your idea of good treatment may not agree with mine, my lord.”

“Those days are over, sorcerer. You can trust his word. If it were me, I should start at your toenails and work upward, but Lord Shonsu will treat you well. Much too well, I expect.”

Even in the blurred conflict of light from the fading sunset and the brightening Dream God, Nnanji’s young face radiated sincerity. The sorcerer seemed surprised and was silent.

“Take him below,” Wallie said. “Give him food and water and blankets. Let’s eat; I’m hungry!”

He bundled up the sorcerer’s gown and rose to his feet. Red flame flickered over RegiVul and the air stank again of sulfur. The Fire God was angry—as he should be, Wallie thought. With the evidence he had now, he could rip the mystery from the sorcerers’ craft and destroy their mystique . . . if the swordsmen would listen.

The River was bright. Tomiyano would keep sailing, eager to return to his beloved Sapphire.

Her tone was sweet and she was smiling. With any other woman he would have taken her in his arms and tried to kiss her. The invitation was that obvious, and totally at variance with her words. Genius was next to madness—he was convinced now that she was mad. He wondered what Shonsu had done to her to produce this poisonous hatred and the uncanny fascination that seemed to accompany it. Probably any song she composed about the day’s events would be murder to Shonsu’s reputation—a verbal assassination set to some immortal melody. Even if she played fair, an epic about the day’s events could help him little, for all he had done was use trickery. That would not disgust the swordsmen as much as the Katanji story, perhaps, but it would certainly not impress them, either.

Yet she was a lot of woman. Her extraordinary height excited him still. Having trouble keeping his voice calm, he said, “I should be honored to be mentioned in any of your works, my lady.”

Her eyes seemed to flash in the night. “You think I can’t? You think an epic without blood is impossible?”

“I think the gods have sent me a great victory today. I am very glad that there was no blood spilled.”

“Bah!” she said, unconvinced. She stepped over to the rail to stare out at the last red glow over the western horizon. His feet moved to follow her, although he was not conscious of having told them to do so.

“Tell me about the first time,” she said softly. “What happened to the forty-nine?”

Startled, she turned to look at him. She edged closer—oh, so close! “You expect me to believe that?”

“It is true, Doa. I got a bang on the head. I remember nothing before Hann. I did meet with a god, as you were told. He did give me this sword. But I do not remember living in Casr, or leading the forty-nine . . . I do not even remember knowing you. That was why I did not acknowledge you in the lodge that day. I thought you were a boy.”

Her tone stayed delicate as gossamer. “You are a contemptible bastard, Shonsu. You treat me as if I were filth, but you need not think I am stupid.”

Wallie threw ropes around his temper. “It is the truth—I swear by my sword.”

“But I will show you. I will create the greatest epic the World has ever heard—even without blood.”

“You are a bastard. Then I shall ask the sorcerer tomorrow.” Doa spun on her heel and stalked away.

“Oh, am I glad to see you!” Brota roared, advancing like a red galleon under full sail, her robe rippling in the wind, flabby arms outstretched. Griffon had just nudged against Sapphire’s fenders and was not even tied up yet. Wallie had newly clambered aboard. Brota enveloped him like a runaway tent, and he hugged her in return, having no option. Then she backed away a pace, and he saw the strain in her face, the tension under the joviality.

Then Jja. He was foul and fishy and not fit for intimacy, but she threw her arms around him and kissed him, and he returned the embrace and the kiss with fervor and joy. It was good to be back. It was good to hold a woman who knew her own emotions, a woman who was beautiful and loving and—above all—supremely sane.

The blustery wind that had swept him in from Sen was pitching and rocking Sapphire as she lay at anchor off Casr in cool morning sunshine. There was mention of rain in the air.

The rest of the crew were gathering around. Their faces, also, were stressed and wan, although Griffon’s crew were in much worse shape after four days on a tossing, putrid tub. There were hugs and slappings of backs.

Two other ships were anchored in the distance downstream, and two more tied up at the waterfront, but the great plaza was almost deserted, given over to the lonely wind, stark as a vacant tomb. The golden streets were empty as old-fashioned Sunday mornings,

“You’ve been to Sen?” Brota demanded. “There and back in four days? How did you manage that?”

“With our eyes closed!” Tomiyano snapped, joining the group. “In the dark. What’s been happening?”

Brota scowled at Wallie. “You have a town full of mad, mad swordsmen and mad, mad citizens. The tryst chose its leader the day after you left.”

“So the sorcerers told us,” Wallie said and smiled as her eyes widened. “They tried to seize ships, then?”

Brota pulled a face. “They had no chance! We’d passed the word, as you said; and as soon as the leader was proclaimed, the sailors started to panic. The nervous ones left, and then nobody wanted to be the last—the whole waterfront cleared in about half an hour.”

She smiled grimly. “By the time they saw what was happening, it was too late. They came out in boats, of course, and we just sailed up and down, but there was nothing they could do.”

“We moved upriver.” Brota pointed a baggy arm at the vessels in the distance. Like Sapphire, they were flying quarantine flags. “Those two agreed to show the sign at the down end, and that helped.” Then she pointed at the two ships moored in lonely splendor at the quay. “A couple slipped by—didn’t see or didn’t believe. The swordsmen grabbed them.”

She wiped a tear that might have been caused by the wind. “We couldn’t have held out much longer, though. They’ve been sending a fleet out after us every day. Little boats. Now they have those two ships, and I expected them to come after us in those today.”

It showed in the restless eyes, the quickness of speech, the tone and cadence—testing endured, adversity surmounted.

“You stood your post, swordsman!” Wallie assured her, giving her another hug. The riverfolk—sailors and traders—were a hardheaded clique. Only a supreme negotiator like Brota could have made them see the danger of being requisitioned by the tryst and could have persuaded them to forgo their trading. But the strain of being hunted by a thousand swordsmen was not something to overlook, either. “I know why the gods chose this ship for me, mistress, and you were the main reason.”

She simpered mockingly, but she was flattered, perhaps for the first time in years. “Well, I’m glad you’re back. I didn’t expect you for days yet.” Or never?

“Whose is the dinghy?” asked Tomiyano, ever suspicious. The strange boat tethered to Sapphire had made them all fearful as Griffon approached.

Brota looked around in surprise and then pointed. Cousins, aunts, and uncles cleared out of the way so that Wallie could see Honakura, sitting on a fire bucket at the far side of the deck, smiling. Two priests of the Third stood beside him. Wallie went over and made his salute. He was disturbed by the old man’s appearance. Four days had done nothing to reduce his ominous pallor. He seemed even more shrunken than before. His smile was forced.

“I fear that I failed to deliver what I promised,” the old man sighed, “and what I owed the Goddess. The tryst has chosen its leader.”

“How could . . . ? Well, it is true. Lord Kadywinsi had agreed and I talked him out of it. The swordsmen came calling again and talked him into it. I talked him out of it again.” He managed one of his old chuckles. “Then the swordsmen went ahead anyway. But they only have six Sevenths.”

Honakura compressed his wrinkles in a scowl. “Kadywinsi is back on the wrong side of the loom again. The service of dedication is to be held this morning.”

“Yes. The liege is an impetuous young man and he wouldn’t allow the absence of a blessing stop him. But you and Mistress Brota stopped him—I suppose it is a sort of face-saving to have a service now and pretend that that was what they planned all along.”

Wallie smiled at the woebegone old eyes. “You’ve done very well, holy one! You didn’t stop them, but you delayed them—and I’m sure most of them weigh three times what you do. A whole temple plus a thousand swordsmen is not a fair match against half a priest!”

Honakura sighed. “It used to be. I feel as old as all of them put together.” Then he snarled. “And dinghies are just as bad as I feared.”

“How is the town?” Wallie asked, aware that Nnanji and Thana had come to stand in the crowd around him, waiting for orders—and he did not know what orders he could give.

“Very peaceful!” Honakura conceded. “Lord Boariyi imposed discipline right away. There hasn’t been as much as a cookie stolen since. Not a lewd glance!” He chuckled, “Well, I suppose I exaggerate there, but the virtuous maidens are emerging from the cellars. It is the evildoers who are leaving town, they say.”

Wallie glanced up to see the satisfaction that he knew would be showing on Nnanji’s face. Some of what Boariyi had said to him had been sincere, evidently, and Nnanji’s lecherous tendencies in personal matters never interfered with his puritanical professional standards.

How to assess this new idea? The sorcerer’s information about Boariyi had been correct, but Wallie’s scheme to delay the tryst had succeeded. Now what? He had argued this case with Nnanji for hours, without reaching any decision. He felt limp and battered, filthy and foul both inside and out, after four days of sailing—and two of those confined with both an arrogant, bitter old captive and a lunatic minstrel.

“This service, holy one,” Wallie asked. “I don’t suppose we can have the call for challengers included again?”

Honakura shook his hairless old head. “It is a blessing on the tryst, that is all.”

“You will not swear this terrible oath of yours to Lord Boariyi and accept him as leader?” the priest asked.

“No!” Wallie barked. “The first thing he would do would be to demand my sword. He would probably even make me give it to him!” Seeing the priest’s puzzled look, he explained: “Dedicate it—kneel to him and say the words. No one gets the seventh sword, except off my dead body! I’d rather challenge him.”

Nnanji snorted. “Challenge a thousand men? He would send them up in threes and save the last place for himself.”

Boariyi was paramount. The ways of honor would not apply now unless he wished them to. “Then I need counsel,” Wallie said. “We did catch a sorcerer, the wizard of Sen himself, the man who provoked the tryst.”

Honakura gasped and beamed. “That is a great triumph! Another miracle? No, a Great Deed! Wonderful, Lord Shonsu! How can we use him, do you suppose?” He screwed up his wrinkles in thought.

The wind blew, the sun shone, the ship rocked, and after a while he shook his head. Everyone looked blankly at everyone else.

“The Goddess has blessed this one,” the priest said. “Surely She sent Her sword for the leader to use? Otherwise, I just don’t understand.”

Wallie rose stiffly to his feet. “If you don’t, holy one, then none of us do. It is a long sword. It needs a tall swordsman. Boariyi is taller than I am. I suppose I must give him his chance at it.”

“But you need a fair match!” Nnanji shouted. “You can’t fight the whole tryst!”

“If the swordsmen are gathered,” a rich contralto voice said, “then I shall sing them my new epic.”

Doa had come aboard and was standing behind the listening sailors, peering over their heads. She looked worse than anyone, her eyes sunk into her head, her face drawn and bonier than ever, her hair a tangled bush. She had probably not slept at all since Sen. She had done what she had said, spending two hours locked up with Rotanxi—interrogating him, Wallie supposed, although perhaps merely reporting to him, if she were indeed a sorcerer spy. Then she had retreated to a corner of the hold to strum aimlessly on her lute at all hours of day and night. She had refused food and conversation. Any attempts to reason with her had been met with screams that she was to be left alone, that she was composing an epic without blood. He had been expecting her to lapse into complete autism.

Now, astonishingly, she seemed to have recovered her former arrogance and poise, despite her haggard appearance. Her eyes were dark with exhaustion, but the wildness had gone. So the epic was complete? Wallie had commissioned an epic and he was going to get one, but he had no intention at all of letting her loose with it until he had had a chance to hear it himself—and probably not then.

The sailors moved aside hurriedly to let her in, immensely tall and barely decent in her two twists of filthy blue silk. Honakura gaped toothlessly at her, and then at Wallie. He rose to his feet and she saluted calmly.

Swordsman and priest exchanged glances again. Wallie rolled his eyes to convey disapproval.

“I never heard of a minstrel performing in a temple,” Honakura said. “I should have to discuss it with Lord Kadywinsi.”

“My lady,” Wallie said, “you are tired and need refreshment. Thana, would you show Lady Doa the showers, find her some food and perhaps a place she could rest?”

Thana gave him a knowing glance and agreed. She led the minstrel away, and she went quietly. Wallie breathed more easily. Now back to the real problem . . .

“No!” Wallie sighed and avoided Jja’s eye. “I was a fool to take her in the first place—I was thinking with the wrong end of my spine. Perhaps she has composed something, but what good could it do? Another song about Lord Shonsu hiding in a ship and being devious? Forget Doa!”

Wallie felt angry and baffled. “This blessing? Who is blessed? The men? The leaders? The tryst itself?”

Honakura stared up at him, and then a wicked little smile settled in around his shriveled lips. “Why not the sword?” he asked.

The tiny cabin was dim and rank. Its port had been boarded over before Griffon departed, and it had held a captive for two days and three nights. He was sitting in a corner, wrapped in his blankets, when Wallie and Nnanji went in.

Confinement had taken toll of a man accustomed to authority and respect. His face was skull-like, with dark caves around his eyes, and the lines near his mouth had deepened to slashes. His thin white hair was disheveled. Yet this prisoner had been well treated by the standards of the World—Wallie knew that from experience.

“So far. If you will accompany us on board Sapphire now, my lord, we shall allow you to bathe and we shall provide clean clothes, although not your own. Sorcerers’ gowns are what give them their power, you understand. That’s how we made you harmless.”

Rotanxi frowned and then nodded admiringly. “And what happens then?” The arrogance had softened, and he was almost pathetic, instinctively huddling back against the wall.

Wallie held up a rope. “I’m damned if I know! I shall have to keep you tethered, of course. I never imagined that we would capture a Seventh.” He chuckled. “You see, my Lord Rotanxi, the position is rather complicated at the moment. On one bank there are sorcerers and on the other swordsmen. The infamous Shonsu and his nefarious gang have been running up and down between the two camps, playing havoc with both. If you were to auction me off at the moment, I think the swordsmen might even outbid the sorcerers to get their hands on me.”

The sorcerer stared at him curiously for a moment and then reached for his shoes. “I doubt that,” he said. “Are you open to bribes?”

Wallie thought of the power of the demigod and smiled. “Not if you offered me the World! I shall display you as my captive, of course, but I swear you my oath that there will be no torture, and as little degradation as is possible under the circumstances. And as you are likely to be of more value alive than dead, you will not be harmed.”

“So I am to behave myself? You take me for a fool, Shonsu.” Rotanxi was not too humbled to sneer. He rose stiffly.

Wallie shrugged. “I cannot make any real promises, because my own life is at risk this day, but if Master Nnanji succeeds me as your captor, he will respect my wishes.”

He led the way to the ladder. He and Nnanji were clean now. Thana and Katanji were dressing. Honakura and the priests had departed already.

“The tryst is assembling in the temple,” Wallie explained. “I shall produce you before the swordsmen and claim the leadership.”

“Then,” Nnanji snarled, “the swordsmen will denounce him as a traitor, and he will not be protected by the ways of honor, and they will kill him.”

“I see!” Rotanxi glanced from one to the other thoughtfully. “I detect a disagreement on strategy. And when Shonsu is dead, whose prisoner am I?”

“You’re mine,” Nnanji said savagely. “But I die right after. Then you will belong to the tryst. Have a nice day, my lord.”

Their dinghy was met at the familiar ruined jetty by a nervous-looking priest of the Sixth, pudgy and elderly. Wallie knelt on the slimy planks and held out a hand to Tomiyano, still down in the boat.

“Captain,” he said, “if neither Nnanji or I . . . well, look after Jja and Vixini? And thanks for everything.”

Tomiyano’s eyebrows rose, pushing his shipmarks into his hair. He shook hands. “What do you fancy for dinner, my lord? I’ll tell Lina.”

The way led past the well-remembered refectory, then between the disused buildings, along paths choked with weeds, through canted fences with fallen gates . . . past old icehouses and deserted chapels, abandoned stables, dormitories, and erstwhile lawns now converted to impenetrable bush. The tide was out in Casr, but in some other century prosperity would return, and all this would again be needed by a waxing temple bureaucracy.

The way led also toward the towering bulk of the temple itself, and soon it dominated half the sky. Then . . . an unobtrusive side door and endless dark corridors and hallways smelling of mold and rot. A distant sound of chanting ahead, and the guiding priest turned and put his finger to his lips. He opened a door, very slowly, and the chanting became loud.

It was more a large alcove than a small room, for one side was a bead curtain, beyond which lay the nave of the temple. The watchers could see out and not be seen; the half dozen could spy on the thousand. So Wallie stopped to watch and his followers crowded around to peer by him.

His first impression was how much smaller this temple was than the great edifice at Hann. Yet to his left stood the swordsmen of the tryst—five Sevenths in blue; behind them, at a respectful distance, a row of thirty or forty Sixths; and behind them, in turn, ranks of red-kilted Fifths. A thousand men and more—the Fifths hid the middlerank colors, so that only their heads and sword hilts showed—but the nave was not crowded, so smallness was relative. This was still as large as any cathedral Wallie had ever seen. Not all were swordsmen. Behind the narrow-shouldered Firsts at the back was a collection without swords—heralds, bandsmen, armorers, healers, minstrels, and perhaps notables from the town.

To his right stood the choir, endlessly warbling up and down their dissonant scale. They faced toward the Goddess, an idol of carved stone that copied the great, naturally weathered figure at Hann—a seated and robed woman, hair streaming down, featureless face staring along the nave to the seven arches and the River beyond. Yet the sculptor had failed to catch the same air of majesty. The blue paint was flaking from the stone, giving it a scabby appearance, a Goddess with eczema. The dais bore treasures, but nothing to compare to the immeasurable hoard at Hann. Perhaps this temple had been looted a few times.

Wallie discovered that his Shonsu instincts were busily checking for escape routes. Some hope! The main doors would be in the arches at the front, of course, below the glass screens. From the interior the missing panes showed as bright spots, unsoiled by the grime that blurred most of the vista of the River and far-off RegiVul under its guardian smoke plume. Between him and those doors stood the swordsmen. There was another bead curtain opposite him and there was probably a door behind that. There would be others behind the idol, also.

Then he saw Boariyi, standing by himself and looking very lonely. By rights, surely, he should have been directly in front of the Sevenths, at the head of his army. Instead, he had been placed well toward the far side. That seemed a strange location, but he was opposite Wallie. If Wallie emerged through this bead curtain, the two of them would be facing each other across the nave like equals. That was a welcome sign that the priests were indeed under Honakura’s control. Obviously Kadywinsi was an uncertain and unreliable ally, given to supporting whoever had spoken to him most recently. Hopefully, while this interminable chanting went on, Honakura was busy somewhere else, keeping the high priest’s vertebrae fused.

Boariyi was too far off for his expression to be discerned. Probably he had been granted no more time for sword practice these last few days than Wallie, but he had not been bouncing around in Griffon’s madhouse, either, and that thought made Wallie realize how incredibly weary he felt.

Wallie glanced around at his own party. The sorcerer stood with hands bound, unkempt in an ill-fitting blue gown, fixed sneer on haggard face. Nnanji held the other end of his tether, trying to look cheerful—Nnanji said this was not going to work and Nnanji was usually correct when it came to judging swordsmen. Thana had insisted on coming, and Katanji was there, also, looking tiny and absurdly young and grinning widely, black eyes sparkling in the gloom.

Katanji had a small leather bag dangling at his waist and suddenly Wallie guessed that it must be his ill-gotten loot from Gi, a fortune in jewels. If Nnanji had returned that tainted hoard to his brother, then Nnanji did not think he was going to survive this day.

The congregation was starting to fidget and twitch. The unseen juniors at the back would be into spitballs soon.

At Hann the sides of the nave had been lined by stained glass. Here they were walls of mosaic, much of which seemed to be crumbling off. Wallie glanced up to check the roof, wondering how safe that was.

He decided that he might be the only person present who was not anxious for the interminable chanting to end. He had the sorcerer’s pistol stuck in his belt, and some spare powder and shot in his pouch, but he would never have time to reload. There was a climax coming. The odds against him were probably about a hundred to one, yet he felt more resigned than nervous. The gods had forced this, snapping at his heels and driving him like a sheep into this pen. Perhaps this was the last line of the riddle. And to its destiny accord—give it to Boariyi. How old was Alexander the Great when he took his father’s army and set off to conquer the Earth? Twenty? Boariyi was probably older than that. He just did not look like an Alexander, somehow.

At welcome last the chant was over, dying away into a quiet sigh of collective relief from the audience. The choir genuflected and trooped back in two lines to stand on either side of the idol, out of Wallie’s view. A tiny figure in blue shuffled forward, eased down on ancient knees to make obeisance, rose even more slowly, and turned to face the congregation. The high priest, Kadywinsi, his snowy hair shining in the gloom, raised his arms and began a long ritual of blessing. Boariyi and his Sevenths relaxed—evidently the ceremony was nearing its end. The old man wailed away to silence. Then he swung around and faced the idol.

“Holiest!” he bleated. “Your castellan and I had the honor of calling this tryst and the honor of seeing You bless it. We thank You for hearing our prayers, for sending us the novices, the apprentices, the swordsmen, the adepts, the masters, their honors, and their lordships . . . but most of all for sending us Your chosen champion, a noble and courageous swordsman, a man who has met the sorcerers before and has shown he can defeat them, a worthy leader, sent by You, bearing Your own sword.”

A gasp of surprise from the congregation grew to an angry, animal roar. Hints of riot filled the temple. Boariyi straightened up and put his hands on his hips, thrusting his head forward. The other five Sevenths registered shock, most of them turning a furious red at the suggestion that they had sworn to the wrong man.

Wallie reached for the curtain and a command came from behind: “Not yet!” He turned to frown at the priest—surely this was the dramatic moment?

In a sudden silence the sun reappeared, flooding the nave with brilliance, gleaming on Kadywinsi’s silver hair and on a tall woman in blue strolling forward, carrying a lute.

Wallie wheeled to stare at the others. “I thought she was still on board!” he snapped, loud enough to make them jump.

Wallie had been in the shower. Furious, he turned back to watch. Doa was clean and groomed. She was calm, now, and dignified. Her streaming brown hair shone again, no longer tangled like tumble weed. Her dress was a priest’s cotton gown, a cheap thing, baggy and not long enough, yet she wore it regally, as if it had been tailored for her by a master couturier. The audience was rustling. Wallie could only hope that Honakura knew what he was doing. Perhaps he had interrogated her in the dinghy. It was equally possible that he was flying this whole thing on blind faith.

Doa made no salute, announced no title for her epic. She showed neither nervousness nor excitement, only an air of intense concentration as she stood and plucked the lute quietly, adjusting the tuning. Then she raised her head, struck a chord, and filled the temple with a voice dark and shining as zircon.

The swordsmen in the morning come with glory on their brows,
With justice on their shoulders borne,
And honor in their vows.
Evil they will overcome and righteousness espouse.
Her swords go marching on!

Again Wallie glanced back at Nnanji, and his astonished expression showed that he had never heard of a marching song in an epic, either.

It was a rousing tune, though, and . . . No! Could it be? He listened carefully to the chorus, and the second verse . . .

No, even allowing for the seven-tone scale, it was not the same. Close . . . but even better, more rousing, than what he had just for a moment suspected. He could guess that it would be adopted at once by the tryst. Feet were beginning to tap. Or perhaps not—it was about Shonsu, leading his army through the mountains to Vul. Now he was about to hear what had happened in that disaster—if Rotanxi had told the truth to Doa, and if Doa had not changed it for her own purposes.

The music slipped to classic epic style while the villainous sorcerers plotted their defense. The chief of the evildoers was, of course, Lord Rotanxi, swearing hatred against all swordsmen, summoning a fire demon. Wallie looked around, and the sorcerer’s face was a kaleidoscope of emotions: anger, amusement, and surprise.

Another change, to a restless, anguished theme, and the singer’s voice changed, also. The swordsmen had reached a bridge over a chasm, could see Vul itself in the distance. They began to cross. The sorcerer’s fire demon struck in dissonance, in thunder and flame. Bridge and swordsmen all plunged into the abyss.

A mined bridge? Of course! What would have been easier for the sorcerers than that, or more unexpected to the swordsmen? Without thinking, Wallie turned to Rotanxi and whispered, “Is that what happened?”

Only Shonsu had escaped, marching in front of his army. Struck to the ground by the fire demon’s passing, he had lost his sword and been seized by the triumphant sorcerers. Then the music changed again, to a dirge, and Wallie began to appreciate that what he was hearing was the birth of a whole new art form, the heroic oratorio. Nnanji’s jaw was hanging open. Epics were the news and entertainment of the World. Swordsmen hankered after them as Italians craved opera. This was superb, the audience transfixed.

The names and ranks of the dead . . . of course Doa had known those all the time. She had been Shonsu’s mistress. Had Tivanixi never thought to ask her, or had she refused to talk?

Then the dirge ended. A wild, galloping theme accompanied the story of Shonsu’s escape. Tied to a tree, about to be tortured, he snapped his bonds and plunged naked and unarmed into the forest . . .

A haunting lament told how the Goddess’ demons drove him to Hann. Doa had made a masterly selection of the facts. Shonsu demanded an exorcism. It failed. He hurled himself into the sacred falls in penance—no mention that his only alternative was to be thrown.

Now the Goddess sang an aria, refusing the offer of his soul, lamenting the deaths of the forty-nine and the injured honor of Her swordsmen. The melody was the theme that Wallie had heard Doa try twice before, but now she had brought it to perfection; it soared, it tore at the heart, it filled the temple with sorrow and anguish. He saw the entranced swordsmen blinking back tears and felt his own eyes prickle. But subtly the theme changed from plaint to resolve, as the Goddess commanded Shonsu to go back and try again, taking Her sword . . . Tears dried and blood surged with righteous fury.

Back in traditional epic style, Rotanxi plotted again. He sent the kilts to Casr, the tryst was called, the swordsmen assembled, and Shonsu appeared, bearing the seventh sword—and a jigging, mocking theme described how the swordsmen spurned him and drove him from the lodge. It had not happened that way, but everyone knew, even Nnanji, that one did not believe everything one heard in epics.

Drama returned. The sorcerers plotted once more, in an echo of the earlier scene, but this time in an unnamed port on the River, foreseeing the arrival of the swordsmen, summoning their demons to destroy the tryst—the temple had never held a more attentive congregation than it did right then. The fiendish Lord Rotanxi stalked the dock, proclaiming the horrors he would release.

Then, with music that started creepily and mysteriously and mounted steadily in excitement until it peaked in triumph, a ship arrived. Shonsu appeared on its deck and mockingly explained that he had blocked the tryst’s departure and balked the sorcerers’ evil scheme. Dramatic speeches flew to and fro until Rotanxi announced that he would deal with this arrogant young swordsman himself. He marched on board—and his magic failed before the holy sword.

Griffon cast off, and Shonsu claimed Rotanxi as his prisoner, to be taken back to Casr to die. Just for a moment the audience could be heard muttering in disbelief, then it fell silent once more, hanging on the minstrel’s words.

Molto vivace! Now the demons were released—fire demons, water demons, sky demons, demons of lightning and storm. They roared and blazed and boiled around the ship, but in godlike defiance Shonsu brandished the sword of the Goddess and turned aside the evil. The spirits slunk away, defeated . . .

And the finale, a repeat of the rousing opening theme, a victory march now, the words slightly altered as the swordsmen tramped on to certain glory.

Wallie blinked and looked around. Nnanji’s mouth had closed, but his eyes were glazed and he had dropped the prisoner’s tether. Rotanxi could have slipped away unnoticed, except that he, also, was entranced. So was Thana. Katanji caught Wallie’s eye and grinned. Wallie grabbed the rope and handed it back to Nnanji with a scowl that broke the spell.

And the audience in the temple had also been spellbound until that same moment. Usually swordsmen applauded by stamping their boots, sometimes by clapping, and rarely by cheering. Now they did all three, and every man in the vast throng seemed to be making as much noise as he could. A hurricane of sound crashed back toward the singer. Even the Sevenths were applauding, even Boariyi. And Doa herself seemed to snap out of a trance. She smiled slightly, bowed, and then turned to genuflect before the idol. Old Kadywinsi was still standing there. He gave her a blessing, and she walked out of view, while the tumult of applause went on and on. Wallie was sure that he had been present at something as significant as the opening night of Hamlet . . . Mr. Homer will recite from his new poem about Odysseus . . . The epics of the World would never be the same.

She had done what she had promised. Could a vote now be called, he would be elected leader by acclamation after that performance. But the tryst was sworn. Autocracy ruled, not democracy.

“My lord,” he said to the sorcerer, almost having to shout, “even if we die this day, we two, we have achieved immortality.”

He did not get the usual sneer. The old man studied him for a moment and then said, “I believe you are right, Lord Shonsu. It is, perhaps, a small comfort.”

“In a moment.” The din was continuing unabated. “What’s next on the program?”

Obviously that must be changed. Wallie looked out into the nave again, just in time to see Boariyi raise a hand for silence—and get it, instantly. Impressive as hell! So Wallie pushed through the curtain and walked out to meet the tryst.

He very nearly wrecked his chances totally by tripping over a step and falling flat on his face; he had not noticed that the speakers’ area was slightly raised. That obstacle surmounted, he walked forward until he was almost at the center tine, but not quite. He faced the idol and made the salute to the Goddess, then wheeled to salute the company. The echoes of his sepulchral voice came rumbling back from the glassed arches.

Facing him, just below the step, were the five Sevenths. Zoariyi, the shortest, was expressionless except for a wariness in his eyes. Tivanixi looking confused and unhappy. One quite elderly man must be the Lord Chin-something whom Nnanji had mentioned. There was a chubby man with a scar, and a younger, nondescript man. Beyond them the line of green-kilted Sixths, some frowning, some puzzled, one or two grinning at the drama . . . and behind them, halfway to the arches, rows and rows of sword hilts and male faces.

Then Wallie half turned to address the beanpole Boariyi, who had his arms folded, his chin high, and a very red, furious expression on his rubbery face.

“My Lord Boariyi, I come to claim the leadership of the tryst, as I am commanded of the Goddess.”

The temple was silent. Had he closed his eyes, Wallie could have believed that it was empty. He had no idea what to expect. There were about fifteen hundred swordsmen there, but only one will. However impressive Doa’s epic, why should Boariyi yield the leadership voluntarily?

“Indeed? You are too late, Lord Shonsu. The tryst is sworn.” His voice lacked the depth of Shonsu’s, but it carried well.

Boariyi’s eyes narrowed. “You seriously expect us to believe that? Your longtime relationship with Lady Doa is well known, Lord Shonsu, and while we all enjoyed that performance, you will need more evidence than that.” He swung round to face his army, ready to dismiss it; smart move!

“I have a prisoner as evidence,” Wallie boomed. Excitement surged through the audience like wind in corn.

“My prisoner is Lord Rotanxi, sorcerer of the seventh rank, wizard of Sen, a man who sends kilts—” He was drowned out.

Again Boariyi gestured for silence and got it. His face had turned even redder. “Produce this prisoner!”

Wallie pretended to hesitate. “I could send for him . . . You will stipulate that he is my prisoner, according to the sutras?”

“I will not take your prisoner while you live,” Boariyi roared, “but I give no guarantees of your own safety.”

“I am fully protected by the ways of honor and my sword,” Wallie said, wishing he believed that. Then he turned and beckoned.

Rotanxi stumbled through the curtain with a large hand at the scruff of his neck. All the splendor of the Dream God could not have contained Nnanji’s grin as he thrust the old man ahead of him across the width of the temple toward Boariyi. With right arm straight and tether held in his left, he propelled the sorcerer at great speed over to the liege lord, who recoiled in astonishment at the facemarks thus revealed. Then Nnanji swung his victim around and jostled him along the front of the congregation, past the Sixths and the Sevenths so that they could see, also, and finally looped around to end beside Wallie, directing his grin at the whole tryst. The silence shattered again in a rising rumble like shingle stirred by surf, mounting like the surf itself, exploding with the crash of breakers.

Thana and Katanji had emerged and lined up beside their leader, and Wallie could almost chuckle through the tension and fatigue at the ridiculous contrast. The swordsmen must see it, also: Boariyi with his horde; Shonsu with an injured First, a female Second, and a copper-haired youth dressed as Fifth. But Shonsu had the prisoner . . . and what a prisoner!

Now Boariyi had very few options for extricating himself with dignity. The old priest stood between them, facing the tryst. He turned to look at the leader and so did everyone else.

Boariyi’s voice was harsh with anger. “I came here expecting a blessing,” he said. “Not a mummery. Do you challenge, Lord Shonsu?”

“I do not wish to fight you, my lord, but I am not afraid to do so, for I am a better swordsman and I have the Goddess on my side.” He hoped. “But I will not fight the whole tryst. Will you meet me man to man, or do you hide behind the protection of the blood oath?”

Boariyi’s eyes flickered toward his uncle, the short and graying Zoariyi, standing with the other Sevenths. “Such events in a temple service are new to me. I will consult my council.” The Sevenths obediently walked over to him. It was a good move for Boariyi, giving him an imposing backing, so that he no longer stood alone.

There was a brief huddle, while the congregation held its breath, hushed and tense. Zoariyi obviously did the talking, his nephew standing with his head bent to hear. Then he stepped forward so that the others were behind him.

“My council advises me that this is not an affair of honor! Was it not you, Shonsu, who led the force of fifty swordsmen destroyed by the sorcerers?”

“Was it not you who stopped the triumphant swordsmen at Ov, when they would have followed up their success by attacking the tower?”

“Was it not you who betrayed the plans of the tryst to the sailors, drove away the ships, falsely posted a quarantine flag upon the harbor, and frustrated our attack?”

Boariyi raised a very long arm and pointed. “Then I declare you to be a false swordsman, an abomination, and an agent of the sorcerers. I condemn you to death as an enemy of the tryst. Sevenths—kill that man!”

Wallie was preparing his reply in his mind. He glanced round at his friends. Nnanji looked ill. The sorcerer gave him a look of mockery, although his welfare depended on Wallie’s.

He turned back toward Boariyi and the council, and saw that there was not going to be a reply. They had drawn their swords and were advancing in line abreast. They were coming slowly, perhaps hoping that he might somehow escape, but coming. Nnanji had been correct.

Wallie pulled the pistol from his belt and rejected the temptation to shoot down Boariyi. He needed a target that would not cause a ricochet, so he aimed over the heads of the tryst at the distant arches and the faraway vista of mountains.

The explosion roared much louder than he expected. The gun kicked in his hand, and a vast cloud of acrid smoke billowed out at the ranks of Sixths. No one there except the sorcerer and members of the Shonsu expedition had ever heard a noise like that before. Plaster sprinkled from the roof; tiles tinkled down from the walls. He scored a direct hit on the windows of the central arch, evidently on a vulnerable spot in the rotting stone trelliswork. While the echo of the shot was still reverberating back, it was joined by a thunderous clamor of smashing glass as the entire central window structure collapsed, row after row, glass and stone together, panes and framework avalanching in chain reaction, a repeating cascade of corruscating crystal to the floor, emptying the whole arch.

The tryst panicked. From Firsts to Sevenths they turned and ran. Wallie put the pistol back in his belt without bothering to reload. He glanced round at his companions. Even the sorcerer looked astonished at the effect. Nnanji swallowed hard, then grinned, and said: “Wow!”

Behind them a mob of priests in various shades was fighting to get through a door beside the idol. Only tiny Honakura was standing still; he smiled and raised a hand in congratulation. The Sevenths recovered first, forming up in a tight bunch about where they had been before, starting a fierce argument with many shamefaced glances toward Wallie. Many of the civilians continued their flight, but the rest of the swordsmen recovered themselves before they reached the snowbank of glass by the main door. They started ashamedly dribbling back to their places. It was clear to all that only Wallie’s party had stood its ground.

“Yes,” he proclaimed, “I led the doomed expedition to Vul. For that I must make amends.” He had everyone’s attention now. The priests had fallen silent behind him and the Sevenths had stopped talking to listen. “Yes, I went ashore at Aus. I went unarmed, which was folly, and I paid a great price for that folly.

“Yes, I stopped the attack at Ov and for the same reason that I stopped the tryst: You do not know how to fight sorcerers! I do—now I do. I captured Lord Rotanxi and I rendered him harmless. That thunderbolt was one of the spells he was carrying—a little thing that he had in his pocket. Call it a thunderbolt of the first rank, if you like. They have greater horrors, thunderbolts of the seventh rank. They had those lined up on the docks at Sen and hurled them at our ship. The minstrel described the effects very well, but there were no demons. I have no magic, my lords. The sword—” He drew it. “—is not magic. But it is sacred. It belongs to the Most High, and it was She who saved us.

“She sent me to lead the tryst, for courage alone is not enough. I do not question your courage, swordsmen, but only I can teach you how to fight sorcerers. The Goddess gave me Her sword and She has also given me wisdom. I can lead you all to victory—but you, Lord Boariyi, cannot. Dare you resist Her divine will?”

The Sevenths were arguing fiercely. The priest Kadywinsi stepped forward, but Wallie held up a hand to silence him. The decision had to be Boariyi’s, and Wallie felt sorry for him. He must have been sure of gaining immortality as the leader of a tryst and he was being cheated of it by a combination of sorcery and priestly subterfuge. Yet his decision was almost inevitable now, for Wallie had been able to state his case and so reduce it to a personal challenge. Boariyi could no longer refuse and still hope to hold the loyalty of the tryst.

He had reached the same conclusion. He silenced the councilors around him and looked over their heads at Wallie with that same insolent, contemptuous sneer that he had worn when they first met—and Wallie’s temper flared at the sight of it.

Then the human mantis stepped forward, putting his hands on his skinny hips. “You say you are from the Goddess? I repeat that you were sent by the sorcerers. The priest blessed the leader who wears that sword. Very well! I will kill you and take it. Make your challenge, my Lord Shonsu.”

The weather had turned for the worse, spitting raindrops from low, ugly clouds, whirling leaves and dust along the ground. Wallie stood alone outside the temple, scowling at the damage his lucky shot had caused. Three arches on each side now reflected the storm over RegiVul, while the center was a dark blank. He was uneasily reminded of the little jewel god with his missing tooth, and he did not know if he was being irreverent, or if the god was truly playing jokes.

The whole tryst had been assembled into a wide arc around the temple forecourt, facing the water. Wallie stood at one end, alone, Boariyi at the other, surrounded by the council. Of course the Sevenths were Boariyi’s vassals and must attend him, but that did not lessen Wallie’s feeling of being abandoned. In the center of the arc were the heralds and the bandsmen. A discussion was in progress between the heralds and the two seconds, Nnanji and Zoariyi. It was taking forever.

To entrust such negotiations to Nnanji seemed crazy. Surely that wily Zoariyi would knot him like a pretzel? Yet the rules for dueling left no choice, and Nnanji had already successfully contrived to have Thana take the prisoner back to Sapphire, much against the swordsmen’s will. Wallie had not expected him to win that point and had watched with pleased surprise as the transfer took place. Then there had been some sort of ceremony involving Nnanji being presented to all the Sevenths, probably to dispose of the vengeance problem.

It was oddly reassuring that the juvenile Katanji was also involved in the discussions. Twice he and Nnanji had stepped aside to confer, Nnanji bending over to talk or listen. Each time Wallie has assumed that he was going to be sent a message, but each time the two brothers had returned to the group together. Katanji knew nothing of the technicalities or legalities, but he knew people—what was surprising was that Nnanji would now take him seriously enough to pay heed.

Boariyi towered over his companions. He had the advantage of reach, certainly, and he was defending his own ground. He had also seen Wallie go against Tivanixi. But he was fighting either a sorcerer or a hero sent by the gods—neither an encouraging prospect. He might even be faster. Wallie was stronger and had the Goddess on his side. Or did he? He had been told to expect no miracles.

Cursing himself for thinking such thoughts, Wallie turned to look at the wind-whipped, gun-metal River and the rocking ships. Sapphire was moored just offshore, her crew lined up along the rail. He saw the massive Brota, then Jja, and waved. The quarantine flag had gone and already a few vessels were venturing into port.

The arc of onlookers was swelling as priests and citizens arrived to see the sport, crowding in behind the swordsmen. A serious contest between Sevenths must be a very rare event. Wallie wondered if even Shonsu had ever had to fight another Seventh in earnest. He himself had fought Hardduju, of course, but that had been an execution.

At last the conference broke up, the seconds stalking over to their respective principals. Katanji gave Wallie an appraising, sympathetic glance. Nnanji merely looked cheerful.

Nnanji was flying with the angels. This was the meat and bone of romantic swordsmanship for him, a mere Fifth negotiating with Sevenths, arranging a trial by combat—which was almost as rare in the World as it would have been on Earth, the stuff of epics, not sutras—playing a part in the gods’ mission. Nnanji could never be happier than he was right there.

“I think I got all you need, brother,” he said. “Zoariyi wouldn’t accept that your sword belonged to the Goddess, but he agreed to put ‘coward’ in, although he claims that his principal never used the word.”

“Great! How about child abuse and nose-picking?” Wallie snapped. “Let’s not leave any stone unthrown.”

Nnanji smiled courteously and glanced around as if wanting to sit down and cross his legs. Then he straightened and proceeded to recite the draft proclamation, word for word, in a voice that shadowed the booming tones of the chief herald.

“Hear ye, my lords, your honors, masters, adepts, swordsmen, apprentices, novices, and all this good company assembled—whereas the valiant Lord Shonsu, swordsman of the seventh rank, has appeared before the council of the noble tryst of Casr, and whereas the said valiant lord has represented to the said council that the legendary seventh sword of Chioxin has been given into his hand by a god in order that he may drive the abomination of sorcery from the cities of Aus, Wal, Sen, Cha, Gor, Amb, and Ov, and whereas the said valiant lord represents that he is the best swordsman here present and ought therefore by right of prowess be liege lord of this exalted tryst, and whereas the valorous Lord Boariyi, swordsman of the seventh rank, liege lord of the noble tryst of Casr, has responded that the said valiant lord has previously failed in battle against the sorcerers, and whereas the said valorous lord has further represented that the said valiant lord was disgraced by sorcerers in Aus, thereby showing himself to be without honor and a coward, and whereas the said valorous lord has further represented that the said valiant lord frustrated and impeded a victorious group of swordsmen in battle at Ov, and whereas the said valorous lord has further represented that the said valiant lord is an imposter, being an agent of the sorcerers and enemy of the tryst, and whereas the said valorous lord represents that he is by prowess in combat by due form established rightful leader of this noble tryst, and whereas these two intrepid lords have agreed that the matter between them shall be settled by honorable passage of arms, according to the ancient rubrics and sutras of their craft, the said valorous lord having waived and negated onus of vengeance by his vassals, and the two audacious lords having agreed upon this time and place for their meeting, now therefore you are bid approach and witness this illustrious encounter, and may the Goddess judge between them and grant victory to the right!”

“I don’t like that ‘driving the abomination of sorcery’ bit,” he said. “The tryst was called to restore the honor of the craft; let’s stick with that.”

It was easy enough for him to treat all this lunacy as an exercise in heraldic pomp, Wallie thought.

“Another thing—I thought this was a naked match and I heard something in there about Boariyi waiving the onus of vengeance. How about you, brother?”

Nnanji smiled at him as if sharing a joke. “None of them seem to have thought of that! The fourth oath is pretty obscure, remember.”

Then Nnanji guessed what he was thinking and recoiled. “Of course not! I’m no Seventh. He’d spit me in a flicker, brother. You don’t think I’d . . . that I want . . . ”

“Then put it in the proclamation!” Wallie barked, feeling guilty for doubting him. “I also waive the onus of vengeance.”

“You can’t!” Nnanji said, recovering his good humor and chuckling. “Remember the words of the sutra: paramount, absolute, and irrevocable? You can’t release me and I can’t escape it. If he does you, then I’m up right after. Don’t make me mention it, please, because then they might wriggle out of this somehow!”

So it was not hypothetical to Nnanji! It was a matter of life and death to him, also. It just happened to be fun, as well. Katanji was standing in silence, his eyes going from one face to the other, and it was not fun to Katanji.

But Nnanji was right. The fourth oath was irrevocable, so Wallie could not release him. He was going to be fighting for two lives. He grunted that the proclamation was fine. Nnanji nodded, gave him a worried sort of look, and then went striding off back to the heralds, his ponytail wagging happily.

Was it possible? If Wallie died and Nnanji challenged Boariyi, and by some miracle won, would the tryst accept him as leader? This was not the formal combat for leadership. The onus of vengeance had not been waived for anyone, only for this match. Wallie puzzled it out and concluded with a curious relief that it would not work; the other Sevenths would counterchallenge one after the other, then the Sixths. Of course Nnanji could not beat Boariyi . . . except by a miracle. Nnanji was trustworthy, but the gods were not.

Wallie snapped out of his gloomy thoughts to reply. “Not if I can help it. Why?”

“Nanj is worried. He says you’ll try for a flesh wound, but Lord Boariyi will be going for a kill, to win the sword. He says it will be like the time you fought the captain with foil against blade.”

This time the conference was brief. The heralds and seconds all seemed to be nodding. The rain had stopped. The meeting broke up and Nnanji came striding over the windy court again.

“The Goddess be with you, my lord,” Katanji whispered. He turned and headed for the perimeter.

“All agreed!” Nnanji announced. He fixed Wallie with a stern look. “You realize that he’s got to kill you, don’t you?”

Nnanji looked repentant. “I’m sorry, brother!” He studied Wallie carefully and put on an encouraging grin. “You’re not seriously worried, are you? You have the seventh sword!”

“And he has the arms of a gorrilla!” Wallie said softly. “Nnanji, I’ve never fought anyone taller than me. Perhaps Shonsu never did, either!”

“Yes, of course.” Wallie managed a chuckle. “You’re right. Thank you, Nnanji.” He hesitated. “You did very well in the negotiations, brother!”

Nnanji grinned. “I smothered him in sagas! Precedents, you know? The epic of Xo, and the epic . . . ” He reeled off a dozen, counting on his fingers.

Wallie laughed aloud, but before he could comment, the proceedings began. A roll of drums echoed off the temple and the bullfrog herald made his proclamation in a voice that the thunder god might have envied.

There was another roll of drums. “Good!” Wallie said. “Now maybe they’ll let us get on with it.”

No. The herald, having spoken in the direction of the River, now wheeled about and made the same proclamation, complete with drums, toward the temple; and when he had done that, he had to repeat it again both upstream and downstream. The final version was applauded by a peal of thunder. Even if the gods had forsworn miracles, Wallie thought, they were not giving up on dramatic effects. The rain started again.

The herald beckoned, and the two parties approached him to take up their stations. Wallie eyed his gangly opponent carefully. Boariyi was similarly eyeing him, his big jaw set tight in concentration, his continuous bar of eyebrow pulled down in a frown, no trace of a sneer. What was he—cautious or rash? Serious fights between unfamiliar adversaries usually began with a little careful testing. Wallie decided to try for a quick decision.

Wallie lunged recklessly. He was parried instantly and jumped back with blood streaming from his upper arm.

In any normal match Zoariyi would have called “Yield?” at that point. He said nothing. Shonsu was not to be given that option.

It was a shallow cut, but a terrible beginning, and it must give the tall man more confidence, showing that the possible sorcerer or possible hero could bleed. It also hurt. Boariyi lunged. Parry, riposte, recover. Wallie felt a faint beginning of the bloodlust and suppressed it at once. Berserkers would not feel pain, would fight until chopped into cutlets. He had no wish to win and then discover that he had been mortally wounded in the process.

Lunge. Riposte. He was being driven steadily back. His opponent was grinning at him. How did one fight a human gorilla? He remembered Hardduju and tried dropping his guard a fraction, waiting for the outside cut to the wrist. It came instantly. He parried and tried a riposte, but Boariyi covered just as fast and it was Wallie who barely escaped.

Forward and back they danced, but it was more back than forward for Wallie. How far was he from the River?

Dimly he could hear a continuous roar from the spectators. His right arm was streaming blood. He must rest it to stop the flow. Lunge. Recover. Taking a dreadful risk, he whipped his feet around and transferred the sword to his left hand. Boariyi flashed an instant attack, countering his left-hand riposte as easily as before, then mockingly performed the same tactic, so they were southpaw to southpaw. The crowd noise exploded—that was one for the legends.

Wallie tried every trick in his book, even some he had not thought to teach Nnanji. Boariyi countered them all and responded with some that were new to Wallie. They were evenly matched.

The swords rang like a smithy. It was an endurance test. The spindly Boariyi had the build of a marathon runner. The man’s reach was incredible. Wallie could not get near him. His sword must be a fingerlength longer than even the seventh sword. Parry. Parry. Parry . . .

Long swords could be weak. The seventh sword? If Shonsu could not win this, then perhaps Wallie Smith could? Perhaps Chioxin could? Riposte. He had the better blade. Dare he try something so unorthodox against such a supreme opponent?

How long could flesh keep this up? He was tiring. Lunge. Slowing down. Parry. Boariyi had noticed. He switched on his sneer—and again Wallie’s temper flared up at the sight of it.

He changed tactics, turned his attack from the man to the sword, hacking as hard as he could at Boariyi’s blade. Just maybe Wallie could treat it as Tomiyano had treated Wallie’s foil, so very long ago. Parry. Cut. Parry. Cut . . .

The tall man was surprised at the unorthodox assault and yielded a little before the brute force. Then he began to react and Wallie found he was being led off balance. Again and again that deadly blade whipped within a hairsbreadth of his skin. He persisted. Clash, clash, clash. Boariyi had guessed his purpose. He was parrying more carefully, turning Wallie’s blade at an angle. Parry. Wallie saw with despair that he had been driven back almost to the water’s edge. The crowd was screaming continuously at this spectacular display of swordsmanship.

The seventh sword sliced through the other blade and swept on past Boariyi’s face. For a moment it seemed to have missed him, but the razor tip had slit along the line of swordmarks on his forehead, and a curtain of blood fell over his eyes. He dropped his sword hilt—beaten!

“Yield!” Zoariyi agreed. His nephew fell to his knees, gasping and panting, blinded by the blood pouring over his face.

Wallie himself was in little better shape; his chest heaving with its fight for air, breath rasping, heart hammering like a woodpecker inside his skull. For a moment he was incapable of thinking, wrapped in drapes of nauseous black fog. He had come very close to his limit. The heralds came running forward, followed by healers and minstrels, and the council of Sevenths. Then the ranks broke, and the whole assembly flooded in to form a tight circle around the combatants, cheering, jostling, and finally falling silent once more in some sort of order.

Slowly Wallie’s head began to quieten. He wondered why no one was assisting the wounded Boariyi, then remembered that the fight was still incomplete—the victor must state his terms and sheath his sword before anyone else could intervene. Now he could demand the third oath: Blood needs be shed; declare your allegiance.

He hesitated, puzzled by something, fuzzily studying Boariyi. The kid was on his knees, his bony rib cage pumping like bellows, soaked with mingled blood and rain and sweat, eyes shut against the sheen of blood covering his face and streaming down his chest to soak into his kilt. Yet . . . there was something wrong. Nnanji? Something like Nnanji? Wallie looked helplessly around for his second, but he had disappeared. Boariyi’s expression was unreadable through that red mask, but the corners of his jaw were knotted, his arms were locked into vertical rods above clenched fists—his head was back, blind face upturned, every sinew in his neck tensed. Normally a panting man held his head down.

Boariyi was waiting for the victor’s demand. Then he was going to refuse. And when he did that, Wallie would have no choice at all except to execute him.

That rigidity he had seen before: Nnanji, facing death before dishonor. Well, give him a minute to brood on it, take a moment more to recover. Still gasping, Wallie glanced at Zoariyi. His evident dismay as he stared at his nephew was all the confirmation anyone could need. The three of them, one kneeling, two standing, were walled in by a silent circle of onlookers. Fearfully the sun uncovered its face, and the blood shone more brilliant red.

It was scruffy but he took it in his free hand, wadded it, and tossed it to the blinded Boariyi, who flinched when it hit his chest and fell on his knees. He made no move to pick it up—more confirmation.

“Lord Boariyi . . . ” Louder: “Lord Boariyi, you did not lose. My sword won, yours lost. I have not met a swordsman like you before. In a best of ten, I should be proud to get five on you.”

Wallie continued. “Now you will order the council to swear the third oath to me. But not you. From you I require only the first.”

There was a pause while the words sank in. Then Boariyi fumbled to find the cloth, raise it to wipe his face and then press it one-handed over his forehead. He opened his eyes—startling eyes in a bloody mask—and stared up unbelievingly at Wallie.

Wallie sheathed his sword and held out a hand to help him rise, then lifted their joined hands high. The spectators roared.

“Bravely fought, my lords!” That was Tivanixi, beaming. “A legendary feat of arms! Never have I seen such a match!”

“And you won’t again—not from me, anyway,” Wallie said with feeling. He thumped Boariyi on the back. “You?”

The healers were flocking to his wound like blowflies, but Wallie pushed them away. His arm had almost stopped bleeding and another bout of blood poisoning, he did not desire.

“My lords . . . ” The bullfrog herald was trumpeting the outcome of the match. Big raindrops began to fall in the sunshine. Wallie began to shiver as the inevitable reaction rushed in on him.

Boariyi had been fitted with a bandage and now he, too, waved the healers away. “My lord vassals, you will swear the blood oath to Lord Shonsu. Lord Shonsu, may I have the honor . . . ”

He presented Tivanixi, and Wallie responded, feeling about a thousand years old and afraid he might be swaying on his feet. “Where the hell is Nnanji?” he demanded, looking around.

There were puzzled frowns as the Sevenths worked it out, and annoyed glares from most of the Sixths who formed the front rank of spectators—although a few of them nodded wisely to show that they knew all the sutras, even the last. A couple of the Sevenths remained puzzled, not understanding.

But Wallie understood and felt shock. Your oaths are my oaths! Nnanji was going to be liege lord, too! Wallie had not thought of that implication of the fourth oath, but Nnanji had. If he was present, then the Sevenths would have to kiss his boot, also, but he was only a Fifth. Nnanji would find that as outrageous as they would, so he had tactfully migrated elsewhere.

The five Sevenths were presented, prostrating themselves to swear the terrible blood oath and kiss Wallie’s foot. The sun died away, and the rain grew serious. Then Boariyi borrowed a sword and swore the trivial first, promising to obey Lord Shonsu’s commands—but reserving his honor, which could mean anything at all.

The rain was excuse enough. Wallie shook his head wearily. “Tomorrow I shall meet with the council and the Sixths to explain how to fight sorcerers. Lord Zoariyi, your nephew proclaimed certain rules of discipline regarding behavior toward civilians. Pray have those reissued in my name. Lord Tivanixi? Two ships were seized?”

“Release them and compensate the crew. Five golds apiece.” For a moment Wallie thought he was going to get an argument, which probably meant that the treasury was almost empty. “Proclaim to the sailors and traders that the tryst will not commandeer any vessels in future and will charter any shipping required at negotiated rates. I swear this on my sword.”

What else? His head was spinning. He was nauseated. “Who is the best horseman on the council?”

They exchanged glances of astonishment and—after a suitable pause for modesty—Tivanixi said that he had done some riding in his youth.

“Then pray attend me an hour before sunset. Bring a saddler and a blacksmith.”

“But no minstrels,” Nnanji said, appearing magically at Wallie’s side with an extra-large grin.

Gratefully Wallie draped an arm on his shoulder and almost fell. “Take me home,” he whispered. He was dead on his feet.

Nnanji staggered under the weight and then looked him over, appraising his condition.

“Right!” He pointed impudently at two large Sixths. “You! And you! Up!” Then—even worse—he turned to the cluster of Sevenths. “You will follow, my lords!” Wallie found himself being hoisted, protesting, on the Sixths’ shoulders, but Nnanji was not done yet. “Bandsmen? Minstrels? The Swordsmen in the Morning!”

Tomiyano had been lingering offshore in one of Sapphire’s dinghies lest anyone need make a fast escape. Nnanji had the choice of two jetties, so he chose the farther. The band started a march beat, a trumpeter began the tune, the minstrels picked up the words, and off went the tryst, the two brawny Sixths bearing the new liege shoulder-high to his boat, with the Sevenths following behind and then everyone else; all joyfully singing the song that was evermore to be not merely the march of the tryst of Casr, but the instilled marching song of the whole craft: The Swordsmen in the Morning. While out in front, leading the whole parade with drawn sword, singing as loudly as anyone and somehow grinning as well, stalked Nnanji of the Fifth.

BOOK THREE:

HOW THE BEST SWORD WON