THE DESTINY OF THE SWORD

The question rang out so clearly that for a moment he thought it had been spoken aloud. It startled him. His eyes flicked open and stared unseeing at the bare planks above. If the words had been spoken, though, then his had been the voice saying them.

He was in his cabin on Sapphire, his wounded arm throbbing dimly in its bandage. His skin had the all-over softness, the woolly feel that sleep can bring, but Jja had washed away the blood with hot water, an unthinkable luxury on a wooden ship. His fatigue had gone, also—which meant that his body had already replaced that lost blood. He felt good. Now his danger was over and his task began.

Bare plank ceiling, bare plank walls—yet it felt like home. If Brota agreed, he would continue to live on board. A general should stay with his army, but he would never make a conventional leader. Probably Brota would keep her ship at Casr for a while, rather than lose Thana.

Daylight still shone through the port, so he had not slept long. Life was simple in the World—no television sets or air conditioners or furnaces, no books or magazines. All they had in the cabin was a bedroll, covers, and a small chest to hold a few spare garments. Vixi’s small bedding was tucked in a corner . . . few possessions.

Then he saw another possession. She was sitting cross-legged, watching him. She might have been there all the time he was asleep, like a statue, a buddha, waiting for him with the timeless stoicism of a slave—smooth brown skin and two black sashes, dark eyes inscrutable, dark hair grown to a decent length at last. Her smile told peacefully of things that could not be adequately confined to words.

In one graceful movement like the swoop of a bird, she moved from her position by the wall to lie alongside him. She laid a cool hand on his face and gazed into his eyes—amused, content.

He smiled and tried to reach for her, but her weight and warmth were against his good arm, and he abandoned an attempt to move the other. “None of those, my love. No . . . I have an army now. I am liege lord. I have more than a thousand men sworn to obey me, to die for me. What do I do now?”

Jja slid fingers into his hair and steadied his head while her lips met his in a chaste, sisterly kiss. But her other hand slid down to stroke his chest. When the kiss ended she held her face only a few inches away from his and waited, expectant.

He had taken the tryst away from Boariyi to stop him doing whatever it was he was going to do with it. But he had made no decisions on what he would do with it himself, once he had it.

The other problem did not feel right. “The thought of a war horrifies me, my love—death and maiming, bereavement and suffering, cities burned . . . Yet the Goddess wants the sorcerers driven out, thrown back into their mountains—doesn’t she? Isn’t that my mission? It is Her army, Her tryst, Her swordsmen. She has put me in charge. What do I do now?”

Jja laid her lips on his again and this time the kiss was less sisterly. Her hand continued its caressing, exploring. Inexplicably her bra sash had come loose.

“I said ‘in a minute’!” he insisted, when she let him speak. “Talk about this first—I can’t think straight afterward. The gods are cruel, Jja! That little prince . . . A few thousand deaths don’t worry them. They live forever. So what if a mortal dies—it must seem so unimportant.”

Forestalling another kiss, he turned his head away and spoke to the wall. “I can do it . . . if I can ever make the swordsmen listen.”

“Yes. You are saner than anyone else in the World, my darling. Tell me. Explain.”

She frowned. Jja did not communicate with speech unless she must. “The Goddess would not have given you Her tryst if She did not think you were the best man to have it.” Her lips came closer again. “So you must do . . . what . . . feels . . . right.”

The kissing was growing more frequent, more insistent, more exploratory; and her hand continued its travels, also.

He tried to resist and winced at a complaint from his other arm. “Yes! All right! We’ll do that soon. But what do I do after?”

“And after that?” His good arm was free now and his hand slid to the knot on her other sash.

The deck was silvery with rain, RegiVul and the far bank hidden by misty nothing. Gray tendrils of cloud traveled the deserted streets of Casr. Few ships lay alongside the wide plaza since the Goddess had ceased Her sendings.

Tomiyano was handing round wine in the deckhouse, and the whole family had gathered to honor Lord Shonsu, liege lord of the tryst. There had been toasts and congratulations, and now there was merriment and loud conversation. Wallie was more touched than he liked to show, but the difficult parts were over. With only the two wood chests to sit on in the big room, people usually sat on the floor. Today, because this was a special occasion, they were all standing, as if at a cocktail party. Then an unexpected gap in the talk brought silence, broken by the pattering of rain.

“The priest,” Nnanji suggested. He was pink. It was unknown for Nnanji to drink too much; the pinkness had other causes. Thana was certainly merry and was continually whispering things in his ear. He would probably consent very soon.

Nnanji nodded glumly. “He stayed in town. I wonder what he’ll get up to this time?”

Wallie chuckled. “I expect he’ll buy the lodge and raise the rent. I know who’s missing—our sorcerer! What did you do with him?”

Nnanji freed himself from Thana and stalked off, pouting. In a few minutes he returned with drawn sword, driving Rotanxi. The old man’s hands were tied and his feet bare. He wore the ill-fitting blue gown he had been given for his appearance in the temple. It had no cowl and his white hair was disheveled. Probably he had been asleep. After Griffon, Sapphire was restful.

“Untie him, please, Nnanji,” Wallie said. “We are having a celebration, my lord. Do sorcerers drink wine, or does it muddle their spells?”

The sorcerer straightened, striving for dignity. “I have nothing to celebrate.”

“But you do! Lord Boariyi is probably a fast man with pincers. You should celebrate the fact that I won.”

Rotanxi would never have been handsome, but he had probably always had presence, and in latter days power, even nobility of a sort. Now these were blurred, overlain by age, by defeat, and by bitterness. “For the sake of my craft, I wish that you had lost, Shonsu.”

Wallie nodded thoughtfully. To have captured a Seventh was outside rational expectations. He had been sent this devious old villain for some purpose. “Will you swear an oath with me?”

“Your parole, my lord. I promised you no torture and I repeat that. Common sense says that I should lock you up in a dungeon—I suppose the lodge has dungeons. I should prefer to keep you here. Your friends may well seek to silence you, and Sapphire will be safer than a dungeon. Mistress, will you allow Lord Rotanxi to remain as my guest, if he behaves?”

“The quarters are plain, but the food is superb,” Wallie said. “You will be well treated.” He offered a goblet of wine to the sorcerer, whose hands were now free. It was refused with a gesture. “But I need your oath. Swear that you will not leave this ship until I bid you leave, that you will not harm it or anyone aboard, and that you will not communicate with anyone ashore or in any other vessel.”

“Sixty days should do it,” Wallie said. “At the end of that time, I shall return you unharmed to the left bank. Oh—and you must agree to wear a gown without a cowl.”

There was a pause while the sorcerer studied him and then glanced around the circle of sailors—men, women, children, all in turn studying him.

The old man waved his hands helplessly. “I have no choice. I so swear, my lord.”

“Good! I shall swear by my sword, of course. You will not object to coming with me now to the galley, so that you may swear over fire?”

“Excellent!” Wallie said cheerfully. “Then you are our guest, my lord! I shall present your hosts to you as soon as we return, but perhaps you would give Captain Tomiyano back his dagger now?”

In the ensuing chorus of oaths and exclamations, Tomiyano’s were the loudest and most lurid. The sorcerer sent Wallie a thin smile that might easily have congealed blood, but he stretched out a hand, and the dagger appeared in it.

“It was up his sleeve,” Wallie said resignedly, but he thought that no one believed him, not even Nnanji.

“ . . . teak strakes but rarely in these parts,” Tivanixi was saying as Tomiyano ushered into the deckhouse, “but the masts are fir, are they not?”

Wallie suppressed a grin at the expression on the captain’s face—he abhorred swordsmen, but the personable castellan had already won him over. Then Tivanixi saw the sorcerer and froze.

“Good evening, vassal,” Wallie said quickly. He received a startled glance and a courtesy, fist-on-heart salute—they had been through the full formalities earlier that day. “Lord Rotanxi has given me his parole, so he is being treated as our guest. Allow me to present you.”

Grim-faced, the two Sevenths exchanged ritual greetings, mouthing the words as if they were acid. Nnanji began edging toward the door and Wallie stopped him with a headshake.

“And Mistress Brota, the swordsperson who held off the entire tryst of Casr.”

Tivanixi returned to charming. “Now I know where the beautiful Apprentice Thana gained her skill . . . ” He melted Brota as rapidly as he had her son, but he had been disturbed by the presence of the sorcerer, his old suspicions twitching once more.

“Vassal,” Wallie said, “the oath of brotherhood that Master Nnanji and I have sworn has produced a strange complication. It would indeed appear that he, also, is your liege. As we all know that you are thus pledged to him automatically, we do not feel that a formal public affirmation is required.”

Wallie had expected relief, but Tivanixi squared his shoulders and frowned. “With all respect, my liege, as I am bound, I should prefer to make open acknowledgment.”

Not that, either, apparently. “It is a matter of honor, my liege, not of shame.”

So the unhappy Nnanji had to stand for a Seventh prostrating himself on the floor, swearing unquestioning obedience to the death, and kissing his boot. The sailors watched open-mouthed. The sorcerer sneered. Wallie decided he would never understand swordsmen. The demigod had warned him that they were addicted to fearsome oaths, but why this unnecessary humiliation?

He could well remember a day in early summer when Apprentice Nnanji of the Second had sworn that oath to him on the shingle by the temple. How very much younger he had seemed then! And who could have foreseen that before winter Nnanji himself would accept that oath from a Seventh? Miracle!

Eventually all the formalities were cleared away, and then the castellan produced the blacksmith and saddler whom Wallie had ordered. Both Fourths, stolid artisans, they stood in the doorway, biting lips and shuffling feet at being in the presence of three Sevenths.

“How many complete sets of tack could we locate in the lodge, do you suppose?” Wallie inquired of the castellan.

Tivanixi had foreseen the question. “I located a dozen, my liege. There are undoubtedly more somewhere, but most will be as old as the sutras and probably rife with rats.”

“Twelve will do to start with.” Wallie produced a piece of wood, one of those he had spent so many hours whittling—a loop, flattened on one side. He began to explain to the smith.

“You mean there is a sorcerer present?” Wallie smiled. “What I am about to show you, lord vassal, is a World-shaking device, one of those inventions that are absurdly hard to make and yet seem ridiculously simple and obvious afterward. But it will be absolutely impossible to keep it a secret. So let him listen! Adept, can you make me twenty-four of these by morning?”

He explained it. He described the leathers he would need, and how they must be attached to the saddles. The two men nodded, although they had probably never in their lives made anything without a guiding sutra. Then he promised them a gold apiece and sent them off to the waiting boat. He must just hope for the best. He must also hope that the gods would permit this innovation. The stirrup would turn the World on its ear. If the Roman Empire had known of the stirrup, and used it, it need never have fallen to the barbarians.

The sailors were starting to sit down, which was a signal that the evening meal was on its way. Wallie invited Tivanixi to join them and offered him some wine. An air of puzzled frustration remained in the deckhouse—Nnanji put it into words.

Wallie nodded, amused. He turned to Tivanixi. “A horse is a good way to get to a battle, of course. But did you ever try to wield your sword while on horseback, vassal?”

“With those you would not have fallen off,” Wallie assured him. “We are going to create a cavalry, and I hereby put you in charge. You will need practice, of course, but with stirrups a man can strike at an enemy, wheel his horse, shoot a bow—all those things and more without falling off. Man and horse together become a six-limbed fighting animal.”

Tivanixi pondered for a moment, and then his eyes began to gleam. Rotanxi frowned; he was not stupid, either. Nnanji wrinkled his nose in disgust—not a proper swordsman way to fight.

Now the food was being brought in by some of the youngsters—sturgeon in batter, steaming haunch of auroch that filled the room with its savory scent, foamy fresh bread, and bright-hued, high-piled vegetables. How old Lina produced such daily marvels from her tiny galley was a miracle to baffle the gods.

Wallie was annoyed to notice Rotanxi and Tivanixi drifting away in opposite directions. One was a prisoner of war and the other sworn to unlimited obedience. He decided to impose his authority, set them against each other, and see what resulted. It might be entertaining, even informative. Thus he carefully summoned the sorcerer to his left and the swordsman to his right, placing himself in a corner so that their backs were against different walls and they could not ignore each other completely. Rotanxi seated himself with the calculated movements of age. The graceful castellan settled like a snowflake, although he had to make the additional maneuver of drawing his sword, no easy task under the low ceiling. Jja, interpreting her master’s wink correctly, became waitress for the evening.

While the rest of the company gathered around the food there was tense silence in the corner. Wallie pointed at Tivanixi’s bandage, matching his own. “Lord Boariyi favors shoulder cuts, I see.”

The swordsman looked abashed. “This rag is not really necessary, I confess! The combat for leadership, round one—but he was very gentle, hardly enough blood for the crowd to see. Yet I thought we had put on a good show, my liege, until I saw round two! I shall tell my grandsons about that!”

Rotanxi snorted. The castellan scowled. “You will instruct us tomorrow how to kill off the sorcerer vermin, my liege?”

“I will,” Wallie said. “Sorcerers themselves are no great problem, as we showed at Ov, but their towers will be harder.”

Jja appeared with two platters, one in each hand. She tactfully offered them simultaneously, giving precedence to neither guest. Wallie smiled his approval.

He had the advantage, for Tivanixi was fighting in the dark, so Wallie decided to throw his weight in. He could feel the antipathy around him like static. Earth had its ancient enmities—Christian versus Jew, Catholic versus Protestant—but none was a fraction as old as this hatred between sorcerer and swordsman.

“It might be fair under the old rules, my lord sorcerer. Of course I intend to instruct the swordsmen in some new techniques.”

By tradition. Sapphire’s crew sat around the walls when eating in the deckhouse, with the food on one chest and Brota on the other. Nnanji, however, now chose to sit directly in front of Wallie and be part of the discussion. His plate was piled obscenely high, as always. In a moment Thana came to sit at his side.

“The horses, of course,” Wallie said, ignoring a warning grunt from his vassal. “Bows and arrows—which are probably deadlier than your thunderbolts. And catapults, to knock down the walls.”

The sorcerer raised a snowy eyebrow. “Indeed? It will take some time to train cavalry and build catapults, will it not?”

Silence fell for a moment. Then Wallie kicked the ball the other way. “Lord Rotanxi informed me that the tryst’s funds are low, my lord vassal.”

With great reluctance the castellan said, “We have about twenty golds left. Of course we had laid in a good supply of food for . . . we have a good supply of food.”

“For your canceled voyage,” Rotanxi agreed dryly. “A week’s supply, I should guess? You will train cavalry in a week? And you must buy horses and lumber, not to mention bows and hay and saddles . . . ”

“Leather?” Nnanji whispered, and Thana smiled and glanced over at her mother. Everyone was eating now, but everyone was also listening.

“Leather for saddles and also for the catapults,” Wallie agreed. “And pitch.”

“Pitch?” Nnanji asked, disapproving on principle although he could have no idea what the pitch would be for.

“We shall hurl flaming pitch at the towers. The results may be spectacular, may they not, Lord Rotanxi? Especially if we can put a shot through the third window up, extreme south on the east side?”

That was the room where Katanji had seen sacks being stored in the Sen tower. Katanji insisted that all towers were identical. Wallie had assumed that the sacks included the gunpowder supply, and Rotanxi’s sudden pallor confirmed his guess. Point to Wallie.

Tivanixi would not understand that, but he noted the reaction and continued his meal in smiling silence. In a moment the sorcerer riposted.

Angrily he said, “We have twice asked the elders for money. Each time they imposed a special tax that raised four hundred golds—but we spend fifty golds a day! We boarded as many as we could in the lodge, but that meant that we had to buy bedding—and slaves, of course. The rest are billeted on citizens and we must pay an allowance—”

The castellan flushed angrily, but this impudent Fifth was his liege. “I believe it is, now. Much of it was not, before Lord Boariyi imposed discipline. And there has been compensation for damage and injuries. There are not only swordsmen, my liege, there are wives and night slaves and children and minstrels and heralds. Profiteers are driving up prices outrageously. If you are planning a delay in departure, we shall have to think of winter clothing. Catapults and horses will certainly be expensive; stabling, saddles—and you promised to compensate the sailors for transportation . . . ” His voice tailed off in a note of despair.

It sounded terrible. Wallie had been thinking that he could sell Griffon and recover his expense money. Obviously he, also, had underestimated what a tryst cost. Two or three thousand golds would not be near enough if he was looking at a delay of several weeks—and he would need Griffon, anyway. Rotanxi reached for the wine bottle and poured himself another goblet in private celebration. Brota and Tomiyano exchanged glances. Money was a subject they enjoyed more than swordsman talk.

“A hearth tax,” the castellan replied, showing surprise. “Normally it is collected annually.”

In a world without writing the taxation system would be primitive in the extreme. Even a poll tax might be impossible to collect. A hearth tax? Wallie tried to remember the skyline of Casr; he recalled many chimneys—which meant cold winters.

Hearth tax and dock tax? Probably the elders were a mixture of traders and landowners. Wallie was still thinking about that when Thana intervened. “Four hundred golds would be only a part of what was collected. Who got the rest?”

Tivanixi frowned at her presumption, but Rotanxi caw a chance to score. “The tax collectors, of course.”

“Like the corrupt port officers?” she said. “Relatives of the elders? And the elders get a kickback?”

The sorcerer nodded, smiling grimly. “And so do the swordsmen who accompany the collectors to enforce payment. There were people selling furniture to pay the last impost, my lord. What will you take from them now, their clothes?” His spies had reported well.

The swordsmen were silent, but Thana was obviously nurturing an interest in politics. “Who appoints elders?”

“Elders do,” Rotanxi said, beaming at her like a grandfather. “They appoint the garrison, also, of course, and the swordsmen keep the elders in power. Parasites!”

Thana looked at Nnanji, who was frowning, hopelessly lost in this discussion of politics and finance. “Let’s be elders, darling,” she said.

The swordsmen seemed to have lost the last few points, and Nnanji could be counted on to make it worse.

“Brother?” he said. “You let Lord Boariyi off with the first oath. He must have vassals? Does that mean we have two trysts now?”

“Yes, I suppose it does, my liege Nnanji. He has a great many of the Sixths sworn to him—almost half, I should say.”

“What do the elders do with all that money?” Thana inquired, still pondering the intricacies of government.

Wallie looked at Tivanixi, who shrugged blankly. Swordsmen did not worry about such things—but apparently wizards did.

“Oh, they perform a few services,” Rotanxi said. “Clean the streets once in a while, gather nightsoil—which they sell at a profit to the farmers—maintain the docks and the wells. The garrison is always the largest expense, of course. Mostly, though, they give banquets for visiting swordsmen!”

Tivanixi flushed and then saw that his liege expected an explanation. “There are always balls and other social events! As visitors in town, the highranks were invited. There is one planned for tomorrow night. Now that the tryst is not departing, you will be invited, of course.”

Thana clapped her hands in delight. “I shall need a gown! Jja, would you—”

She stopped with a gulp. Jja dropped her eyes to her plate. Discomfort reigned, while all Thana’s relatives glared at her.

Wallie ought to attend any civic function, to reassure the elders and mend some fences. He could certainly not take Jja. To go without an escort might look very odd. Damn! As if he did not have enough problems! Nnanji would certainly be invited . . . Worse than the thought of not going was the thought of Nnanji running loose, playing junior-half-of-liege-lord.

And Nnanji had returned and heard the news from Thana. “Fine!” he said cheerfully. “I hope I’m not too exhausted to dance! How many Sixths are there, vassal?”

Nnanji rolled his eyes blissfully, without stopping chewing. “And I’m their liege! I can order them out to fence! Let’s see, at six a day . . . ” He lapsed into a long, frowning calculation.

“They’ll butcher you!” Wallie said. “And I may have a few things for you to do.”

Nnanji grinned with his mouth full. “Anything, of course! But I can’t ride and I don’t know archery. I could collect taxes, maybe?”

“But you could find out who does ride! There must be a thousand useful skills in the tryst. Remember Kandoru? He was a fine horse doctor, Quili said. Thana is a great sailor. We shall need smiths and archers and horsemen and carpenters—”

Wallie glared at him. This was typical of the straight-line thinking that he would have to overcome, and he had hoped Nnanji knew better. “Will you take carpenters into battle with you to repair the catapults?”

Nnanji chewed thoughtfully for a while, then swallowed and said, “No, of course not. And saddlery’s a craft, but we have sutras on leather, horses . . . and cooking! Lots of things! Thank you, brother! So you parade the swordsmen past me and have each one say his name and what he can do, apart from swordsmaning . . . It’ll take a while, but I can do that for you.” He smiled happily and stuffed a whole beetroot into the smile.

Wallie was relieved. He had been afraid that Nnanji might take offense at being asked to be the tryst’s filing system.

“My liege Nnanji,” Tivanixi said quietly, “how many sutras are you short for Sixth rank?”

Nnanji beamed disgustingly. “I’m at ten eighty-two. I need to be at eleven fourteen.” Both he and Tivanixi began counting on their fingers.

“Thirty-two,” Wallie said glumly. If Tivanixi must have a liege of lower rank—the absurdity created by that infernal fourth oath—then he would much rather that liege be a Sixth than a Fifth. “I don’t think he’s quite ready yet, my lord vassal.”

“That’s only because it was the third day,” Wallie snapped. “He’s very good at learning his opponents. Two unknown Sixths would be another matter.”

So Tivanixi had his chance. “I thought you were good enough that first time we met, my liege. You humiliated those two Fifths, and I hadn’t chosen easy marks for you. Honorable Forarfi is an exceptional Sixth, a very high Sixth. Fiendori says—”

He stopped. They all looked at Wallie. “I disagree!” he said heavily. “He’s a good Fifth, but he’s not near Sixth yet.”

The matter was closed. Nnanji continued to chew noisily. Everyone else had finished main course. Apple pie was being passed around. The deckhouse was growing dim.

“After all,” Tivanixi said in a quiet, reflective voice, seemingly to no one in particular, “it isn’t as if he could go on and try for Seventh.”

“It isn’t?” Wallie said, irritated. Did they think he was jealous of Nnanji?

“It would not be possible, my liege. All the Sevenths in town are his direct vassals and hence ineligible as examiners—all except Lord Boariyi, and I doubt if anyone would ask him! There is just no way Master Nnanji can become a Seventh until after the tryst is disbanded.”

“I hadn’t thought of that!” Wallie said, wondering why the news was welcome. Nnanji was looking wistful. “All right! Tomorrow at dawn—let’s get it over with.”

Wallie smiled with the best grace he could raise. “Nnanji is reputed to remember what his mother wore on the day he was born, my lord. I have just lost an hour’s sleep, that’s all.”

“Pity about seventh rank, though,” Nnanji remarked. “I was planning to ask Lord Chinarama!”

“What do you do about that?” Wallie inquired, suddenly curious. “You must have some real duffers in a thousand men. The Goddess brought them by the shipload. She had to take whoever was on board.”

Tivanixi nodded. “The easy ones get known. We simply gave them orders that they were not to accept any further requests. A few have been sent home.”

“How about challenges?” Nnanji asked, passing small pie along, keeping large pie. How did he stay so skinny?

The castellan nodded. “True. With most ranks we have plenty of choice, of course. Challenge was hinted at by one brave Sixth, and the other Sevenths quietly passed the word that a challenge to Lord Chinarama would result in severe anemia afterward.”

“Tomorrow, then,” said Wallie as the pies stopped traveling and he saw that he was holding what must be his piece. Nnanji had three. “Will you pick out a couple of Sixths? Real horrors, strong as bulls, swift as stooping falcons, terrible as the she-bear defending her young?”

“I know just the two,” Tivanixi said, “True butchers! Vicious sadists! We call them Collarbone and Testicle.” The listening sailors guffawed.

“Hey!” Nnanji yelped. “You’re my vassal, too. You pick a couple of elderly cripples! Arthritic and preferably almost blind.”

“I can see this divided allegiance may become a problem.” Tivanixi sighed. “I shall choose one of each.” He was clearly very pleased.

“There’s no honor in being an easy mark!” Wallie snapped. “And we don’t want the tryst to think that Nnanji is being favored. You pick good ones!” If the gods wanted Nnanji as a Sixth, then they could throw in a dash of miracle. Failure would do his ego no harm. He would not be eligible to try again for a year, so it would also stop his whining.

The castellan flushed and said of course he had been joking. He would choose highly respected Sixths. Thana and Nnanji pulled faces.

The meal was ended, night drawing in. Wallie’s mind was churning with all the plans he had for the next day. Everyone else was relaxed and good-humored, congratulating Lina on the meal. Even Rotanxi made a joke about the quality of the prisoners’ fare in Casr. The women began pressing Nnanji to sing more of Doa’s epic, some of which he had apparently passed on earlier. He said maybe later, but he was going to finish that pie if no one else . . .

Wallie jerked back into the conversation. Talk of the epic had brought mention of the seventh sword.

“I said that your sword is nearer eight hundred years old, Lord Shonsu, even if Chioxin made it in the last year of his life.”

“He died seven hundred and seventy-seven years ago!” The sorcerer grimaced in satisfaction at his superior knowledge.

Nnanji made skeptical noises, but Wallie was thinking hard. The sorcerers’ spy network was astonishingly efficient. That sword had only become news on the day he had arrived at the lodge. Rotanxi had received word of it, but surely the written records of such trivia would only be kept in Vul itself; there was no hint that the sorcerers had invented printing yet, so all books would be handwritten, and copying a tedious process. Rotanxi had sent an inquiry to the main library in Vul and received a reply before Wallie had captured him. Very fast work!

“What else do you know of Chioxin, my lord? Apart from his being left-handed, that is?”

“Bah! Sorcerers’ flimflam!” Nnanji was now a complete skeptic, knowing nothing of written records.

“You think so, master? Then I suggest you go to Quo and look at his statue!”

Smugly the sorcerer agreed. “Yes he was. But in those days, my lord, the lodge was located in Quo. It only moved to Casr a couple of centuries later.”

Wallie did not doubt him—Rotanxi had no reason to lie about this. But the news was shattering. That line of the riddle had never felt right. First your brother . . . when he had seen what that meant—Nnanji and the fourth oath—then he had known at once that it fit. From another wisdom again . . . he had never really doubted that the second line referred to Katanji. The rest had all become clear in its own time . . .

But when Tivanixi had told him that he had already fulfilled the ending by bringing the sword back to Casr, he had felt no instant surge of satisfaction. It had felt wrong. And Tivanixi had been mistaken.

Lord Shonsu had not yet returned the sword. The puzzle remained. Return to where? To whom? To Quo? To the Goddess?

The great courtyard of the lodge was blue with predawn shadow and clammy with dew. There were no sounds in it except the clatter of the two foils and the panting of the fencers sending out puffs of steam in the early-morning air; no one around except those called for this match. Bare branches shone darkly against a silver sky.

This was the third time Wallie had watched his protégé go up for promotion. The first two had been easy for him, but now he was having a struggle. Tivanixi had followed orders and chosen good Sixths to be Nnanji’s examiners.

But Wallie had said nothing about judges. Being the candidate’s direct vassal, Tivanixi was himself ineligible, and he had selected two judges with care. Probably he had done nothing so crude as to drop hints to them. He had merely selected men who could pick up their own hints. He had met Wallie at the door, suave and elegant despite the early hour, presenting his four Sixths, two to fence and two to judge. But a facemarker and a tailor had been routed out of bed to attend, and that was hardly routine. He had given Nnanji the salute to a superior. He had suggested that the light was still poor for fencing—would the judges consider doing the sutra test first, he had asked, knowing that Nnanji was good at that. The judges had shown their understanding by throwing easy ones. If the fencing examiners had not gotten the message from that, then they should have understood when the hurdles were left in place, cramping the work although the whole courtyard was available.

The first examiner was certainly a good Sixth, but much older than Nnanji, so Nnanji had naturally played for time, winding him—yet it was the Sixth who had been reprimanded for not making a fight of it. Disheartened by that obvious injustice, he had lost the bout shortly thereafter.

The second opponent had resented these sleazy tactics and had fought hard. Then, with the score tied at one all, had come this disputed point. Such things happened all the time—that was why there were judges—but Wallie would have made the award against Nnanji, had he been judging.

Yet that was hardly fair, either, for he was barely paying attention. He had so many things whirling in his mind that he could hardly stand still beside the hurdles, wanting to pace up and down among the statues and benches. Sleepy spectators were appearing on the balconies, roused by the clatter.

Nnanji of the Sixth! Wallie stepped forward to congratulate him, half angry at the manipulation, half amused that even his righteous oath brother could bend his standards enough to ignore it. Yet it was a valuable lesson in the difference between obedience and cooperation—Tivanixi was looking very smug.

The tailor bowed and held out a green kilt. Nnanji tried it against himself and said in surprise that it seemed like a perfect fit. The tailor bowed once more and smiled. “Lord Tivanixi brought around a Second who was the same size as your honor.”

So it had been specially made during the night? Wallie frowned reproachfully at Tivanixi, who avoided his eye. Nnanji threw off his red and put on the green, grinned in delight at nowhere in particular, then sat down on one of the benches while the facemarker pulled up his stool. Wallie could not express his feelings without creating a scandal, so he merely thanked all four Sixths and dismissed them.

“I wish to meet with the council as soon as possible,” Wallie said. “Then with the Sixths. The town is being patrolled as usual, I suppose?” He pondered. “There must be many retired swordsmen in this city.”

“Pick one that looks as much like our sorcerer as possible. Swear him to the tryst, then smuggle him down to Sapphire—”

Tivanixi laughed. “And parade him back in chains? Bands playing? Crowds booing?”

“Should we also arrange for other imposters to scream in relays from the dungeons, do you think?” Tivanixi asked.

Wallie chuckled and said he thought that might be going too far, “Are any of these ex-swordsmen elders?” he inquired. “Or city employees of any sort?”

“Great!” Just what Wallie had hoped for. “Swear him, also! At swordpoint if necessary.”

“We need to know the official scale of dock fees,” Wallie explained. “A ship of Sapphire’s size pays two golds in a sorcerer town, but five in a swordsman town. The difference is supposedly graft.”

“The sorcerers have made their port officers honest. They are trying to increase trade, because some ships shirk their ports. We, however, are merely going to take over collection of dock fees in Casr. We need to know the official scale and the real charges. Then—in the example I quoted—we shall remit two golds to the town, as required by law, and three to the tryst for providing the service. That solves the money problem.”

Tivanixi gasped and very nearly slapped his liege lord on the shoulder. He slapped his own thigh instead. “Brilliant, my liege! I shall see to it! Honorable Fiendori is the man for that job!”

He went off, almost skipping. Wallie sighed. It could not possibly be as easy as he had just made it seem, but perhaps he had gained some time to work on more secure finances. Nnanji came sauntering over, grinning and rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Congratulations once more, Honorable Nnanji,” Wallie said. “You look about half the right age for the job, but I am sure you can handle it.”

“Thank you, brother!” Then he blurted out, “I’m not an easy mark now?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Wallie replied carefully. “You were an exceptional Fifth. You’re an average Sixth, I should say. A pity about that disputed hit,” he added, “but I do not dispute the call.”

Nnanji’s eyes glittered coldly. “Thank you, brother,” he said again. “I assure you that I did not feel a hit.”

Wallie winced. Of course Nnanji would not have lied about that. And the reason he had not rejected Tivanixi’s underhanded assistance was that he had not even noticed it. “You ought to try a longer foil, brother,” he said hastily.

Nnanji shook his head. “It was the same length as my sword.” He pulled out his sword and measured it in the traditional fashion by holding it above his head and seeing where the point came on his chest. Then he just stared at Wallie, bewildered.

And Wallie stared back in shock. “When we bought that sword for you, back in the temple armory, your eyes were not level with mine.” He had not noticed the change in height. It had been gradual. And now he could see that it had also been masked by the broadening shoulders, the thickening layers of muscle. All that day-long fencing was starting to show results. “Tell me, Nnanji, is it usual in this World for a man of your age to be still growing like that?”

Again Nnanji shook his head. His eyes were not only level with Wallie’s now, they were suddenly shining in the dawn light. “No! Of course not! This must be a miracle for me, brother!”

“It’s Lina’s cooking!” Wallie was trying not to show how uneasy this discovery made him, but he was also still feeling guilty for having doubted Nnanji’s honesty. “Come on,” he said, “I’ll find you a new one.”

Then he jumped as a bugler shattered the peace of the lodge with the opening bars of The Swordsmen in the Morning.

Wallie led the way to the museum, pausing halfway up to recruit a trio of burly, eye-rubbing juniors from one of the dormitories. He had them lift the great bar from the door, then sent them away, awed by his rank and looking puzzled. The door creaked in agony and Wallie led Nnanji inside.

The long room was even colder than before, dark and dusty and depressing. Nnanji’s eyes went wide as he saw what it was.

“There’s the Chioxin,” Wallie said. “Thought to be the ruby. But I doubt if much of the rest of this stuff is known at all. Pick a sword. Help yourself.”

Nnanji stared at the long wall covered with swords. “That would be stealing, brother!”

“Well?” Wallie demanded. “You are liege lord of Her tryst. I’m sure that She wants you to have a good sword. Help yourself.”

“Oh!” Nnanji said, his teeth shining in the gloom as he grinned. “Well, I shall leave my old one, the sword that won the battle of Ov—very historical. Now, let’s see.”

They measured a few against him and chose a length, then both wandered up and down the room, checking swords of that size. As Wallie had noticed before, long swords were surprisingly common. Some were rusted, but the best steels had fought back and were still good. Quite soon Nnanji said, “This one!”

Wallie took it to a window and bent it and swung it and said yes, that was a fine blade, better than his old one, even.

“Now you need someone to give it to you,” he said. “I’m sure that anyone would be proud. Tivanixi, Boariyi . . . even Katanji, if you like. Thana, maybe?”

“You haven’t shown me the Sixths’ signs yet, mentor,” Nnanji said coyly.

“True! There are six of them.” Wallie proceeded to do so: the challenge, the obeisance, the warning, the appeal for assistance, the acknowledgment, and the reversal of meaning. Of course he needed to demonstrate each of them only once.

“And that’s all!” he finished. “There are no secret signs for seventh rank. If a Seventh wants to signal to a Seventh, he uses those.”

Nnanji chuckled. “Well, that’s done! Now I’m a Sixth and you’re not my mentor anymore.” The second oath lapsed when a protégé achieved promotion. “You will allow me to swear to you again?”

“Of course. My honor! And I’m sure that you’ll make Seventh, probably right after we disband the tryst.”

“Thank you!” Nnanji had no doubts at all. “But right now you’re not my mentor, so it would be all right for you to give me this sword . . . if you would? I should like that, oath brother.”

“If you wish,” Wallie said, although he thought it was bending the tradition slightly—he was only temporarily not Nnanji’s mentor. He knelt on one knee and held out the sword in the ancient ritual. “Live by this. Wield it in Her service. Die holding it.”

“It shall be my honor and my pride.” The traditional words, although Nnanji probably meant them more than most. He took the sword and put it in his scabbard, then hung his old one on the wall. “Now I may swear the second oath, Lord Shonsu?”

“For the last time, Honorable Nnanji,” said Wallie. “And we should both see about getting some more protégés. And bodyguards. The sorcerers are sure to start reacting soon.”

When they reached the courtyard, it was starting to bustle. Slaves were working two pumps, filling a long trough at which naked swordsmen were washing themselves. Other slaves were tending fires in makeshift iron ranges, starting to cook breakfast. Nnanji headed for a grindstone to sharpen his new sword, enlisting a First to tread for him. More men were trickling out of doorways and a large party came marching in from the street, led by Boariyi and his uncle and about a dozen Sixths.

Tivanixi appeared at Wallie’s elbow. “I have spoken to Fiendori, my liege. Port officers will be escorted in future.” He laughed. “I think the elders may have some comments to make on the subject.”

The castellan chuckled, then nodded at the procession approaching. “Money is your stroke at the other tryst, my liege. Lord Boariyi cannot afford to feed his men. Perhaps you should invite him to have breakfast?”

“Too obvious. We’ll give him a few days. Say nothing.” But it was a pleasing thought. He could coerce Boariyi with money.

Boariyi came to a halt and made the salute to an equal, his face expressionless below a blue bandage on which he had marked seven swords with charcoal. Wallie responded to him, then to a salute from Zoariyi, who looked resentful and suspicious. Nnanji was still busy with his sword on the grindstone. Tivanixi saw Wallie’s glance toward him.

“We can proceed with the council meeting at once, my liege, as you wished,” he said. “The others are waiting.” For propriety’s sake, Nnanji should not meet the other Sevenths in public until they had sworn to him.

Wallie agreed. Tivanixi led the way. They entered the building by the door closest to the street exit and walked into another of the long rooms. One side was all windows, looking out at a litter of kitchen equipment. The other was paneled, much of the wood scuffed and split with age. The ceiling lurked above a mist of cobwebs.

The room was already full of swordsmen, standing or sitting on stools and benches, muttering and laughing. As the seniors entered, they sprang to their feet in a rattle of furniture and boots. Among these middleranks, to Wallie’s surprise, was Katanji.

His white kilt was soiled and rumpled, half his pony tail had escaped from his hairclip, and his eyes were red-rimmed, but he smiled when he saw Wallie, seeming quite relaxed. Still the boy hero, he had apparently been entertaining the company with his stories, yet he looked as if he had not slept all night. What had the little devil been up to this time? He showed no signs of wishing to talk. Reluctant to ask, Wallie merely nodded and smiled as he passed by.

This was an antechamber. A door at the far end led into a smaller, square room, although it was large also. At the far side was a huge stone fireplace, its hearth strewn with old ashes. Three walls were paneled, the fourth all grimy windows. A filthy gray rug only partly covered a floor of splintered planks; in its center was a circle of seven stools. Along the wall opposite the windows stood a large chest, a single brocade chair—shabby and leaking feathers—and, surprisingly, a bed covered with a greasy fur. A foggy bronze mirror hung beside the door. Evidently this grubby, stale-smelling chamber had several uses.

Three Sevenths rose and made their salutes. Most conspicuous was the elderly Chinarama, shriveled and slightly ridiculous compared to his much younger and more muscular companions. His ponytail was a white wisp and his harness fitted badly, but his eyes were quick and clear. An older man might be a valuable counselor. As Nnanji had said, he wouldn’t hurt. His movements were awkward, hinting perhaps at arthritis, and his face none too friendly. A Boariyi supporter, then.

Then there was Jansilui, who was around thirty, square-jawed and stocky, with one facemark not properly healed. He seemed less hostile, probably caring little who was leader if it could not be himself.

Linumino was older, about fifty, and running to fat. One side of his face was hideously scarred where a sword cut had removed half the eyebrow and cheek and, seemingly, part of the underlying bone as well. The skin there was sunken and a puckered white, like weathered leather. It was a miracle that his eye had survived. He would not have been a contender for the leadership. His salute was perfunctory, so he was another Boariyi supporter at heart. Wallie wondered briefly which of the six he would ask if he were Nnanji trying for promotion; with old Chinarama out of bounds, certainly this portly Linumino, and probably Zoariyi, who was similarly nearing retirement.

Wallie invited them all to be seated. Suspicion hung in the air like a bad smell. In trial by combat the Goddess had declared him innocent, yet that fight had been as near as possible a draw, and trial by combat was not a normal procedure anyway. They did not completely trust him; they would obey him, but they might obey willingly or—as Tivanixi had done over Nnanji’s promotion—reluctantly, honoring his words while thwarting his purpose.

He mentioned that Nnanji had gained promotion and would be there shortly to receive their homage, but, as a Sixth, would not be a member of the council. Wallie had some special duties in mind for Nnanji. Then he went on to the subject of money, explaining how the tryst was going to divert the unofficial portion of the harbor dues. They all smiled at that.

“So you have solved the finance problem at one stroke, my liege?” Chinarama asked.

“For the moment,” Wallie said. He turned to more difficult matters. “Lord Boariyi, you have sworn the first oath only. I propose to treat you as a full member of this council, and your vassals as members of the tryst. In return, I ask—”

Nnanji never knocked on doors. He marched in and slammed this one behind him. He was scowling. The Sevenths rose to their feet again, most of them returning his scowl.

He wiped a hand on his new green kilt. He reached for his sword. He gave Lord Boariyi the salute to a superior in impeccable fashion, then glanced cryptically at Wallie and waited.

Who saluted whom? The damnable fourth oath was fouling up all the rituals. Hesitantly Wallie presented Nnanji to Chinarama, and the two exchanged salute and response.

“Now I swear the third oath to you, Honorable Nnanji?” the old man inquired petulantly.

“It distresses me, my lord,” Nnanji said in his soft voice, “to have to accept such an oath from a respected senior such as yourself, but that seems to be what Lord Shonsu’s position . . . ”

Wallie saw a look of horror come over Boariyi’s face, then Tivanixi’s. He followed their gaze. Nnanji was tugging his left earlobe, he had his right thumb in his belt, his right knee was slightly bent.

What! Had he gone insane? Promotion? Of course not—he would need to secure judges first, and courtesy would demand that he ask before he challenged, and it was illegal anyway . . .

Nnanji was still babbling on about oaths. Chinarama was paying no attention to the signal. Then he became aware of the tension about him, and his eyes flickered warily around the group.

Wallie flashed out his sword left-handed and laid the point at the old man’s throat. “Put your hands straight up in the air!” he bellowed, pushing Nnanji aside with his injured arm, which hurt. “Say it, Nnanji!”

Chinarama curled his lip in a sneer. “So there are some swordsmen with brains, are there?” Then he burst into a diatribe of obscenities and vituperation, a lifelong hatred of swordsmen spilling out like pus as he ranted about rapists and murderers and thieves, perverts and bullies . . . It was rank and nauseating, but Wallie let it run on until it died away of itself; he kept the sword-point steady. There would be no need to try this case. The man had confessed.

“Lord Zoariyi,” he said. “Go behind him. The rest of you stand back. Now, remove his harness, if you please. And his kilt.”

“Yes.” Wallie did not move his eyes from the hate-filled eyes of the old man. “His hairclip, too! Let me see your hands!”

The imposter showed them. “Fancy all you husky young swordsmen being scared of one old man,” he sneered.

It was only when the pathetic figure was stark naked and all his gear was safely out of reach that Wallie relaxed and sheathed his sword. He looked around at the faces filled with horror, fear, shame, and anger. “Later I will show you some of the sorcerer tricks,” he explained, finding that his voice was defensive. It did seem ludicrous to take such precautions against such a weakling. “How did you know, Nnanji?”

Nnanji was staring at Chinarama with disgust and contempt. “Katanji told me, brother.”

“You remember on Griffon you showed us some of the sorcerer magic, brother? You got your fingers dirty. Yesterday Katanji was with me when I was presented to this . . . man. He had the same marks on his fingers. I didn’t notice and Katanji didn’t say anything. But he followed him afterward. He went to the house of a merchant and spent a long time there. They have a cage of pigeons in the yard—”

“We don’t understand, but we are grateful, my liege Nnanji,” Tivanixi said, “to you and your brother. And to you, my liege Shonsu. We are very much in your debt.” His face was basaltic with rage and humiliation. The others looked much the same.

“Let’s get him safely locked up first,” Wallie said, turning and heading for the door. He was staggered by the thought of a spy within the council itself—yet why not? All Chinarama had needed to know had been the salutes and oaths, which were public. He had not been required to fight. He could always plead an old man’s failing memory when queried on anything. Obviously the younger men had secretly admired him as a tough old boy. They had protected him. He had told Rotanxi of the tryst’s plans and finances, and of the importance of the seventh sword. It was all so infuriatingly obvious now that it was pointed out—and by Katanji, of course! That was why he had been the right one to take along on the Griffon expedition; he brought wisdom. And his eyes missed nothing, not even inkstains on fingers.

Wallie reached for the door handle, heard a board creak behind him, and whirled around, sword in hand. Chinarama crashed to the floor, slammed down by Nnanji like a swatted bug in a splash of blood, his head almost severed from his shoulders. A knife clattered at Wallie’s feet.

They were all too stunned even to swear. For a moment the only sound was the death rattle, the only movement the twitching of the corpse. Boariyi had his sword out, Tivanixi’s hand was on the hilt of his. The other three had their hands raised.

Nnanji lifted his eyes from the body. He looked at Wallie and then grinned. His new sword was still dripping blood.

Wallie bent to pick up the knife. It was small and looked deadly sharp, but he did not test it with his thumb because the blade had been coated with something, like the knives he had found in Rotanxi’s gown. Standard sorcerer issue?

This grubby room with its dirt-smeared windows, cobwebs on the panels, old ashes in the fireplace—it suddenly all became horribly sharp and clear, made more real by the awareness of death. He had so very nearly died here. They would have laid him on that filthy bed. Probably this had been Shonsu’s room, so perhaps that was where Doa had lain, waiting for her lover to return from the brothel. He hoped his trembling was not showing, but it probably was. He had just had a very narrow escape. Only Nnanji’s incredible reflexes had saved him.

“Lord Shonsu!” Boariyi had turned red. “I was wrong, very wrong! I wish now to swear the third oath.”

Nnanji was wiping his sword with Chinarama’s kilt. The others were smiling, their suspicions forgotten. Honorable Nnanji had unmasked a spy, and the spy had tried to kill Lord Shonsu—there were no doubts about loyalties now.

“Honorable Nnanji,” Boariyi continued, “I have never seen a more masterful piece of swordsmanship. I was a year behind you.” He stepped over the body and held out a hand in admiration. Nnanji sheathed his sword and shook hands, grinning shyly up at the giant.

“I agree with that,” Tivanixi said. “I had hardly started. Magnificent! The knife—was that sorcery?”

“In his boot, I expect,” Nnanji said airily. He had one in his own boot because his mentor had told him to bring it.

“Wait! My lords!” Zoariyi was beaming. “Is this not a clear case for eleven thirty-nine?”

There was a pause as five minds searched the sutras. Then four faces broke into smiles and there was a chorus of agreement.

Nnanji, puzzled and irritated, looked at the smiles and then at Wallie. Wallie did not feel like smiling at all. The Sevenths had found a way out of their stupid status problem at the cost of turning Nnanji into a laughingstock. He struggled to maintain what he hoped was a poker face, but they were all waiting hopefully for him to speak. There was no way that he could deny them, none at all. Once again Nnanji had saved his life.

He turned toward Nnanji, therefore, and raised his sword. Nnanji blinked in surprise.

Wallie paused, then said it: “I am Shonsu, swordsman of the seventh rank, liege lord of the tryst of Casr, and I give thanks to the Most High . . . ”

Thana stepped through the arch and paused at the top of the steps to survey the busy, noisy courtyard in its shadowing box of balconied walls. Swordsmen fencing, chanting sutras, arguing, singing, gambling . . . very nice! Men from bank to bank.

She glanced then at Jja, who was carrying a bundle and trying not to seem apprehensive. “Don’t worry! You’re Shonsu’s. Just mention that and you’ll have no trouble here.”

Jja smiled and nodded without much confidence. Thana herself was aware of uneasy shiverings deep down inside. Ever since Yok she had been unable to see landlubber swordsmen in groups without those shiverings. Yet she had been assured that these swordsmen were well behaved now, bound by the blood oath and by strict rules of behavior toward civilians. But did those rules mention swordswomen? Still, Jja was Shonsu’s and she was Nnanji’s and he was liege lord, too. How many knew that, though?

Some juniors passing by at the bottom of the steps had seen them and stopped to admire. They were grinning, thumbs in belts, balancing on one foot and stamping the other, which was a humorous sign of approval, reminiscent of bulls pawing the ground. They did not look dangerous. Rather fun. “Come on,” Thana said, and led the way down.

Wait by the steps, they had been told, and they would have had trouble doing otherwise, for soon the juniors were all around them, grinning, kidding, making slyly obscene suggestions about lunging lessons and how about a trip on your ship. Virile young men, fit and smart—most of them—and supremely confident and pleased with themselves, for the Goddess had called them to Her tryst. Firsts and Seconds to start with, then Thirds edged them out. No, there was no harm, and much flattery. A couple of them were knockouts, quite scrumptious. It was harder for Jja, of course, who could not banter back, but Thana was aware that she herself was enjoying this, giving as good as she was getting. It made her realize again how very young Nnanji was for his rank. She wondered how he’d made out. If he had failed, the one-year wait would kill him. He’d been unbearable.

Fanfare! Now what? The courtyard fell silent, faces turning toward the balcony where the trumpet was bellowing. The council was coming out—Shonsu, huge and looking very bleak, and right behind him was Nnanji. In a green kilt! He had made it! Jja grabbed Thana’s arm in excitement and whispered congratulations. They began to edge closer. Nnanji of the Sixth! Party tonight!

Then the others. No, not all—the old one was missing. And Katanji? How did he get in there?

“Your honors, masters . . . ” The squat chief herald had joined the notables and started to thunder his proclamation.

“Landlubbers!” Thana snarled in Jja’s ear. “They do love this bilgey pomp, don’t they?”

Then the herald described the unmasking of Chinarama as a sorcerer. Thana jumped as an explosion of male booing burst out all around, but she and Jja joined in, grinning at each other and adding a treble note to the chorus.

They almost missed the next bit, but it was about Nnanji killing the spy; it sounded as if Shonsu had just had a narrow escape. Thana put an arm round Jja, who had turned pale.

“Sutra eleven thirty-nine . . . outstanding courage or swordsmanship in the presence of an enemy shall be just and sufficient cause for promotion . . . ” She had been studying Nnanji’s grin, and everyone around her was talking—was that what she had heard? Seventh? Now Jja was hugging her, so it must be. She had done it! She’d always said she would.

Of course! Why had she ever doubted? Now it had actually happened, it felt quite inevitable.

“I’ve got one, too, Jja!” she said, and the slave woman nodded and laughed with her.

She studied the faces. The juniors were grinning and laughing, but the older men were scowling. Well, what would you expect? Lord Nnanji? It sounded good! And now they were on about his brother—it was hard to hear and even harder to see, now, for the crowd was filling in, packing closer around them. Third? Well, trust Katanji!

A few voices started the chorus from the song about him and were glared into silence by the seniors. Now there was cheering. The councilors were going back inside.

“Aw, come on! Just a quick look!” said a voice behind her, but she wasn’t paying attention. A tall Fourth with very well developed pectorals was asking her about Nnanji, and she was saying proudly that yes she was, and then Jja half squealed and half screamed, and Thana swung around and couldn’t find her in the crowd of bare male shoulders and sword hilts and ponytails. Then she saw that a couple of Seconds had pulled Jja’s wrap off and were tugging at the bundle she was holding in front of her. There was much laughter and some angry shouting, and Thana grabbed the Fourth and screamed that that was Shonsu’s slave and there would be hell—

Where Shonsu had come from, she didn’t know, but he came through the crowd as if it were long grass. There seemed to be bodies flying in all directions, and she was knocked down and rolled into a forest of legs and boots and a canopy of kilts. After a few kicks and stampings she was dragged to her feet and she began panicking her way toward the exit, fighting in a tumult of kilted men until she was carried backward by the current—and then Nnanji was there and he hugged her, and she clung to him.

His face was murderous. He began pulling her roughly back through the throng. He could see over the heads, but she could not; she hadn’t realized quite how tall he was. She caught glimpses of Shonsu looming over the others as she and her husband pushed through the crowd, moving toward him slowly, for Nnanji might have top rank now, but what was needed here was beef and weight—although he was doing all right. And then they arrived at the edge of a clearing.

The two Seconds were kneeling there and Shonsu was blazing in the middle. Blazing! It was the only word she could think of. She had never seen a fury like that—he was a giant, rampant. He glanced at someone in her direction, and his eyes were red. Impossible! He was roaring and he had his sword out, the Chioxin sword, and all around him there was emptiness surrounded by an army of cowering men. The other Sevenths were there, but they weren’t speaking except when Shonsu spoke to them. He turned again in her direction and no, his eyes were not red, but . . . Then the two kneeling Seconds bent their heads forward, and the seventh sword arced and flashed with an audible hiss, and she screamed, thinking that the boys were going to be beheaded, but it was their ponytails that fell to the ground.

Jja, dressed again, rushed forward, clutching at her owner’s shoulder, saying something. He hurled her away without a word. She sprawled at Lord Tivanixi’s feet, and he bent to help her up.

“Nnanji!” Thana shouted. “They were only playing! They weren’t going to do anything more. Stripping a pretty slave is—it happens all the time!”

The whole tryst was cringing, she could see, and now Shonsu had opened his fury wide. He was speaking to Tivanixi, but he could have been heard down by the docks.

“How many sleep in the lodge?” She couldn’t hear the answer, but the castellan was pale, too. “How many are billeted?” It looked as if Tivanixi didn’t know. “Very well! You take that side. Zoariyi, that one. Jansilui, Boariyi—I want to know how many dormitories on each wall, how many men they could hold, and how many other rooms can be cleared of junk. Move!”

The four Sevenths plowed into the crowd and, as it opened for them, ran. Then that human thunder roared again: “Linumino? Take a party of Sixths and inspect all the nearby buildings. Are there any that would make dormitories—halls or empty warehouses? Move!” Another Seventh ran.

“Everyone! Those of you who sleep here, go back to your rooms and clean them up! They’re pigsties! Clean floors, clean windows, bedding neatly rolled, packs tidy! There’s going to be an inspection, and may the gods help those who don’t pass! The rest of you stand by for work details to tidy out the other rooms. You! Go and do the council room! You! Start on the stairwells.”

“Come on!” Nnanji whispered to Thana and led her over to Jja, who was weeping. “Look after her.” Then he vanished, following Shonsu.

The two women found a stone bench and sat down. The courtyard was clearing, but the turmoil of men running in all directions made it seem just as full as before. Nobody seemed to know what was happening.

“Congratulations!” Thana said calmly. She had her arm around Jja, who was sobbing on her shoulder and didn’t seem to want to do anything else, ever again.

“I’m not sure!” He looked bewildered and was trying not to. There were red rims round his eyes; his face was drawn. He yawned suddenly, and she guessed that he had not been to bed. “I think it was Nanj,” he said. “They were going to make him a Seventh, and he refused unless they promoted me; I think that must be what happened. I had to promise to learn the sutras, and they made me a Third.” He smirked.

Thana found this part of the events rather amusing—Nnanji, who was so prickly about rituals? “What about the swordsmanship? What happens if you get challenged?”

A strange expression came over Katanji’s normally cheeky face, one she had never seen on it before. He gazed down at his cast for a minute. “I can’t move my fingers, Thana. I don’t know they’re there unless I look. I’ll never hold a sword again. I promised that, too.”

“It’s all right. I’d never have been any good, anyway. Nanj didn’t know that sutra until now, see? Nobody does except Sevenths. But you know Nanj and sutras—he said if courage counted . . . and you heard what Shonsu said about me last time we were here? So he had to agree, and the others wanted Nanj a Seventh.” He sniggered. “Unanimous! A First can’t own things—but a Third can!”

That hadn’t stopped him before. She fingered the pearls round her neck. He noticed and scowled as he always did. Then he laughed, and the old mischief twinkled in his eyes again.

“That was small stuff!” he said mysteriously. “Look, I’ve got to go. Business!” He jumped up and vanished into the confusion. She caught a glimpse of him running out the gate.

The courtyard was much emptier and quieter. Then someone shouted warning. A stool came off a balcony and exploded in splinters on the paving. A broken bedstead followed it. Other balconies started raining old furniture and bundles and boxes and timbers. Clouds of dust came whirling around. Suddenly the courtyard was full of falling debris. Jja recovered enough to sit up, sniffing and red-eyed, and watch the display.

Nnanji appeared out of the fog, grinning. He had his seventh swordmark, but be still wore the green kilt.

He sat down beside her and hugged her negligently. Sex was rarely far from Nnanji’s mind, but for once his excitement was coming from other things. “House cleaning!” he said. “There’s lots of room here to hold the tryst, but Tivanixi never organized it. A couple of the floors are unsafe, but mostly the place is one big junk heap. Shonsu is organizing. Clean out and clean up! He’s threatened to flog the next man he sees with a dirty kilt, so half of them have stripped completely—you want to leave, or stay and enjoy that?”

He nodded. He was grinning hugely. “I’ll look after it. But you’re going to miss a lot of fun. Now he’s talking water supply and hygiene and latrines and cooking! He’s going to sell all the slaves Tivanixi bought and buy more bedding and stuff with the money. He’ll make the juniors do the cooking and cleaning. Only swordsmen are to be allowed in at all. Even the heralds will need escorts!” He laughed. “Glad you’re not his vassal?”

She studied him in surprise. “You don’t think that those things are beneath a swordsman’s honor?”

He shook his head. “Not in battle! Not once the third oath has been sworn! There are sutras on all of them. He’d have us in tents if the money was available, I think. They haven’t had enough to do. Thanks, Jja.”

Jja’s face was a desolation, her face swollen, her eyes raw with weeping, but she stared up at him in astonishment, and he grinned again. “He lost his temper! He needs to do that more often. Now they know they have a liege lord!”

“But, Hon—Lord Nnanji? He sold those two swordsmen into slavery? He hates slavery!”

Nnanji frowned angrily. “By rights he should have killed them! It was good for the tryst, Jja. They disobeyed orders from their liege. He should have killed them, really; I would have done. But I suppose the others are more shocked by slavery; and their mentors have each had one rankmark blotted and are in charge of nightsoil removal until further notice.” He snickered. “I’d never have thought of that!” Then he turned to watch the torrents of filth pouring off the balconies and the hills of refuse rising below. “Some were pretty scruffy. Almost as bad as the temple guard, some of them, anyway. Not many.”

Thana stood up. After this madhouse, Sapphire would be a nice, calm place. She would take Jja back there, then go and see about a gown for the ball. Jja was weeping again.

The long antechamber was now clean, at least in theory. The fireplace was empty, the dust more evenly distributed. The paneling had been carefully smeared as high as a man on a stool could reach with a rag, although above that a cornice of dust and cobwebs remained, its base scalloped in graceful arcs. The window-panes had been rubbed to a greasy sheen.

Racket drifted in from an anthill of activity outside in the courtyard. One row of ants was carrying garbage out to a bonfire in the middle of the plaza; another row of ants was returning, and that included those who had been billeted on citizens and were now bringing in their belongings. On almost every balcony a man was cleaning windows. Down in the yard itself a work gang hammered and sawed, building extra latrines and washhouses. Two streets away, an unused temple was being converted to women’s quarters.

Wallie had ordered a table placed in the middle of the room, six stools in front of the windows, and two rows of stools along the other side, thirty-nine of them for thirty-nine Sixths. The Firsts who had moved the furniture had thought that a very strange arrangement, but to Wallie it was a long, narrow lecture room. Next slide, please. He had recovered his temper and did not feel very guilty over losing it . . . not very. Nnanji had approved, which was reassuring.

That young man was already sitting on one of the six stools, legs crossed, eyes staring dreamily into space. He had been carefully instructed and could probably be relied upon to pick up his cue. Nothing could spoil this day for Nnanji, Lord Nnanji, swordsman of the seventh rank, member of the council. For the tryst, Nnanji was the true seventh Seventh. He had achieved his ambition, the dream of every young boy in the World. He was perhaps the youngest Seventh in the history of the People. What was he going to do with the rest of his life?

Now the Sixths were dribbling in, cowed and dusty and possibly resentful, but certainly obedient. They filled up the two rows opposite the windows—starting at the ends, so that the last arrivals would be in the center, closest to the dread liege as he leaned against the table. Then the last Sixths and the last of the council, and the door was closed, and everyone waited apprehensively.

Nnanji blinked pale eyes in astonishment and obediently began reciting the sutra. Wallie cut him off and said to Boariyi, who was next, “Three twenty-two?”

When he had finished with the Sevenths, he walked down to a nervous, rather young Sixth at the end of the front row and demanded seven twenty-nine . . .

Finally he returned to his place, leaning against the table. “There you are,” he said cheerfully. “No sorcerers present!”

“Over the next two or three days, your honors, you are to test every man in the tryst like that! If you find one who does not know his sutras, watch out! Each of you will test his protégés and make sure that they test theirs, and so on.”

“Well, I’m going to tell you how to fight sorcerers. There are two tricks to it, that’s all. What do the sutras say about them?”

Lips moved, brows frowned. Silence. The sutras said nothing at all about sorcerers. Carefully Wallie led them through the logic; sorcerers were not swordsmen, to be greeted with challenge and the ways of honor. Nor were they civilians, to be handled with kindness, courtesy, and firmness, as the sutras optimistically specified. They had to be treated as armed civilians, therefore an abomination. Therefore anything went, anything at all.

He raised his voice as the hammering outside increased. “The first trick is speed. Lord Boariyi, would you assist?” He stood the skinny giant beside him at the table and pointed down the length of the long room, to the door that led into the council chamber. “We are going to have a race, my lord. We shall pretend that a sorcerer has appeared in that doorway, and we shall see who can kill him first.”

Boariyi regarded him with disbelief, then amusement. The audience brightened. A race they could understand.

Tivanixi let the suspense build for a moment while the two big men waited, side by side. Then he said, “Now!” Boariyi launched himself forward like a sprinter, pulling his sword . . . and Wallie’s knife slammed into the door before he was halfway to it. He skidded to a stop and swung around, face flaming.

The audience seethed with silent disgust. Knives—especially concealed knives—were an abomination from the lowest cesspool of the Place of Demons.

Then Zoariyi called out the line that Wallie had been hoping to get. “It’s one thing to hit a door, my liege. A man is a much smaller target.”

“Nnanji!” Wallie shouted. “Sorcerer!” He pointed as if he were sicking a dog on an intruder.

Nnanji’s mind was not as far away as it seemed, and he had crossed his legs so that the knife in his boot was handy. He rose, hurled it, and sat down to continue smiling at nothing. The knife struck within a finger-width of Wallie’s. Boariyi dodged, but long after it had gone by him. The audience collectively said: “Ooo!”

“Curiously,” Wallie said, gleeful at the lucky shot, “Lord Nnanji is much better with a knife than I am.” The Sixths absorbed that thought with interest.

He walked over to get his knife, ostentatiously replacing it in his boot. Then he flipped Nnanji’s so that it struck the floor in front of him and Nnanji could pick it up. The hours of practice in the ship were paying off, although not in the way he had expected.

“If you fight sorcerers in the ways of honor,” Wallie said, “they will win every time. I was rescued from the sorcerers at Ov by Nnanji and my sailor friends, armed with knives. The sorcerer’s thunder weapons are about as accurate and more deadly, but they take time to reload.”

Then he said, “Nnanji, you don’t need to hear all this. We shall excuse you.” Nnanji rose, nodded happily, and sauntered off to attend to the many things that he had been given to do. Whatever his oath brother wanted was fine with him.

When the door had closed behind him Wallie said, “One other thing about testing for spies: Beware of any water-rat swordsmen you may have—they can read lips, some of them, and many of us mouth the words when we’re listening to sutras. I suspect that water rats in general may not be very good on sutras, so test water rats with a foil—they’ll pass that test!” He dared not look at Tivanixi.

The lecture continued. The second trick, the liege said, was to get the sorcerers out of their gowns—then they were harmless, like the old man he had shown in the temple. Jja’s bundle lay on the table, and from that he produced Rotanxi’s gown. He showed it off—the long sleeves, the numerous pockets, the cunning slits by which the wearer could reach in any pocket while appearing to have his arms folded within the sleeves. Then he brought out the gadgets, one by one, and explained them, showed them, passed some around. He sent for a stray dog from the street and pricked it with Chinarama’s knife. It died quickly and convincingly.

He brought out Rotanxi’s glasses and a copper tube—a small telescope—and explained lip reading. He passed them around and everyone marveled at the telescope’s inverted, color-blurred, but magnified image.

He played a few notes on a silver fife and explained how a similar blowpipe had slain Kandoru of the Third.

He produced a small bag of oiled silk fitted with a glass nozzle and told how it sprayed a fiery liquid, how the sorcerers could blind a man or burn his face with a wave of the hand, while mumbling nonsensical spells. He demonstrated this acid spray on the dead dog, filling the room with an acrid stink.

The ink and quill and vellum he did not show, but he mentioned that a pigeon could be used as a signal, and that caged pigeons were an important clue to sorcerer agents.

Rotanxi’s pockets had yielded two things like firecrackers, but they had become waterlogged in the hold and so rendered useless. Wallie showed them, however. He had cut one open and discovered a mixture of black powder and lead shot. “If you ever see things like these,” he warned his audience, “with this wick burning—then run! It may injure you or blind you. It will create a clap of thunder, at least, and much smoke.”

There were other poisoned knives, some so tiny as to be almost skewers. There were petty trick gadgets, like flexible coins and silk flowers that would crumple to nothing and then spring back. There was a compass, which created much more interest among these swordsmen than it had in the sailors, who knew only two directions, upriver and down. There was a pocket lens, and Wallie set one of the Sixths to holding it in sunlight by the window until he made a cloth smoke.

There were several bottles and packets whose purpose even Wallie did not know, labeled in a strange cursive script that tantalized him.

By now he had half his audience terrified and the other half contemptuous, so he ended with the pistol and made them all terrified. He explained it carefully. Then he fired a shot through the table, into the floor. The hammering outside stopped and then gradually picked up once more.

Finally he brought out the “toy for Vixini” that he had made so laboriously on the ship, a model catapult, and he flipped pebbles across the room with it. His listeners were too much in shock to laugh as he had hoped.

“We shall fight sorcerers with knives, with bows and arrows, with battering rams and big catapults to knock down their towers and hurl burning pitch through their windows. They use pigeons as signals, so we need falcons! We shall need men on horseback, who can move quickly. We shall attack by night and without warning and from behind. With these tactics we can win; without them we cannot. If the sorcerers use diabolical weapons, then so must we.”

There was a long silence, which happened to match a lull in the racket from the courtyard. He thought it was not going to work.

He said, “Three hundred and thirty men tried to fight sorcerers in the ways of honor. Will you help me avenge them?”

For another moment he was sure that he had failed. Then Boariyi—bless him!—jumped up and said, “Yes!” Then everyone had to rise, and they all cheered. Their cheering probably convinced themselves much more than it did Wallie.

But he could smile, then. He began to pace up and down the long room. “We need to distribute some responsibilities,” he said. “Lord Tivanixi has already agreed to look after the cavalry. Someone must be adjutant—I mean he will have to sort out the manpower and assign people and look after finances and relationships with the townsfolk and so on.”

“That makes two. We need someone to look after building the catapults—three. Slingshots, bows and arrows—I know nothing about those, except that they are used to hunt birds. Do we have anyone who does?”

“Great! I’ll assign a Seventh to it anyway, but you can advise him. Lord Nnanji will attend to intelligence and security.

“Lastly,” Wallie said and paused. “Lastly, we need some action! All the rest of these things are going to take time; I want action now! They have laughed at us for too long. They must learn to fear us.”

“I have a small ship. I shall send it over to the left bank to kill some sorcerers. It’ll be dirty, nasty work. It’ll mean sneaking in by dark, throwing knives, and then running. No honor and much danger! But I want to frighten them. I would like to think that they’re scared to walk their streets at night. They ought to know that we can fight.

The tall man had been slumped forward with an elbow on a knee. He straightened up and grinned and said, “The boat!”

That was what Wallie had expected—the attraction of danger outweighed the scruples—but once Boariyi had accepted the most dishonorable job, the other Sevenths would follow more readily.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “Lord Zoariyi, will you try the catapults? Lord Jansilui, the archery, with the two honorable Sixths? And Lord Linumino, you will be adjutant?”

He felt very weary, but he could also feel safer. If the sorcerers killed him now, they could not stop the tryst. The magic had gone away.

Then he realized that they were all waiting for him, so he straightened up and smiled and said, “Dismissed!”

Confusion grew into chaos, but it moved back from Wallie. He refused to answer the Sevenths’ appeals for help, replying only that they must think for themselves, and soon they stopped asking. Out in the courtyard the hammering gave way to shouting as Linumino sought archers and falconers for Jansilui, water rats and knife throwers for Boariyi, horsemen for Tivanixi, and carpenters for Zoariyi. When the bullfrog chief herald came to call, he was escorted in from the gate by a Fourth. He fumed and raged at this indignity and was promptly escorted back out again—Nnanji had begun organizing security. Fiendori arrived with forty golds purloined from the dock taxes and was directed to Linumino. Forarfi, Wallie’s former left-handed fencing partner, came to announce that he had been appointed chief bodyguard. Wallie thought he did not need a Sixth for that job, but he let the assignment stand for the time being.

At last came the moment when there was no one in the antechamber but Wallie and his bodyguards. He was limp and hoarse and he had a headache, but the tryst was beginning to stagger along without leaning on him. He demanded food and watched in wry amusement as the order went down three ranks before anyone actually left the room. No callers lower than seventh rank, he decreed, and walked through into the square council chamber at the end and closed the door.

Here, also, the cleaning had been perfunctory, but there was improvement. The ashes had gone from the fireplace, the filthy bedding had been replaced by a decent straw mattress and two almost-clean blankets. He removed his sword, sank into the brocade chair, and put his feet up on a stool. His head was still boiling with a hundred ideas that he desperately wanted to write down. But that was impossible—he had tried writing with Rotanxi’s quill and it just would not work. He thought in English, and he spoke in the language of the People, and he could not write in either. That portion of his memory had not been passed along.

He missed Nnanji. Nnanji had been an infallible notepad for him until now, but he would be humiliated and affronted if Wallie tried to keep him for that purpose when there was so much else to do—and so much that Nnanji could probably do better than anyone else, too. Nnanji knew how Wallie thought, his memory was a precision instrument, he got along well now with sailors and other civilians, and he was much better at communicating with other swordsmen than Wallie could ever be. Although he was the youngest Seventh on the council, he would probably prove the most effective. His only problem would be the jealousy he must arouse in the older men—and almost every swordsman above second rank was older than Nnanji.

There was a tap on the door. Well, it had been a nice quiet two minutes . . . “Enter!”

Her wrap was a shimmering satin in cornflower blue. It was very short, the top barely covering her nipples, pulled tight into the curve of her breasts, the hem revealing almost all of her miraculously long and shapely legs. She had scorned the customary sandals of the People in favor of heeled shoes, making her as tall as he. The effect should have been vulgar or obscene or ludicrous, and it was none of those. She triumphed over such trivia by sheer arrogance. There was a thin silver chain around her neck, looping down to the top of her wrap. He thought that she could have worn nothing more than that, yet have succeeded in making it seem entirely proper.

The crazed wildness had gone. No longer did be see her as a madwoman. She was a legendary genius, and her stature and presence again made him thrill with visceral excitement. He was very much aware that she had been Shonsu’s mistress and that there was a bed in the corner of the room. Even Jja could hardly rouse him faster than this giant minstrel did. She saw his reaction, or guessed it, or just assumed it, and the plain, almost horsey, face glowed with satisfaction.

He found his sword and made the salute to a superior. She did not give the ritual reply.

“Admiration, lady. Yesterday I was present at the birth of something that will live as long as the River flows. You made my name immortal.”

She strolled toward the window, showing experienced mastery of the heels. Oh, those legs! Her lute floated on the shining brown cataract of her hair.

“The minstrels refer to it as The Epic of Rotanxi.” She seemed not to regard herself as one of the minstrels. She was of another species and she knew it.

“It does not matter. My name will live in it, and yours will be celebrated forever.”

Amusement flickered on her rough-hewn features. “The warblers are leaving town in droves. I shudder to think what they will do to it, but it must be well spread already.”

“What reward may I give you?” he demanded. He was flushing like an adolescent and his voice was thick. Fool!

She turned from the window and regarded him provocatively. “Whatever is fitting.” Her voice had gone husky to match his, or mock it.

He had one sapphire left from the expense money that the god had given him. Even while cursing himself for a lust-maddened idiot, he took it from his pouch and went over to her. She recoiled a step from his advance, then drew in her breath sharply as he placed the blue fire against the chain she wore, holding it with finger and thumb in the hollow between her breasts.

“It will suffice. It is a kingly recompense, my lord.” She sighed the words. There was an undertone there that he did not understand, that was intended for Shonsu, and the glance she gave him under lowered lashes would have been in any other woman an invitation to continue his approach. In her, he suspected, it was not; but his hands trembled.

She nodded as if that were preordained. Who else could the liege lord escort in public but Lady Doa? The greatest swordsman and the greatest minstrel—they were made for each other.

He shrugged. And sighed, also. “I do not understand you, Lady Doa. You are a most—”

“You understand very well, Shonsu.” Her tone was contemptuous, her stance again seductive.

“Save those stories for your henchmen!” She headed for the door, and he dug nails into his palms as he watched the satin moving on her hips. “Tonight, then.”

He did not know where she lived or what the proper procedure was for escorting a lady. Sedan chair? Carriage? He would have to discover all those things, and yet he was supposed to be fighting a war. She roused him like a stallion and simultaneously unmanned him. Where this woman was concerned, Shonsu’s glands took total control of Wallie Smith’s mind. What would Shonsu have done—thrown her on the bed and raped her?

He sank into his chair with a groan and wondered if rape was what she had expected and wanted. Did she even know that she was constantly inviting him? He was worse than Nnanji had been over Thana—woman refuses, man goes mad with lust. At least Nnanji had the excuse of youth; he was himself, merely a sex-crazed maniac.

But he would have a fitting companion for the evening’s festivities, and that was important in case—

“You overloaded my memory! I was getting a headache, so I said I needed a break.” The headache did not seem to be bothering him. “Two hundred an hour! But we have some curious talents out there: goldsmiths and brickmakers and glassblowers—”

“All very useful, I’m sure,” Wallie said, trying hard to match his oath brother’s irrepressible cheerfulness. “Any falconers?”

“Not so far, but half the men are away from the lodge. This is fun, isn’t it?”

He stalked to the window and peered out, while Wallie sat back in his feather-shedding chair and idly pondered a suitable definition for “fun” in that context.

After a few minutes’ silence Nnanji said, “Brother, you will tell me the last thirty sutras, when you get a chance, won’t you?”

“Good!” Nnanji said. Another pause. “Shonsu?” He had never used that name before. His voice had lost its sparkle. “I’m a fraud!”

“Don’t worry about it! You’ll pick up the sutras fast enough, and no one can challenge you until the tryst is disbanded. By then you’ll be fencing like a Seventh.”

Nnanji, doubting himself? “I’m sure you’ll find time to do some practicing! And practice with many opponents is just what you need now. You’ve really only ever had me, and one instructor isn’t enough. You know all my . . . ” Wallie’s voice died away.

Silence. Of course Nnanji did not know the prophecy about the red-haired brother.

“Easy mark!” Nnanji’s voice was full of contempt for himself. In his eyes swordsmanship was paramount. He despised a man who could not fight to his rank. “As soon as the Sixths are free of their oaths, I’m going to be facing thirty-nine tries at promotion! You’ll drag the war out for a few weeks, won’t you—for me?”

The request was so ludicrous that Wallie laughed aloud and Nnanji turned momentarily to grin at him. Then he went back to staring out the window.

Nnanji took a deep breath and jabbered: “I know that a tryst can only have one leader, brother, so I just wanted to promise you that I won’t . . . I mean I’ll try to—Devilspit! I mean you know so much more than I do . . . ”

Nnanji swung around, red-faced. “I’ll be loyal! You’re the real leader! I mean, now we’re technically equals . . . ”

Goddess! Wallie had not thought of that. Nnanji was a Seventh. He was no longer Wallie’s protégé. He was liege lord also. Technically equals! What happened if the two of them disagreed?

“I was just wondering why the gods arranged this, brother? Why two liege lords? You don’t think . . . ” He bit his lip and looked even more unhappy.

Now Wallie saw it, and it was a chilling thought. “That you may have to succeed me?”

“Good!” The old grin came back. Reassured, Nnanji chuckled and headed for the door. He was stopped in his tracks by the spotty mirror. It was a small mirror and he had to crane his neck to see his kilt in it. “How do I look in blue, Shonsu?”

“Absolutely ridiculous! But performance is more important than looks, and you seem to be doing a great job of Sevening so far.”

“Notice the hairclip?” He was wearing a great chunk of blue glass, almost as large as the sapphire that Wallie wore, the one the god had made for him. “You don’t happen to have any spare gems left, do you?” he asked hopefully.

“Pity. It would be safe on me until you needed it, I thought . . . But this will do. It looks quite real, doesn’t it?”

Nnanji flashed him a cryptic, curiously defensive glance. “A blue kilt is bad enough, brother! A griffon?”

“Besides, I promised Arganari I would wear it when I got to Vul. I’ll save it for that.”

Wallie climbed slowly to his feet. A Third appeared in the doorway carrying a small table in one hand, balancing a tray on the other, filling the room with a stench of charred meat.

For the second time that day Wallie lost Shonsu’s temper. With a roar that rattled the windows, he threw the swordsman and his food out of the way and went hurtling along the antechamber, bellowing for his bodyguard.

A temple should be a hushed and pious place. This one was not. A small army of slaves was cleaning up glass and stone, the remains of the fallen window. Their chattering and the screech of their shovels echoed along the nave toward the idol.

The brilliant mosaic floor before the dais was almost empty. Worshipers were being tactfully discouraged this day and there were few, anyway, for the city was busy. The wide, tiled space held only one figure, a very small priest of the seventh rank. He had come for meditation and prayer and had stayed longer than he had expected. There had been no specific appeals in his head, only a deep longing for peace, a yearning that seemed to be filling him more and more now. The pains were stilled. Perhaps he would get his answer soon, his release. Kneeling before his Goddess, he had found the wordless comfort he had been seeking. He had remained there, savoring it, waiting without having anything to wait for; in no rush to go anywhere else, for he had nothing left to do, that he knew of. Shonsu was leader of the tryst and whatever else was going to happen would not need Honakura.

Eventually he discovered, to his amusement, that he was hungry. That raised a problem. His old carcass was a problem, and raising it another. He doubted that he could rise to his feet now without help, and there was no one nearby. He pushed himself up to sit on his heels and survey the surrounding emptiness with wry enjoyment of his helplessness. A little fasting would do him no harm, of course.

Two figures came out of one of the rear doors. The first was a priest; he stopped and pointed, then turned on his heel and fled. The other came striding over toward Honakura, a giant swordsman clothed in a black cloud of rage.

Interesting! Having no choice, Honakura stayed where he was. In a moment his view of the Goddess was blotted out by a blue kilt. On its hem was a white griffon, lovingly embroidered by Jja.

It hurt to tilt his head back, so he left it where it was, studying Jja’s needlework. He said nothing.

After a moment the kilt moved. The young swordsman sank to his knees and folded huge arms across massive chest. Honakura did not look up at his eyes, he just waited and stared at the tooled leather harness.

“Nnanji has his seventh sword.” The voice was a very deep growl, even deeper than usual.

Now the priest looked up at the furious black eyes, seeing the fear and pain under the rage. “Did you ever doubt that he would?”

“It should have been impossible! Under the sutras there was seemingly no way that he could do that, not until the tryst was disbanded.”

Nothing was impossible to the Most High, but it would be better not to say so. Better just to wait. Shonsu was so agitated that he could not remain silent, and in a moment Honakura received the story of the spy, and the attempt on Shonsu’s life, and the very obscure sutra.

His confusion was pitiable, this enormous, gentle, well-meaning young man . . . Honakura felt a lump in his throat such as had not known in years. Surely the gods would not test like this unless the cause were vital?

“Then you have no cause for complaint, my lord. You each got one this time.”

The deadly dark eyes came up to skewer him. Had death been a dread to Honakura, that gaze would have softened every bone in his body. “You lied to me.”

Ikondorina’s red-haired brother came to him and said, Brother you have wondrous skill with a sword; teach me, that like you I may wrest a kingdom. And he said, I will. So Ikondorina taught and his brother learned and then Ikondorina said, I can teach you no more, now go and find your kingdom. And he said, But brother, it is your kingdom that I covet, give me that. Ikondorina said, I will not, and his brother said, I am more worthy, and slew him and took his realm.

For a long time there was no sound except the scrape of the slaves’ shovels at the far end of the nave, the clash of glass as they filled their wheelbarrows. Doubtless the swordsman was pondering the story of Ikondorina’s red-haired brother, but Honakura was thinking of pride.

He had lied, mortal sin for a priest. All his lifetime of service and devotion had been wiped out by that, crashing down as the temple window had crashed down. Pride! He had been too proud of that lifetime. He had been led by his arrogance into mentioning Ikondorina’s brothers to Shonsu, and that error had trapped him into telling the lie. Before that, puffed up by awareness of his own sanctity, he had been sure that the Goddess would reward him, that his death would be a victory march, that She would weep tears of gratitude when he came before Her. Now he could only hope that She would be merciful and remember his life’s work when She judged his awful sin, that She would in Her mercy allow him to remain on the ladder, according him some lowly place where he could start again, refraining from hurling him off, down into the Place of Demons.

He became aware that he was weeping, weeping for himself, when he should be weeping for this tortured swordsman.

That same swordsman was speaking again. “ . . . why you did not tell me before. You were right not to trust me.” He was bitter, understandably. “What happens now, holy one? I just wait for him to do it?”

Honakura forced his mind back to Shonsu. Sudden hope surged into his ragtag old frame. That wonderful sense of peace he had felt—would that have been sent to a damned soul? Was it possible that he had been directed to that mortally destructive lie?

The big man shook his head as if to clear it of crawling horrors. “If the gods will not intervene—yes! He is not a Seventh in fencing—yet! But any match may be an upset, holy one. It is not uncommon—a better man being beaten by a poorer—not uncommon. They would not let me, would they? They would send a miracle?”

Honakura stared over the swordsman’s shoulder at the face of the Goddess, but seeing it as it was revealed at Hann, not in this shoddy facsimile; seeing the majesty. The temple was very cold. He was freezing. Why had he not noticed that sooner?

“I am no prophet, my lord. I do not know the answer. But it may be that She wants a . . . that you . . . ”

“That I am not enough of a killer for Her needs? Say it, man! Another test? I may be too soft-hearted and Nnanji is a born killer? But if I were to drain him now . . . ” His voice tailed off, and agony drove the fear from his eyes.

Shonsu jerked, as if he had been lost in hell and had forgotten that Honakura was there. “Yes!” he said. “I went mad this morning. I sold two men into slavery. They are all terrified of me now; they have realized what that oath of theirs means.” He laughed without benefit of mirth. “I knew and they didn’t! Yes, they will obey.”

After another long silence he muttered, “But Jja . . . ” and did not say more about that.

“I may be horribly wrong, my lord,” Honakura said. “He is an honorable young man. He admires and adores you! He worships you next to the Goddess. It is hard to see him harming you.”

“Then live up to his trust, my lord! Serve the Goddess and She will see that all is well between you.”

Shonsu stared down at clenched fists and corded forearms. “Yes. What I have been saying is true. I can storm the cities and overthrow the towers and drive out the sorcerers and put the swordsmen back. I believe it and Nnanji believes it and the tryst probably believes it now, or will soon. The sorcerers believe it, or will soon.”

The deep voice became a whisper, although there was no one near. “They will go away, holy one! If we take the first tower easily, they will depart, abandon the cities, and fade back into their hills.”

“Then you will have won!” Honakura said, perplexed at the despair before him.

Shonsu shook his head. “No! I can’t take Vul. Not in winter. We don’t know where it is. The first Shonsu might have been able to do it—he made a surprise attack. But now they have had half a year to prepare. One tower at a time, yes. At odds of fifty to one, yes. A fortified city, no! Many days’ march away from the River? Take catapults into the mountains? Impossible!”

“No! We can’t wait for spring; we have no money. The tryst must be disbanded! So the sorcerers will come back. In five years, or ten . . . ” The whisper became so faint that Honakura could barely hear it. “I can’t beat the sorcerers! No one else knows that, holy one!”

Honakura struggled to adjust. This made nonsense of everything. It was incomprehensible.

Honakura gasped. “Of course! Yes! Yes! That must be the meaning of your parentmarks—swordsman and sorcerer, my lord! It may be that that is Her purpose! That is why She chose you! No other swordsmen would ever think of that! None ever consider it! Can you?”

“Can I what?” the big man snapped. “Force the swordsmen? Yes! They have to obey, right? The sorcerers . . . I don’t know! But I was allowed to capture one of their Sevenths. He is probably one of the leaders, perhaps the highest of them all, for he provoked the calling of the tryst. So I must work on him—while I prepare the swordsmen for war.”

The priest sighed deeply. “It is a holy cause, my lord! I think you are right!” To patch the ancient quarrel between swordsman and sorcerer—that made sense.

Then be saw the deathly glance on Shonsu’s face and stopped. Had he missed something?

“Am I right? I told Jja . . . if I try to do the wrong thing with the tryst, then the Goddess will stop me. I think your Ikondorina story is a warning, holy one! She wants a killer. She will block me.”

“I may convince the sorcerers,” Shonsu growled. “They will listen to reason, I think. But swordsmen do not know reason from cowardice. You can’t argue with a swordsman.”

He bared his teeth. “All except one—he is not my vassal. We are equals. Both liege lords, both Sevenths now. He is not even my protegé anymore! Do you think that Nnanji will accept a treaty?”

“Neither do I! You once said he had a head like a coconut. He will have to choose, won’t he? I am his brother because we swore the fourth oath—but that is only a sutra. He will say that sorcerers are swordsman killers, and always have been. He will say that a treaty betrays the tryst, and the will of the Goddess. He will say that a treaty is cowardice and shame. We taught him, old man! You and I taught him well—the will of the Goddess takes precedence over the sutras! That story of yours gives the answer—Slew him and took his realm? It fits him perfectly! I can hear him saying it: I am more worthy!”

Shonsu sprang to his feet. “Maybe he is! Maybe the Goddess thinks so. She has certainly promoted him fast enough!”

Then he was gone, striding away long-legged across the whorls of color in the shiny tiles.

Honakura stayed where he was, staring up at the Most High, haloed now in a rainbow of tears.

BOOK FOUR:

HOW THE SWORDSMAN TOOK COMMAND