The Coming Of Wisdom (29 page)

“Adept Nnanji is a man of discretion,” the sorcerer said, in what seemed meant to be a jovial tone. “But so am I. I think I shall bid you good day, mistress.” Lightning flared blue white again, blazing off the swordsman in his orange kilt, flaming red and yellow from copper and bronze behind him. “I see you carry much cargo. I will cast a spell of good fortune on it for you.”

Brota stepped in front of him and reached for the door. With Oligarro’s help she pushed it shut, hiding Nnanji, whose feet had never moved. Then she leaned on it, feeling weak and horribly shaken. “I thank you, Master Zarakano,” she said. “And wish you good day, also.” Meaning that she would keep his back safe from the swordsman.

Rain exploded from the sky, torrents of rain, a universe of rain, furring the deck with white fog.

The sorcerer nodded at her, pulling his cowl farther over his face, then hurried for the plank. She saw him reach the dock and the two yellow-robed sorcerers of the Second waiting for him. Then all three sped across the street and were hidden by the rain.

Even the greatest of storms must pass eventually. Brota had retired to pamper a headache, but she must have dozed, for a tap on the door awoke her.

“Who is it?”

“Novice Katanji, mistress.”

“Just a minute.”

The storm had almost gone. The ship was rocking less, creaking less, and sunlight was streaming in the window.

Her cabin was a wooden box, but a larger box than the others, with space for a dresser as well as a chest, and a raised bed that was her sole concession to age. The lantern on the dresser was the only one aboard, a greater badge of authority than her son’s dagger. She had a rug, drapes, and three small wool tapestries to brighten the box.

She eased herself up and took a moment to gather her wits. The wind was dying. Two hours until sunset, perhaps, with the light coming in low under the fringe of the storm. They would be able to salt soon. She grunted to her feet and padded across to admit Katanji. He was grinning, his face grimy and his hair smelling wet.

“Come for your money, have you?” She chuckled. She counted out his fifteen golds onto the dresser. “These two silvers? What happens if I tell your brother?”

He studied her a moment and shrugged. “Then I don’t help you the next time,” he said.

What next time? “Where does a First get fifteen golds?”

“Oh, most of it’s Nanj’s,” he said. “I’m holding the ten he got for Cowie, remember?”

She passed over two silvers. “Thank you,
swordsman
.”

“You’re welcome,
swordsman
,” he replied impudently, but the charm of his grin let Katanji get away with such insolence. All the coins went in the same pocket, she noted. “Are you going to sail or stay the night, mistress?”

“Sail. The cowls know your brother’s on board.”

“You don’t believe in the spell of good fortune, then?” His eyes glinted.

She was not in the habit of debating her decisions—not with Tomiyano, certainly not with landlubber Firsts, yet . . . 

“No. Do you?”

He chuckled. “Of course! Besides, Holiyi was complaining only today how long it was since he had a night in port.”

“You let Sailor Holiyi worry about his own sex life, novice, or I’ll start Nnanji worrying about yours.”

He blushed scarlet and looked uneasy. He was, after all, only a kid, and yet she was matching wits with him as if he were a trader of the Fifth. “Anything else?” she asked, thinking that the had time for a shower before they cast off.

He nodded. “I have some information for you. I think it’s worth a gold. Maybe two.”

She sat down on the bed, making the ropes creak loudly, and she stared at him suspiciously. “Two golds! What is it, the elixir of life?”

He shook his head.

“Where did you get information?”

He shook his head again. “Can’t say. Do you want to hear?”

“Who decides if it’s worth one gold, or two, or nothing?”

He hesitated and shrugged. “I suppose you do.”

“If I don’t want it, then I don’t pay?”

He nodded doubtfully. Then he grinned again. “You’ll want it. There are two brass merchants in town, Jasiulko and Fennerolomini.”

He had her attention. “How did you find that out? You been ashore in a sorcerer town? You’re crazy!”

He shook his damp curls. “Swordsmen don’t go ashore here, mistress.”

She glanced at his feet. “I’d better tell Tom’o to clean up the deck, then.”

He looked down and then bit his lip, vexed at having missed that. “Don’t ask questions, mistress, please.”

How had the kid got his face so dirty? It looked greasy, smeared. This lad had promise. In fact he was one of those Shonsu miracles, she decided. “It’s worth knowing about the merchants, Katanji, but it’s not worth two golds.”

“There’s more,” he said, grinning wildly.

“Let’s have it then.”

The words spilled out excitedly. “Two nights ago there was a fire. Jasiulko’s warehouse burned down. He lost his whole stock.”

Brota stared at him for a long minute without a word. She had no doubt at all that he was speaking the truth. She reached in her money bag and silently handed him two more golds.

†††††

It might have been the sorcerer’s spell, but she preferred to think it was the handiwork of the Goddess. Whichever it was. Brota kept her ship in port overnight and next morning sent word to both the brass merchants. She made them bid against each other, for Fennerolomini dearly wanted to keep Jasiulko out of business. In the end Jasiulko took the whole cargo for five hundred and twenty-three golds. Brota shook hands on it, then went down to her cabin and danced a jig.

Lae had been scouting and came back exulting about furniture, carved from a type of oak that grew nowhere else but near Wal. When the dealers brought samples, Brota agreed with her judgment and loaded shiny tables, ornate chairs, and intricately inlaid chests.
Sapphire
spent a second night in port, and the sorcerers did not trouble her. Nnanji skulked in the deckhouse. Shonsu’s ravings grew quieter, and his wound more obviously cursed. His death seemed closer man ever.

No one asked where Novice Katanji was, but next morning he was aboard when
Sapphire
set sail in the sunshine for Dri, three days upriver, still carrying the dying swordsman.

The days passed, but Dri came no closer. With all her canvas spread,
Sapphire
wallowed on a river of glass, barely holding her way against the current in a sickly, fitful wind.

Honakura was becoming concerned. Even he, with a professional faith in miracles and Shonsu’s mission, was finding increasing difficulty in believing that the swordsman was going to survive his wound. Each morning the great frame was more wasted and its continuing survival seemed more like a direct intervention by the gods. Jja was eroded to a wraith by effort and worry, Nnanji morose and sullen.

The sailors had prepared their plans. They had consulted Honakura about them, for at first they had been unable to believe that Nnanji was serious. The old man had assured them that he was, that no danger to himself or his friends would ever distract the young swordsman for a moment from whatever he saw as his duty and the call of honor. If Shonsu died, then Nnanji would head for Tomiyano with a sword.

If that happened—or so the plan went—he would be caught in a net, trussed like a pig for market, and put ashore, together with the rest of the passengers.

Tomiyano himself had other ideas. His vitriolic hatred of swordsmen allowed no room for nets in his view of the future. Any nonsense from Nnanji’s direction was going to be countered with a fast knife, the consequences be damned. Some of the men agreed with him.

Sapphire
was not a tranquil ship.

Yet now she was becalmed and so was the quest. The old priest knew that the matter was urgent—a process that should have taken years was being squashed into a few short days. The gods were in a hurry, but things had come to a halt. Obviously someone ought to be doing something and had failed to pick up his cue. Honakura was quite willing to help, but he was a minor character in the drama and would not be permitted to meddle greatly. And he did not know what was supposed to happen next, or who was supposed to make it happen.

The Ikondorina prophecies were some guide for him, of course, and the demigod’s riddle was beginning to make sense. He knew more than anyone else about Shonsu’s mission—certainly more than Shonsu did—but at the moment he was baffled.

It was a hot and still afternoon. The banks were far off on either side, the mountains faint in the eastern haze, the water an azure mirror. High above him—and looking straight up was a tricky procedure for Honakura—the youngsters hung in the rigging like sloths, Katanji among them. A group of women sat on the poop deck, chattering quietly and knitting, preparing warmer clothes for winter in this nontropical climate. Holiyi, Maloli, and Oligarro were splicing ropes, which was a peaceful and sedentary task. Linihyo and Sinboro dangled lines in silence from the fo’c’sle. Young Matarro held the tiller with obvious pride, although the ship was virtually stationary, her wake a faint ripple on the silken sheen.

The only person being energetic was Tomiyano. Down on his knees beside the aft hatch cover, he was scraping one side of it with a sandstone block. It seemed an unpleasant task. He was probably demonstrating that he had recovered his health, and the spare sanders he had laid out in clear view were a strong hint that he would appreciate some help. The hint was being ignored. After some thought, Honakura decided that the purpose was to remove the old paint before applying new—he had not had to worry about such practical matters since he was a child, but that seemed logical. At any rate, Tomiyano was the only really active person in sight, and the screech of his block was the only loud noise.

And there was Nnanji, leaning on the rail, staring out at distant fishing boats. No one in the crew spoke to him now. He was being treated like a dangerous animal.

Honakura sauntered over and laid black sleeves beside sinewy young arms. Nnanji turned to regard him for a moment in silence.

“Any change?” he asked.

Honakura shook his head.

The swordsman nodded and looked out at the water again for a while. The strain was telling on him, inevitably. The smooth juvenile planes of his face had become more angular. Even this silent contemplation was new.

“I was not always popular in the barracks, either, you know,” he said softly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you don’t need to follow me around with that worried expression. You look like my mother, wondering if I’m constipated.”

Honakura was taken aback—an unfamiliar sensation, he admitted to himself.

Then Nnanji asked, “Did I make an error?”

That also was unexpected. “When?”

“When I sold Cowie. She was one of the seven.”

“There was no miracle to stop you, so I don’t suppose so.”

Nnanji groaned. “It feels like an error. I’ve never been so horny in my life.”

He had, of course, sported quite a reputation in the barracks. “Why did you sell her, then?”

Nnanji’s pale eyes stayed fixed on the far-off fishing boats, but a slight smile tugged one corner of his mouth. “I interpreted a hint as a promise.”

Interesting! The lad was poking fun at himself, and that was another new development. Of course he had not been able to go ashore with the other bachelors in Ki San and Wal. He could not romp in the rigging with his sword, either, and the crew did not invite him to join in their chores.

“What you need is some exercise, adept.”

Nnanji nodded, still facing the water. “That’s what I meant. But even other exercise would help, I suppose. Would you care for a fencing lesson, old man?”

“A fencing lesson is just what I need,” Honakura said wryly, “but it would not be legal, would it? Try Thana—she might agree to that sort of exercise.”

Nnanji shook his head. “I think I must have lost weight. She doesn’t see me now, even when I speak. I work the nipper to distraction; he hates it, and I don’t want to sicken him of it too much.” He sighed.

Honakura had heard Brota’s opinion of Katanji as a swordsman and seen him head off to hide in the chain locker when his mentor appeared with foils.

Then Nnanji half turned, leaned on one elbow, and grinned at the priest. “I shall have to ask the captain.”

Yet again Honakura was startled. “You’re joking!”

“No.” The grin grew wider. “The sutras say I can’t give a civilian a foil—but they don’t say I can’t accept one from a civilian. I left mine back in Hann. And I can’t give a civilian a lesson . . . ”

“But he’s better than you are? You are thinking like a priest, adept.”

“Where could I have picked up such a bad habit, I wonder? Still, he can’t do more than throw me overboard for asking, can he? And in return for a fencing lesson, I can get a sailoring lesson, also—I’ll offer to help him with whatever that noisy job is.”

This was all very much out of character! A swordsman doing manual labor? Asking fencing lessons from a sailor? Honakura prided himself on being able to predict people. He did not welcome such anomalous behavior. A twinge of intuition whispered that this might be what the gods were waiting for, but . . . 

But there was also something new in Nnanji’s eyes, hidden behind the grin. Most people, in Honakura’s experience, used their eyes only to
look
, few used them to
see
. Nnanji had just changed categories, for he had noticed Honakura’s reaction, and the old man very seldom gave himself away like that.

The grin grew wider. “Well?”

“He might do much worse. He may flog you as Shonsu flogged him.”

Nnanji shook his head. “No. He’s not that much better than I am. It would slow him. I’d butcher him, too, if he started that.”

“But why should he agree to give a fencing lesson to a man who may try to kill him? That’s crazy!”

“Panache?” Nnanji said. “He likes to impress the others. He gave me my sword back, remember?”

Where had this swordsman found such an insight? From Katanji? Yet Honakura did not think Katanji had been consulted. That would be even more out of character . . .