The Coming Of Wisdom (35 page)

Tomiyano had announced that if sorcerers in Wal could stomach Nnanji on a ship, then a burn mark was not going to upset them, and he stayed in view, wearing the dagger. Jja entertained the toddlers, leaving sailors free to attend to business.

The port officer was an old woman, twisted and lame from arthritis, sad and respectful. She ignored the captain’s scar, muttered quickly that no swordsmen should go ashore, accepted two golds, and limped away. Wallie concluded that she was probably genuine and probably frightened of her masters.

So the sorcerers were succeeding in their efforts to cure corruption among the officials. In the ports on the right bank the swordsmen either could not or did not try, and graft persisted in traditional fashion. The only crimes that swordsmen recognized were the violent varieties. Wallie could not imagine a Nnanji-type swordsman trying to unravel the intricacies of embezzlement or fraud. The sorcerers wanted to encourage trade. Again, the swordsmen would not care. Wallie, being a very atypical swordsman, rather approved of that. He found the notion amusing, remembering the words of the demigod: “You do not think like Shonsu, and that pleases me.”

An awning had been jury-rigged over the top of one gangplank, where Brota had made herself comfortable in her chair, and the edge of the dock below was cluttered with her samples. Old Lina wandered down the other plank to inspect the hawkers’ wares. Rain splattered and dripped.

Wallie began to grow bored and frustrated. These damn facemarks! How could he run a war with such a handicap? If the enemy could become invisible, or change their crafts at will, then they could penetrate the swordsmen cities easily. It was not fair! He grew short-tempered, wanting to shout at the children to be quiet.

Quite soon, though, Brota brought in two traders and argued them up from one hundred and fifty to two forty-five, while the eavesdroppers listened in amusement behind the draperies. Hands were shaken, and the traders went off to watch the unloading of the baskets and leather goods.

Then came Holiyi. He was the youngest of the adult sailors, skinnier even than Nnanji, and notoriously short of speech—amiable enough, but apparently able to go for days without saying a word.

“Ki San, Dri, Casr, Tau, Wo, Shan, and Gi,” he told Wallie. “Aus, Wal, Sen, Cha, Gor, Amb . . . and Ov!” He smiled, turned, and stalked out. For him, that had been a notable oration—and a fine display of the trained memory expected among preliterates.

So Tomiyano must have ordered him to inquire about the geography, and he had done so. Honakura had been correct, then—seven cities on each bank. Seven free cities lying on the outer rim of the River’s loop, and seven lining the inner curve seized by sorcerers? Assume so—based on superstition, which seemed to work as well as evidence in the World. For the millionth time, Wallie wished he could write. Of course he could sketch a map—with charcoal, say—but he would not be able to attach labels to it. He had tried, and it did not work. He asked Nnanji to repeat the lists for him while he pictured how the River must flow: north out of the Black Lands near Ov, charting a wide circle counter-clockwise—around Vul?—and back south into the Black Lands again at Aus. The only gap in this River-drawn circle would be the neck of land between Aus and Ov, which they had already crossed.

Wallie was still mulling over his mental map when a curious procession came marching up the plank. The slaves had only just begun removing the cargo, and here was new business already. With a little luck,
Sapphire
would soon be able to leave this dismal place.

The leader was a middle-aged Fourth, followed by two younger men who wore brown robes and were therefore likely priests, for other crafts kept to loincloths at their age. All three carried leather umbrellas. The last man was younger, a Third. He was husky and earnest-looking and soaking wet, his hair plastered over his face. After a word to Brota, they all trooped into the deckhouse, followed by Brota herself and Tomiyano.

Listening and watching behind the curtain, Wallie learned that the burly, bedraggled youngster was a stonemason. His father had sent him downriver from Cha to buy marble, and now he had a load to send home. If
Sapphire
was heading upriver, then would she transport his purchase?

Wallie found that an interesting problem in an illiterate world. There were no bills of lading, or banks, or letters of credit, or even any effective policing outside the cities. Straight buying and selling was simple, but obviously merchants must sometimes wish to ship goods on order. He could not think of any effective means. Obviously Brota could buy the marble and then resell it, but then she must trust the man’s word that his father would be willing to take it, or else her own judgment that it would sell for a fair profit. But she would also be free to sell it to his competitors. If he merely entrusted his cargo to her, then she and her ship could vanish with it forever. If he sailed along with it, then the same thing might happen, with him feeding the piranhas. Any course seemed to call for impossible trust by somebody, even without the complications introduced by the fickleness of the Goddess and the variable geography of the World.

So Wallie sat behind the curtain, listened to the terms being discussed, and learned that there was a way. The wagon with the marble was standing by, and Brota purchased the stone for one hundred and sixty golds—grumbling that it could not be worth half that. The trader, a local worthy who would be collecting a commission, swore that he would buy it from her in ten days for two hundred if she brought it back. Tomiyano, as official captain, swore that he would take it to Cha, Brota that she would sell it to the stonemason for no more than two hundred.

Very ingenious, Wallie concluded; they spread the risk around. The young man would probably get his marble transported for forty, or even less if his father beat Brota down a little. She was sure of forty golds if she had to make the round trip, and the marble was overpriced so she would not be tempted to abscond with it. Wallie enjoyed that, and also the oath ceremonies. The priests were witnesses. The mason swore by his chisel, Brota by her sword, Tomiyano by his ship, and the trader by gold.

Wallie mused how much easier things would be if writing had been invented in the World. He wondered why it had not been. Was that an intervention by the gods?

The bulky baskets were soon removed, and
Sapphire
began to load the marble. Now Wallie discovered why a mere seven or eight days’ sailing could command so high a fee. Marble was a dangerous cargo. It was the first time he had seen the boom in use, and everyone seemed to stop breathing as each great block was swung inboard. If one slipped, it would go straight through the keel, and a helpless, invalid swordsman would be stranded in a sorcerer city. When that realization came, he began muttering curses: damn Brota for making such a deal in this place!

But no rope broke, no block slipped. Eight times the boom lowered its load in safety, while
Sapphire
cowered lower in the water. Then the wagon and witnesses departed. Honakura, who had been snooping as usual, came dripping up the plank. Wandering crew members returned and prepared for departure.

The visit seemed to have been almost pointless from Wallie’s point of view, although likely Honakura would have uncovered some information on when and how Sen had been invaded by sorcerers.

“I shan’t be sorry to leave here,” Wallie remarked. “It’s a depressing town.”

Nnanji nodded in agreement. “And lunch is overdue.”

The first of the two gangplanks was hauled in with a clatter.

††††

At the sorcerer’s touch, Katanji jumped like a rabbit, and a small squeal of terror escaped before he could stop it. Every gland on his skin started spurting sweat. He turned around, still staring hard at the floor, expecting to see all his insides drop out of his loincloth at any moment.

He tried to say “Adept?” but all that came out was a croak. His very fear would betray him.

“That one hasn’t got much meat on his bones,” the Second remarked.

What were they going to do, cook him?

“Don’t want meat,” the Fourth replied in a deep, rumbling voice. “Endurance is what we need—stamina.”

Torture?
Oh, Goddess
!

Neither sorcerer spoke to Katanji, so he just stood there, quivering. Other slaves paraded past with sacks and came out of the closet without them. Then the Fourth tapped another. “You!” He was not much older than Katanji, taller but just as stringy, and he reacted with an even louder, gibbering wail. Katanji could see his knees shake. So all slaves were frightened of sorcerers, and his own terror had not given him away. But when they looked at faces . . . 

“And you!” the Fourth said, choosing another. “Come with me.”

Leaving the Second to watch the unloading, the Fourth swung around and led the way, going between a big iron range, very hot, with two big caldrons boiling on it—more foul stink—and a stack of firewood, then a pile of sacks. One of them was open and there was charcoal falling out of it. Beyond the sacks was a long table, cluttered with big pots and little pots and giant bottles of dark green glass and three of the big copper pots with coils on top that Shonsu had seen in Aus, dented and black with long use. And beyond the range was a furnace, like a blacksmith’s but bigger, and a near-naked youth working bellows furiously, gleaming sweat. He glanced up as Katanji passed, showing the single feather on his brow. Being a sorcerer First was less fun than being a swordsman First, obviously, and he looked at least as old as Nanj.

Then they came to a stairwell. A big wooden vat of water sat in the middle, and the stairs spiraled up around the walls. Metal steps; more bronze.

As Katanji reached the vat and was about to put his foot on the first step, with the sorcerer three or four steps up already, the vat suddenly spluttered and hissed and blew steam. Katanji jumped and squealed in alarm and very nearly lost control of his bladder.

The sorcerer laughed. He stretched out a hand and wailed a brief incantation in words Katanji did not recognize. “Now he won’t hurt you,” he said. “Come on!”

Trembling, Katanji started up the stairs, the other two slaves following him. Then the vat hissed again, and they wailed quietly, so they were just as scared as he was. And they did not have swordmarks on their foreheads.

The stairs went round twice before they reached the next level, and the vat hissed five times below them. More stairs . . . they climbed three floors and were all puffing. The sorcerer marched along a dim corridor, passed two closed doors, and then turned into a big room. Katanji looked nervously at a hole in the floor with ropes hanging in it, and a huge wooden thing like a long drum in a rack, tangled with ropes and wheels. One wall was stone and had a window—the sutras said that window size was important—and two walls were wooden, and the fourth was almost hidden by piles of sacks. There were four sorcerers waiting there, two Firsts and two Seconds. Katanji gazed in growing horror at the drum thing. Torture?

The Fourth pointed at it. “Hurry up! Get on!” he said.

Katanji did not understand, but the other two slaves pushed past him to grab hold of a bar across the top and climb up on the drum, which had paddles along it. He copied them, and the drum began to turn slowly with a loud squeaking and clattering of the ropes and wheels. Big slab things began to sink into the hole.

“Flames!” muttered the Fourth. He picked up a whip from somewhere and cracked it loudly in the air. “Work, or I’ll skin you!”

So the three slaves pushed up against the bar and pushed down with their feet. The drum began to move faster and make louder noises, creaking and rumbling. Katanji was in the middle, looking at his thin arms between two sets of thicker arms, and beyond those was the big hole in the floor, and the ropes were moving. Soon he was running, trying to keep up with the others, wondering if he was going to be run to death. When he saw that the ropes were coming up, he worked out that this was not sorcery—the drum was winding the ropes. He and the other two slaves must be lifting that whole closet thing with their feet. It was nitty hard work.

The whip cracked again, and he remembered that he had no scars on his back. Would the sorcerers wonder about that? Almost all real slaves did. Would they be tempted to put some there, just on principle?

Faster and faster—he was gasping for breath, and his face and armpits were dribbling sweat. He could smell sweat in the air. His heart hammered and his mouth was dry. The other two were gasping, also, and both were bigger youths than he. Then gradually the pile of sacks rose right out of the floor, and the Fourth threw a handle. The drum locked and the three slaves almost jumped right over the bar. The sorcerers all laughed, as if they had been waiting for that.

The other two slaves lifted their arms and wiped their faces. Just in time Katanji did not. It was brighter in this room than downstairs—would anyone look hard at his slavestripe? Grease and lampblack . . . was it spreading with all this sweat? He kept his head down with his hands out, resting on the rail, and he panted his heart out. The other two slaves were doing much the same. The junior sorcerers were unloading the sacks and stacking them carefully and neatly. There seemed to be some way of telling one type from another, for they went to various places along the wall, but all the sacks looked the same to the watching swordsman.

“Ready!” the Fourth shouted when the closet was empty; he threw the handle again and the drum shifted under Katanji’s feet. The slaves started treading, but it was almost as much work to lower the thing back down again as it had been to bring it up—and that did not seem fair, somehow. Then he heard more sacks being thrown in it.

He thought with dismay of the size of that wagon, and its load.

He wondered about
Sapphire
. What would he do if she sailed without him?

The whip cracked again, and the torment began again . . . 

It took at least twenty trips to empty the wagon. By then Katanji was shaking all over with exhaustion and did not really care if they saw he was a swordsman, if they would only let him lie down somewhere. His mouth tasted like mud, and he thought his heart would burst. Sometimes the room seemed to darken and fade; then he knew he was close to fainting. Slaves were always worked like that, but if he fell over, they would see his face.