The Coming Of Wisdom (36 page)

The Fourth cracked his whip often, but did not use it, although the last couple of loads took a long time. One of his juniors said perhaps he should go and get some fresh livestock, but the Fourth said almost done, not to bother.

At last he led them into the corridor again. Katanji hung back, limping slowly—and it was not hard to do that. It was hard to walk at all. His legs were paste. The two doors were open now, throwing patches of light, and he slowed down as he went by each, trying to grab a picture in his mind. In the first room a sorceress was sitting at a table, a Second, with her cowl back. She was doing something with a plate, rubbing it round and round on something—casting a spell, he supposed, looking bored. Mostly he just noticed her face, saw nothing behind or around her. She was about twenty-five, quite pretty, but she had three facemarks, not two for her yellow gown. They were not feathers! He was not sure just what they were, but they did not have the curved shape of feathers.

There was no one visible in the second room, just a couple of tables and some chairs. One of the tables seemed to be a shrine, for it had tall feathers standing on it in silver holders—something to do with the facemarks, he supposed. The far wall was lined with shelves, laden with hundreds of brown boxes of various sizes, made of leather, he thought. Then he was at the stairs.

He clung hard to the rail as he went down, because his legs were quivering so much. The thing in the vat hissed and spluttered, and he did not care. He tried to see more things in the big room, but it was gloomy, and his eyes had not had time to adjust. It was a very big room, half the size of the tower, he guessed. There were two windows on one long wall and one on each of the shorter walls, so that would be right. Racks and shelves ran the whole length of the room, with bottles and bundles on them—how could anyone remember which was what? The bellows man was still pumping. Another First, in a gown, was grinding something in a mortar as big as a washtub.

He wanted more time, time to study it all, and he dare not stop. His brain would not work, he was too tired. Through a gray fog he noticed a copper snake at the far end—much, much bigger than any he had seen before—and a grindstone, and a smaller edition of the treadmill upstairs, underneath one thing that he could never overlook: a great big gold ball on a pillar near the door, big enough for a man to stand up in if it were hollow. That must be a very big sorcery, or perhaps it was a sun god idol? There were many pipes snaking around, too, and ropes hanging . . . a couple more tables of junk and two more piles of bags and sacks . . . and then he was at the loading dock, and the wagon had already gone. The two slave gangs were standing outside, waiting.

He was trapped! He stopped on the dock to try to think. His two sweaty companions from the treadmill dropped down limply, heading for different groups. Which one should he go to? The sorcerers were waiting to shut the doors. He rubbed an eye as if he had got something in it and got shouted at, so he scrambled down, legs still shaking madly.

He stood on the bronze grating and hesitated. But both slave gangs were complete, so both turned and walked away, each boss thinking that the last slave belonged to the other. With a sigh of relief Katanji followed after one of them, and the big doors clunked shut behind him. The rain was gloriously cold on his hot skin. He began to drop behind the slaves, farther and farther, and then edged in behind a portly matron of the Third, following her as if she owned him until they reached the buildings and he could go off on his own. He had started to shiver in the cold.

Sapphire
would be gone, and they might not miss him for hours. He was a swordsman, trapped in a sorcerer town. He would have to go to the temple, he supposed . . . 

“Katanji?”

He jumped. It was Lae, bony old Lae, her wrinkled, motherly face frowning at him.

“You all right?” she demanded.

He stopped his jaw rattling long enough to say, “Yes, I’m all right. I was just coming back.” His eyes prickled, and he lowered his face as a slave should.

She frowned. “Shonsu and your brother are eating the shutters in the deckhouse. You were very nearly left behind! I guessed you’d be around the tower somewhere. Come on!”

He fell into step beside her, then remembered that he was a slave and fell back a pace. She twisted her head a few times to look at him. “You look as if you’ve had a hard day.” Her voice was more gentle.

He managed to grin, beginning to feel better. “I’ve been inside the tower.”

She stopped dead so that the other pedestrians had to dodge around them; it was a narrow street. “Gods, boy! You’ve got more guts and less brains than your brother! I did not think that was possible.”

He had more brains, but he did not say so. And, yes, maybe he did have guts.

“Oh, it was not hard. Very interesting, really. I saw lots of things . . . ” He was going to start babbling and he had a crazy desire to laugh, so he bit his lip and forced himself into silence.

“Getting in might be easy,” Lae said, “but you got out again! You look beat. Come on, then.”

They reached the dock road and walked along past the ships. Two patrolling sorcerers went by without a glance at him. Lae stopped again and asked some questions, studying him carefully.

“I’m going to take you on board,” she said firmly, “and you’re going to have a shower and then you’ll sleep in my cabin. Shonsu and Nnanji can’t leave the deckhouse until we’re out of port, and I’ll see they stay away.”

“Thanks,” he said. Brota liked to think she was ship mother, but anyone with a problem went to Lae. A sleep would be good, but could even Lae hold off an angry Seventh?

He saw both grins and glares as he went on board, but Lae kept the others away. She stood outside the door while he showered. His muscles began to knot up in lumps of agony as he worked the pump. He was trembling even more now, damn it! Then she handed in his kilt, and he stumbled along behind her, down to the cabins.

Hers was just like the others, a little box with a chest and a roll of bedding, but she had bright drapes beside the porthole, a little rug on the floor, and an embroidered bedcover. The air smelled of lavender, like his mother’s closet. He unrolled the bedding and lay down stiffly and looked up at her.

“You need anything else, novice? Food?”

“A drink of water, Sailor Lae,” he said, “and thank you.”

She smiled, thin-lipped. “I’ll see that you’re not disturbed.”

He thought he would go to sleep at once, but he lay there, and his shivering grew worse instead of better. He took off his kilt and pulled the covers over him and that did not help. He decided he had caught a chill.

He ought to say some prayers, he thought. Then the door opened and his drink came in, but it was Diwa who brought it. She shut the door and bolted it.

When he put the beaker aside, she sat down and started sliding into the bed beside him.

He gulped. “No! You’ll be missed!”

She chuckled. “Don’t worry—they know about us. Oooo! You’re cold as a fish! Lae said this might help.”

It did help. It helped worlds. She put her arms around him, tightly. He pushed down her bra sash with his chin and cuddled his head between her breasts. They were big and soft and warm and smelled of fresh bread; lovely things, they were. He shed tears over them, because they were so lovely, and hoped she would not notice.

Eventually he stopped shivering and began to feel warm. He thought he ought to do the manly thing for Diwa now, because this might be his last opportunity, but then it was too late, because he was asleep . . . 

†††††

Of course it was Diwa who stopped
Sapphire
from sailing. Sniveling and shaking, she was thrust into the deckhouse ahead of an enraged Brota to repeat her confession to the swordsmen and explain that Katanji was ashore. Tomiyano was right behind, his face dark with fury. Others came crowding in, filling the dim, shuttered room with wet, furious people. The draperies of damp laundry were ripped down to make more space; voices were raised.

For the third time the ship had visited a sorcerer city. For a fourth time she had been put in jeopardy. The sailors were frightened and therefore angry. Wallie was horrified by the risk to Katanji. Nnanji was disgusted at the disgrace of a swordsman playing slave. Maloli—a stocky, heavyset man whose face was rubicund at the best of times—was ablaze at the shame of it all. Only the calming influence of his wife, Fala, was restraining him from words that would have forced Nnanji to take offense; and even the unexcitable Fala was thin-lipped and bitter. Katanji had been in their daughter’s cabin; she had been compromised. Everyone was shouting and arguing at cross-purposes.

“Quiet!” Wallie bellowed, and there was quiet.

Then he spoke quietly. “Mistress, we can discuss blame later. I ask you now to send out search parties. If he’s been caught, then we must be able to leave quickly. How many can you spare?”

“If he’s been caught, then the demons may be here any minute!”

“That’s true. But remember the sorcerers in the quarry—they did nothing to stop us sailing away, so their powers do not extend very far over the River. If he has been captured, then I shall offer myself in exchange—”

“A Seventh for a First?” Nnanji shouted.

“It’s my fault. Be quiet, brother, please. Mistress?”

Had it been any one of the passengers other than Katanji, Brota would have cast off and sailed. Wallie knew that. But Katanji had charm. They all liked Katanji. As tempers began to cool, the sailors remembered stories they had collected about sorcerers and torture. Reluctantly Brota agreed that they would stay and look for him, at least until there was evidence that the sorcerers had been alerted. If they had to leave swiftly, then anyone left behind would rendezvous at the temple at midnight and wait for a dinghy . . . 

The sailors trailed out.

Wallie was feeling sick. If he had failed to control one novice, how could he ever run an army? “I told him not to go ashore!”

“You told him not to set foot on the plank!” Nnanji snapped. He bared his teeth. “Disguise! A slave!”

“I set the example there,” Wallie admitted.

“At least you never tampered with facemarks.” That was an inordinate sin among the People; their whole culture was based on facemarks.

But then they were interrupted as crew members took shelter from the rain, and they could say no more.

And time seemed to stop. A port officer came by and inquired why they had not sailed yet, if their trading was done. The berth was needed. Brota spun a yarn of stomach cramps and a hurried trip to the healers.

The rain grew worse.

Wallie’s frustration grew almost unbearable.

How long until the sorcerers extracted the truth from the boy?

And what happened then? The ship was being jeopardized on a faint chance of saving one raw recruit. Cold mathematics suggested that
Sapphire
should sail while she could. A good general would make that calculation and act on it. Wallie could calculate, but he could not act.

Little Fia ran in, screaming with excitement—Lae and Katanji were coming along the road.

Wallie relaxed with a huge sigh of relief and said a silent prayer to the Goddess, and to Shorty.

“I’ll skin him!” Nnanji muttered. But his eyes were shiny.

A few minutes later, a wan Katanji limped up the plank like a beaten dog and headed forward behind Lae. The sailors hurried to their posts, and at last the swordsmen were left alone—two swordsmen and one ragged old priest, sitting on a chest and smirking.

Now the blame could be distributed.

Wallie pointed an accusing finger at Honakura. “You knew what he was doing!”

The old man nodded smugly.

“You let that boy go into danger—”

“Danger?” Nnanji shouted. “That’s his job! But to violate the laws—that’s an abomination!”

“Indeed?” Honakura raised his eyebrows. “Laws are tricky, adept. Unlike sutras, they have no exact words. What is the precise law in Sen that your protégé has broken?”

“I . . . exact?”

“Oh? You don’t know?” Honakura beamed up mockingly. Nnanji was turning bright red with fury.

“All laws forbid changing facemarks!”

“He hasn’t changed his. It is still there. He painted a stripe over it, but that will wipe off.”

“Then it is an abomination to change one’s craft!”

“Slavery is not a craft.”

Reluctantly Wallie began to appreciate the humor. The old priest was going to tie Nnanji in a marlinespike hitch. And he himself could see nothing wrong in a plainclothes swordsman; it was the answer he had been seeking. Katanji could gather wisdom for him, as the riddle had suggested, so this was part of the gods’ plan. He felt more hopeful.

“It is always an abomination to change one’s rank!” Nnanji persisted.

“I disagree. Any law I have ever heard forbids one to raise one’s rank. Your brother lowered his.”

Nnanji’s reply was incomprehensible.

“Did Katanji understand that, old man?” Wallie asked.

“Perhaps not at first,” Honakura admitted. “But I explained it to him.”

“You corrupted my protégé, you—”

“Steady, Nnanji!” Wallie said. “He has a good argument. There would seem to be no breach of the laws. Who would make a law forbidding a swordsman to wear a slavestripe? It is still the danger that bothers me . . . ”

“Honor!”

The door flew open to admit young Matarro, with eyes big as
Sapphire
’s scuppers. “He went in the tower, my lord!”

“He did
what
?”

The boy nodded wildly. “He’s been in the sorcerers’ tower! Lae says he saw all sorts of things!”

And Novice Matarro vanished again to attend to his duties.
Sapphire
was departing.

From another wisdom gain
. Wallie turned to Nnanji—and even Nnanji was looking startled. “Adept, I congratulate you on the exemplary courage displayed by your protegé!” There was no higher compliment one swordsman could pay another, because the craft believed that courage and honor could be taught only by example.

Nnanji’s mouth opened and closed a few times in silence. Then his principles and his anger prevailed. “Does courage alone justify dishonor, my lord brother?”