The Coming Of Wisdom (38 page)

The cordwainer rolled his eyes up and said, “Yes, Father.”

“Lodge?” Nnanji shouted. “There is a lodge at Casr?” He glanced momentarily at Wallie. “And who is castellan?”

“Eh?” The old man cupped his ear.

“Who is castellan of the lodge?” Nnanji bellowed.

“Castellan? Shonsu of the Seventh.”

The solid cordwainer was now close to nervous weeping. “No, no, Father, this is Lord Shonsu.”

He did not notice the way Lord Shonsu and his protégé were staring at each other. Wallie did not need to ask what a lodge was—that had been part of Shonsu’s professional memories and had therefore been passed on to him. A lodge was a union hall, an independent barracks where free swords might seek rest, news, and fellowship. A lodge was a logical place to try to enlist swordsmen. A lodge was a logical headquarters for a war against the sorcerers.

And for Shonsu? The Shonsu who had failed disastrously?

The sorcerer in Aus had said, “ . . . when you return to your nest.”

“I’m sure it was Shonsu,” the old man quavered. “I’ll ask Kio’y. He’ll know.” He turned and tottered back to the rear exit, already shouting, “Kionijuiy?”

The woman, who had been watching in unhappy silence, followed him sadly out. The others observed a moment’s silence, out of pity. The cordwainer, left to face the wrath of swordsmen, muttered something about one of his bad days.

Then Wallie folded his arms and leaned back against a table displaying boots. He did not need to tell Nnanji to go ahead—he could not have stopped him now. The questions came quick and angry.

“So your brother is the only effective swordsman in Tau?”

“Yes, adept.”

“But he has gone to Casr?”

“Yes, adept.”

“Why? For promotion?”

“He hoped . . . Yes, adept. He should be back—”

‘Take off that robe!”

He was older, bigger, and of higher rank, but civilians did not dispute with swordsmen. In abject silence, the cordwainer untied his garment and pulled it down as far as his waist.

“Put it on again. How many more brothers have you got?”

“Five, adept.”

“Crafts?”

“A butcher, a baker—”

“And do they also bear foil scars?”

The cordwainer nodded miserably.

A man with only two Seconds for practice would hardly be trying for promotion to Fifth. And a lodge would be a logical place to seek promotion—having missed that opportunity, Adept Nnanji was not likely to be sympathetic.

“So your brother—your
swordsman
brother—has gone off to advance his career, leaving the town unguarded?”

“The Seconds could call for a posse—”

“An apprentice does not have that authority!” Nnanji was seething with fury, but he took a few minutes to reflect before he decided, unconsciously rubbing his chin. Then he said icily, “I am ready to proceed, mentor.”

The cordwainer looked ready to faint.

And Wallie had to decide what to do now. Possibly this was another of the gods’ tests, or perhaps it was some sort of a clue. Certainly Nnanji had a watertight case. Tau was so small that most of the time one swordsman would be ample to keep it peaceful. Likely Kioniarru had been reeve for decades, and any time he had needed help, on festival days when the drunks prowled, he had called out his sons. The elders would have approved, because they had no extra wages to pay, so they were not guiltless. But the old man had taught his sons to use swords—a sensible precaution and a flagrant abomination. Butchers and bakers were not sailors.

Wallie could not hear a denunciation from Nnanji, and priests should not judge violations of swordsmen sutras. Brota could, of course.

He needed time to think. If he let this prosecution go ahead, he was going to strip Tau of any protection at all. Even a cordwainer would be better than nothing. Even a cordwainer who had ignored a near riot developing right outside his shop.

“What penalties would you demand?” Wallie inquired.

“Death—what else?” Nnanji snapped.

The cordwainer moaned.

“A little extreme, perhaps?”

Nnanji bristled. “I have no doubts, my lord brother!”

WalUe had asked the wrong question. “What penalties would you assess if you were judge, then?” Nnanji as prosecutor would always ask for the death penalty, to show he was not afraid of losing his case.

“Oh!” Nnanji pondered. “The old man wouldn’t understand, would he? He’s confused . . . cut off his ponytail and break his sword. The civilians . . . the right hand.”

The cordwainer cringed.

“Then they will starve, and their children, also,” Wallie said.

Nnanji frowned. “What sentence would you impose, mentor?”

Very grateful that the case was still hypothetical, Wallie said, “I think a flogging would suffice. Their father was the main culprit.”

Nnanji thought about that, and then nodded. “Yes, that’s true—a thorough flogging, in public.” Nnanji had mellowed!

“And Adept Kionijuiy? Or Master Kionijuiy, if he has won his promotion?”

Nnanji’s eyes lit up—challenge! That need not be hypothetical! “He might still be at Casr when we get back there? Or even here, when we return from Cha next week?”

“If he is, then you can have him.”

“Thank you, brother!” Nnanji beamed.

Wallie suppressed a shiver and looked at the quaking cobbler. “Adept Nnanji and I have pressing business elsewhere. We cannot stay to administer justice at this time, but we shall be back. Warn your brothers, all of them. And I intend to send word to the lodge at Casr, stating that Tau has need of swordsmen.”

Obviously astonished by this reprieve, the cordwainer wiped sweat from his brow.

It was amazing that the old man, and later his swordsman son, had managed to hide the nepotism so long. Perhaps only the very closeness of a lodge had made it possible—any free swords who had chanced by had been easily diverted to Casr. Now, if they had any sense, the whole family would leave town.

The swordsmen emerged again into the smelly, bustling street. Wallie stood for a moment with his back against a wall, thinking. He could not easily talk to Nnanji when they were walking.

It was still not a very satisfactory solution. If Kionijuiy’s brothers all fled, then Tau would be left unprotected, at least for a few days.

“We are going to the temple?” Nnanji asked.

“You are, as soon as you see me safely to the ship. Here.” Wallie handed over a couple of golds. Priests were the only messengers who could be trusted not to pocket a fee and forget its purpose.

Nnanji raised his eyebrows.

“Send word to the lodge. But also ask if they know the castellan’s name—I can’t do that now, can I?”

Perhaps the old man had been mistaken; or perhaps not.

If Shonsu had been castellan of the lodge at Casr, then word of Wallie’s disgrace at Aus would certainly have been carried there by sailors. When
Sapphire
had docked at Casr, he had tried to persuade Nnanji to visit the garrison. That might have been a very narrow escape. And what was he expected to do now—go back to Casr, or continue the circle to Ov?

“It’s a puzzle, isn’t it?” Wallie looked around with enjoyment at the pseudo-Tudor buildings and the bustling people detouring nervously around him. “Maybe I’m supposed to stay and take over here! It’s a cute little town, this.”

“You’re joking!”

“Not entirely,” Wallie said. “When we’ve completed our mission, what are you going to do afterward? Marry Thana and be a water rat?”

“Thana’s great, but . . . me—a water rat?” Nnanji shrugged. “Be a Seventh?”

“Certainly, in time. Doing what?”

“A free sword. Honorable and true to my oaths.” Nnanji looked puzzled by this sudden philosophical discussion. “You?”

“I want to see more of the World. But eventually, I suppose, I’ll settle down in some quiet little town like this and be a reeve.” Wallie chuckled at the notion. “And raise seven sons, like old Kioniarru. And seven daughters, also, if Jja wants them!”

Nnanji stared at him incredulously. “Reeve? Why not king?”

“Too much bloodshed to get it, and too much work when you do. But I like Tau, I think.”

“If you want it, my lord brother,” Nnanji said respectfully, “then I am sure that the Goddess will give it to you.” He wrinkled his snub nose in disgust. “I’ll try to deserve something better.”

Wallie had feared that the sailors might be fretting and eager to leave, but Brota had discovered that Tau was a source of fine leather. While
Sapphire
was heavy-laden with the marble, her holds were far from full. Brota dearly enjoyed trading . . . and sorcerer towns had no tanners. Thus the swordsmen returned to find the ship smelling like the cordwainer’s shop, while the usual panting slaves raced up and down the planks, loading boots and shoes, bulky but not heavy.

Brota and Tomiyano scowled at the news that Lord Shonsu had been unable to enlist helpers in Tau, but they did not seem surprised. Nnanji headed off to the temple, and Wallie sought out Honakura for a consultation.

The evenings were growing shorter now, and the weather uncertain. By nightfall, a storm front had moved in, and
Sapphire
jerked peevishly at her anchor in mid-River, her center of gravity strangely lowered by the marble. Rain splattered everywhere and dribbled from the scuppers. Cold, damp darkness flooded into the deckhouse before the meal was finished.

Wallie was even more puzzled than before. The priests had promised Nnanji they would pass the message to the lodge. The castellan there had been a Lord Shonsu until recently—so they had said—but they thought there was a new one now, name unknown. Castellans came and went frequently. So what was Wallie supposed to do? Go back to Casr, or continue to Ov? Casr was logical, for there he must find swordsmen, but he would be in grave danger of a denunciation for cowardice. Ov seemed to be what the god’s riddle demanded, but it made very little sense.

Sitting on the floor and cuddling Jja for warmth, he passed on the news that there was a lodge in Casr.

Holiyi broke a two-day silence to say, “Heard that. Didn’t know it mattered.”

“Casr it must be, then,” Brota proclaimed firmly. ‘Three days to Cha, then back to Casr!” The next city was always going to appear in three days, but in practice always took longer.

A wordless murmur from the shadows indicated that the family agreed with her. The Jonahs were not resented as bitterly as they had been at first, but these riverfolk wanted no part of divine missions. They felt they had done their share now and should be allowed to go back to minding their own business.

“What would a priest say, if we had one present, old man?” Wallie asked.

“How should I know?” Honakura protested, and there were a few chuckles. “I agree that the signals are contradictory, my lord. You must pray for guidance.”

Prayer might help, but Wallie decided to try a little morale boosting. “Nnanji? Sing us a song, the one about Chioxin.”

“No, let’s have a romantic one!” protested one of the women—Mata, he thought.

“Don’t know any romantic ones,” Nnanji said. ‘They weren’t allowed in the barracks.”

Then he started, and his soft tenor drifted anonymously out of the shadows:

In a few minutes Oligarro’s mandolin picked up the melody. It was a mediocre ballad, and whichever minstrel’s voice Nnanji was copying was not especially tuneful, but it was new to the audience, and soon they must have seen why it had been chosen. Battles and heroes, monsters and villains, blood and honor floated through the gathering dark and out into the night: six swords, six heraldic beasts holding six jewels, many legendary warriors . . . then silence.

“Go on!” Matarro shouted eagerly.

“Forgotten the words?” Tomiyano asked sarcastically.

“I only know one more verse,” Nnanji said, and quoted the lines he had sung once to his liege lord as he sat in a bathtub:

Silence again.

“That can’t be all?” Diwa protested.

“No,” said Nnanji. “There’s a little more, but I never heard it. Chioxin died. The seventh sword, he gave to the Goddess. No one saw it for seven hundred years.”

The deckhouse was black as a coal mine now, the Dream God obscured by the flying clouds, the shutters mostly closed against the wind.

“And She gave it to Shonsu?” Matarro asked breathlessly.

“She did. It’s here, in this room. The saga isn’t finished. The greatest part must be still to come. And you’re in it!”

“Oo!” said a few juvenile voices, and there were adult murmurs there, also.

“I don’t want to be in it!” That was Tomiyano. “And I don’t want the damned sword on my ship!”

“Tom’o!” Brota’s voice was reproving, but a few others muttered agreement.

“Nor swordsmen! Who needs them?”

The ensuing embarrassed silence was suddenly broken as the bar dropped across the door. Feet ran up the steps outside.

Engrossed in the song. Captain Tomiyano had forgotten to set guards at nightfall.
Sapphire
had been boarded.

†††††††

The deckhouse was filled with shouting and panic. Wallie was sitting directly below a window. He rose and swung open the shutter. Leaning out backward, he looked up at the blackness of the bulwark against the almost-black sky. He could reach the rail if he stood on his toes. Then a darker darkness loomed above the rail, and a blade glinted. Behind him, the brightness of the River . . . hastily he grabbed the sides of the frame and threw himself back, hanging over the water as steel whistled where his head had been an instant before.

He slid back into the deckhouse. Think up plan two . . . 

“Here,” Nnanji said softly at his side.

The noise was subsiding.

“Men to the middle, everyone else back against the walls,” Wallie said. Silence returned, except for one of the adolescents, who was snuffling.