The Coming Of Wisdom (8 page)

The cart lurched and squeaked and jingled. It had no springs, but then it was not moving very quickly. Wallie and Nnanji could have reached the manor sooner on foot, had that not meant leaving the rest of the party at the tenancy, potential hostages. A swordsman was both a soldier and a cop, and Wallie was not sure which of his two roles was dominant at the moment. He was likely to be attacked soon by a brigade of sorcerers, but he was also morally certain that Lady Thondi was guilty of murder. Kandoru had been blatantly betrayed, and Nnanji was not the only swordsman hankering for justice. Whether or not Wallie Smith could now bring himself to decapitate a helpless old woman would be an interesting discovery.

He still was seeing very little of the World. Many stretches of the road had been deepened into a trench by long use. It was flanked by hedges—more practical than fences in the absence of barbed wire—and thus he caught few glimpses of the fields. He could tell only that they were small, irregular, and inset in woodland. The country was rising, and surely the manor could not be far off now.

“This must be your mission, my lord brother.” Nnanji was in a sulk, furious with his own shortcomings. He was holding the edge of a blanket tight round his neck, leaving his head free, but made him look hunchbacked where it humped over his sword hilt. His wet ponytail was dark red, and even his normally invisible eyelashes were showing more than usual.

“Perhaps.” Wallie wore his cover right over himself like a tent, peering out from under it. “But there were only forty or so swordsmen slaughtered in Ov—”

“
Only
?”

“Bad enough, but not much worse than that battle of Ko you were quoting.” Miracles and the Chioxin sword suggested something more vast than that. Even if Shonsu had somehow been responsible for the loss of Ov—and the reeve had not been Shonsu, but Zandorphino of the Sixth—that would hardly count as a disaster from a god’s viewpoint. “On the other hand, two of the three clues have turned up now—we did come a long way and we are in sorcerer country.”

Vixini slapped cheerfully at the edge of the cart; it made interesting splashes. Wagon rides were exciting.

“That’s what I meant,” Nnanji said. “Sorcerers being found near the River!”

Wallie stared at him. “What do you mean?”

Nnanji tugged his blanket into greater comfort. “Coming down from the hills.”

“What . . . what do you know about sorcerers, brother adept?”

“Only the usual stories.” Nnanji reached out a hand and patted Cowie’s thigh encouragingly.

“But Honakura never heard of sorcerers!”

“He wouldn’t, would he? I mean, they worship the Fire God, so no one who had any dealings with a sorcerer would tell a priest. They’d tell a swordsman, though!”

This was a complete revelation to Wallie. Just in time, he restrained a blast of temper: why had Nnanji not told him this sooner?

Then Nnanji’s eyes widened. “I thought you would know about them, my lord brother! Did you not have sorcerers in your other—”

“I’m asking you now.”

Nnanji rubbed wet eyelids. “Well, the only man in the barracks who had met a sorcerer firsthand was Honorable Tarru. I never heard him tell it, but Briu had.” His gaze seemed to go out of focus as he recalled the words . . . 

Tarru? Ironic—Wallie had almost enjoyed killing Tarru. “Just the outline, please, Nnanji.”

“Well . . . it was when he was a Second. Long ago. They caught sight of a sorcerer on a donkey and chased him to a village. They surrounded it, but when they searched, he’d vanished. They found the donkey, and his gown, but that was all. They go invisible.”

Invisible killers? “You’re serious?”

Nnanji nodded glumly. “Seems so. There are other stories. Two frees came on pilgrimage on Leatherworkers’ Day last year, and one of them said . . . ”

With effortless recall, be rattled off a dozen tales, all retold at least once—yarns spun by members of the guard who had been frees in their youth, or by pilgrim swordsmen granted hospitality in the barracks, or merely tales that had been lying around there for years. The basic theme was always the same. One: Swordsman sees sorcerer. Two: Swordsman kills sorcerer. Three: End of story. A swordsman’s invariable reaction to a sorcerer was instant attack—dog versus cat. If there was a contrary story that began with sorcerer seeing swordsman, then the survivor had not reported it to the barracks.

Sorcerers wore gowns with cowls. Sorcerers’ facemarks were feathers . . . No, no one knew why. Why were farmers’ facemarks triangles? Sorcerers were never found near the River, only in the hills or mountains. There were legends of sorcerer cities—Kra and Pfath and Vul and others—and a few isolated towers. Swordsmen stayed away from those . . . or, again, did not return to report.

Jja caught Wallie’s eye, looking very solemn. “There was a place called Kra south of Plo, master. No one ever went there, but I don’t remember anyone mentioning sorcerers . . . it was in the mountains.” Plo lay far to the south, so that could have nothing to do with these sorcerers.

Nnanji moved on to minstrel ballads. The sorcerers were an evil bunch in those—killing, bewitching, laying on curses—but the minstrels would have selected their material to suit their swordsman audience, so the sampling could be biased. Yet if sorcerers wielded a fraction of the powers attributed to them, then Wallie was facing an impossible situation. The swordsmen’s standard murderous reflex would be the only defense—hit him first, before he knew you were there. But almost certainly Lady Thondi had already reported his arrival, so that would not work this time.

Despite Honakura’s doubts, there really were sorcerers in the World, only not near Hann.

“Vul?” Wallie said. “That was one of the cities? The mountains here are called RegiVul. Maybe Vul is in these mountains.” He thought for a while. “So sorcerers attacked Ov and killed the swordsmen . . . but why? I mean, why now? If they’re half as good as your stories say they are, then they could have done this centuries ago.” The culture of the World was old beyond imagining.

Nnanji shrugged. “The Goddess does not allow them near the River.”

So She had sent Her champion to drive them back into the hills? Nnanji was right—this must be his mission. But Her champion had no idea how to fight invisible killers armed with magic. In fact, Wallie was perhaps the worst swordsman the Goddess could have chosen—his mind retched at the thought of sorcery. All his training was against it. Yet two weeks ago he had not believed in miracles, either.

Then he saw the manor ahead. There were other structures visible in the background—slave quarters, perhaps, and farm buildings—but he ignored those. The big house was doubtless very grand by local standards, but its architecture jarred on him. The proportions were all wrong, and the colors. Most of the stonework was a checker of white and red, its lines cluttered with black or gray pilasters, balconies, and buttresses. The high roofs were tiled in many colors, shining wet, and fussily embellished with green-copper dormers and onion domes. Big windows in the facade looked out over formal gardens, and the rough roadway changed abruptly into a gravel drive leading to a low but imposing staircase. There was his destination, and he could move faster on foot.

He rose, throwing off the cloak. “Nnanji, help the others out when you get there. Katanji, come with me.”

He vaulted over the back of the cart. Katanji scrambled and jumped, and Wallie steadied him as he slipped in the mud. Then the two of them ran ahead.

At the foot of the steps, Wallie paused. “Stay here and keep watch,” he said.

“For what, my lord?” Katanji looked worried, as he should.

“Archers, mostly. Shout if you see anything suspicious.”

Wallie trotted up the staircase, his boots slapping in shallow puddles. The double doors were large enough to take the horse and cart, and very firmly closed and solid. But this was no castle—big mullioned windows reached to the floor on either side.

He kicked the door three times with the sole of his boot, and it boomed like a drum. Then he peered through one of the windows. The panes were small and leaded, glass manufacture still being primitive in the World, and he could see nothing within. The cart had almost reached Katanji, who was rotating slowly, like a lighthouse beacon.

Squat statuettes of dancing nymphs adorned the red granite balustrades. Wallie selected one of the smaller figures and confirmed that he could move it. He could even throw it well enough to collapse a window in a satisfying crash of shattered glass and twisted lead.

He ducked in through the chasm and saw a black-clad woman hesitating irresolutely ahead of him. She was white-haired and matronly, but a slave nevertheless. Send a slave to greet a Seventh, would they? Normally slaves were safe from violence, being property, but this intruder was obviously not respecting property.

“Inform Lady Thondi that I shall see her in the great hall at once.”

The woman bowed. “Her ladyship sends . . . ”

“At once, or I start smashing things!” Wallie turned his attention to the door, swinging the bar up and pulling. His companions were descending from the cart at the bottom of the steps.

The woman had gone scampering across the wide marble floor toward a grandiose staircase. The entrance hallway was impressive, and evidently intended to be so. Tall black pedestals supported statuary—mostly very ugly, bloated nudes—and the walls were clothed in elaborate tapestries. Wallie had seen true luxury in the temple at Hann; this was rank ostentation. Angrily he compared it with Quili’s damp little cottage, but there was probably as much difference again between her humble abode and the estate’s slave quarters. He had promised not to tell the Goddess how to run Her World and he knew that many places on Earth had a similar disparity of wealth, but this conspicuous display enraged him. Lands were always the ultimate riches.

Quili was helping Honakura up the steps and the others were following. Katanji came last, walking backward. Surprisingly, he did not trip.

Before Wallie could stop her, Quili dropped to her knees. “My lord . . . ”

“No need for apologies, apprentice.” He took hold of her elbow and raised her. “You could not have known, and it was not all your fault. Now lead me to this great hall you mentioned.”

If the entrance had been vulgarly ostentatious, then the great hall was obscenely so, quite large enough to be the throne room of a palace. Acres of parquet floor were dotted with sumptuous rugs, the fireplace could have garaged a car, and the opposite wall was mainly composed of high windows, their centers emblazoned with medallions and sunbursts of gaudy stained glass. On a clearer day, they would have provided a fine view of the River. Huge chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, and there was even a minstrels’ gallery at the far end, above the baronial dining table. Despite several expansive groupings of furniture scattered around, the dominant impression was one of emptiness—a vulgar display of unused space, inhabited only by many more statues. Either someone in the family was a collector, or they were a symbol of wealth in the Ov area.

The visitors paused in the doorway, stunned into silence by such luxury, a truly opulent setting for treachery and murder.

Wallie growled, then said, “I want to see how this crime was committed, Quili. These double doors—were they both open like this?”

“No, my lord. The right one was closed.”

Wallie edged his companions out of the way and closed the right flap. “Is that normal?”

“No! I’d never seen it closed before, my lord. I haven’t been here very often, but usually both doors are open.”

Wallie nodded. That sounded like evidence to him. “Now, put Jja where the Lady Thondi was, and Cowie will be the sorcerers.”

Puzzled by this unorthodox procedure, Quili led the women along the hall and placed them near the great fireplace.

“And point out who else was here.”

Quili frowned, remembering. Then she indicated where the honored guests from Ov had been grouped, and the senior tenants, including the women who had described the crime to Nnanji. Adept Motipodi had been here, several senior workers there . . . Kandoru had been slaughtered before a distinguished audience.

Jja and Cowie remained by the fireplace, where a cheerful blaze crackled, although the room was not cold by usual standards. Vixini had dozed off in his sling. Wallie led Quili back to the door. Nnanji was fretting, Katanji twitching nervously. “Now, where was the other sorcerer?” Quili pointed and Wallie positioned Katanji in the spot, beside the closed door. Nnanji’s face darkened as he recognized an ambush.

Wallie paused, studying the big hall, imagining the crowd of watchers like semitransparent ghosts.

“Tell me again, Quili. Why was the estate guard not invited?”

The little priestess sent him a worried glance; she had told him all this twice already. “Adept Motipodi had sent a message, my lord. His honor was arriving by road, with guests. They might include sorcerers. Kandoru was to remain at the tenancy.”

“And you?”

“I had been commanded . . . I stayed with my husband. I was trying to persuade him to leave, my lord.”

“And then?”

And then another message had come: Kandoru was to appear and meet the guests after all.

“Was he told to wear his sword?”

“Why would he . . . I mean, he did not wear it when he was digging, or hoeing, but . . . ”

“All right. Of course he would. So he knew there was danger.”

“Danger?” Nnanji shouted. “From guests?” Wallie merely nodded. Hospitality should have protected both sides, but so soon after the massacre in Ov there had obviously been danger. Kandoru had known that, but danger would not keep an honorable swordsman from his duty.

With Nnanji playing the victim, Wallie made them act out the crime five or six times, until Quili was sure of her story and Nnanji knew his part. Then he had them run it through without words, while he and the equally intent Honakura watched in silence.

Nnanji-Kandoru marched in through the doorway, Quili a pace behind and slightly to his left. With one side of the door closed, he had no choice in where he walked—good ambush technique. A few steps into the room, he stopped, seeing the audience. Quili almost ran into him.