The Death of Nnanji (30 page)

Oh, Wallie had known enough to avoid a few minor mistakes, but what did he do now? Ships had gone back to Ivo to collect as many horses as the garrison there had been able to assemble and could be loaded aboard. So in a day or two he would be able ride out with a mounted patrol. Every well in town had been poisoned with corpses, mostly children, who would not jam in the shafts. The obvious conclusion was that the sorcerers had also poisoned all the water between here and Plo. An enemy ruthless enough to wipe out a village would have no scruples about letting wild horses die of thirst. It was midsummer. An army could not march far without water, certainly not if it might have to fight at the other end. Water was heavy.

What galled him most was that he had no one to blame except himself. He had been in too much of a hurry, and he had tried to fight an enemy who knew his every move and whose communications moved fifty times as fast as he could. Had he known about the jungle between Tro and Ki Mer, he would not have come that way. Had he known more about the Mule Hills he would have seen how easily the sorcerers could block his access. He could see no alternative now except to call off his attack and start over, using another approach, and that would advertise to the entire Tryst that he had been outwitted.

A pair of crows started a screaming match over some tasty morsel that one of them had found. If there had been ravens, they had left, leaving the leftovers to lesser vermin like crows. There were scores of crows in Soo at the moment, cleaning up the last traces of the massacre. They were strutting around everywhere…

“Begging your pardon most humbly, my liege,” Yoningu said, looking out the window, “but you seem to be sitting on the high-ranks’ supply of beer.”

Wallie jumped. “What? Oh, I was just keeping the sun off it so it didn’t get too hot.”

He rose and stared once again at the crows. They were his answer. Now—at last!—he read the message the gods had been trying to send him. At last, and perhaps too late.

Chapter 5

Close to sunset, Addis was prodded awake, given a meager drink of water, and told to saddle his horse. He felt he ought to refuse, but he was too weak and befuddled to try. The fact that his escort seemed in little better shape than he was did nothing to comfort him. The horses, now revived by drinking from the poisoned pool, might sicken and die later, but Addis might not have much “later” to look forward to, so he was tempted to scramble down the slope and drink his fill. Perhaps fortunately, Capn ordered him to mount up before he could decide.

The last thing the swordsmen did was set the hut on fire. No doubt they wanted to deny even that tiny scrap of shade to the Tryst when it came this way, but they were also denying it to the sorcerers they had left behind in Soo.

“Move!” Capn barked. “We’ve got a long way to go yet.”

Vixini awoke as the sun was setting, emptied his last canteen, saddled up, and set off on the last leg of his journey. He was well aware now that his carcass was more likely to feed vultures than piranha; he just hoped that he would not be able to notice the difference. He had certainly lost the trail, so the best he could do was keep the Dream God at his back and head south.

As twilight began to fade, he saw smoke—far away and well to west of his route—but there had been no thunderstorms, so fire meant people. Whether good people or bad people didn’t matter now. He turned in that direction. The brighter stars were appearing, and he could use the Southern Triangle as a better marker than the Dream God.

It took his horse an hour to take him close enough to smell the smoke and see that it came from a grass fire, little flames creeping northward as a southerly breeze urged them on. He followed the trail back to its source and found a burned-out shed, whose embers still glowed. The rest of the ruins had been destroyed much earlier, and he dared hope that he had stumbled on traces of Addis’s kidnappers. They could not be many hours ahead of him.

Each on his own feet, man and horse slithered eagerly down to the water. The horse drank greedily. Vixini balked at the sight of the mules’ ballooned corpses floating there like grotesque fish. Knowing he must have water or die, he used his sword to dig himself a tiny well in the sand a foot or so from the pool edge. As muddy water seeped into the hole, he sent a brief appeal to the Goddess that She would keep it free of poison, then began scooping it up with his hands. Nothing had ever tasted better.

Now… How many hours was he behind Addis, and which way had he gone? The ground was much drier here than it had been around Soo, and he couldn’t afford to wait for daylight to hunt for tracks.

Just when Addis was certain he must go to sleep and fall off, horses whinnied. Capn called for his men to halt as a band of horsemen came galloping out of the night. Swordsmen! Addis saw ponytails and sword hilts and his heart leaped with joy.

A voice rang out in challenge. “Thirteen twelve five?”

“Twenty-four, seven, twenty-five.” Capn had halted his horse right next to Addis’s. “We don’t want any nasty accidents, hostage.”

One of his flunkies moved in on the other side. Between them they stuffed a rag in Addis’s mouth, wrapped another around his head to hold the gag in place, and then pulled a bag over his head. They must have had those ready to hand.

Capn spoke briefly with whoever was in charge of the guard, but Addis could not make out what was said. The journey resumed, up a gentle slope, down another. Addis heard muffled voices, smelled latrines, wood smoke, and cooking odors. A good swordsman being led through the enemy’s camp ought to take note of everything so he could report it all when he escaped and returned to his mentor, but this one couldn’t see anything, and nothing he heard made sense. Besides, he had very little hope of ever returning to Soo, let alone Ivo. He could still not remember what had happened there, but he knew that Vixi had almost certainly died trying to defend him. If Shonsu had any sense he would have turned around and set off for home by now.

There was no point in keeping his eyes open inside the bag. It was easier to let them stay shut and rely on the motion of the saddle to keep him awake, or almost awake.

He was told to dismount. Then his hands were tied in front of him and a noose put around his neck so he couldn’t run away—hot chance of that happening! He was loaded into a cart, where there was straw for him to lie on. Bliss…

Some time in the night he was shaken awake, and marched along a jetty to a ship. The bare deck was less comfortable than the straw, but with his ankle tied to a rail, that was where he had to stay. He went back to sleep.

As dawn prepared to make its appearance, Vixini’s horse stumbled and stopped. He had been riding in a stupor. Shaken awake by the sudden cessation of motion, he realized what was happening and slid from the saddle. His own legs almost buckled under him, while the horse sighed heavily, as if to indicate that he should have done that long ago. Then it lay down and died.

He knelt, cut an artery and sucked out as much blood as he could. At least it removed the awful taste in his mouth, although the replacement was not much better. Now he was bloody outside and in.

Where was he? The ground looked much the same in every direction, but dawn was going to emerge to his left, so he had still been heading more or less south. He couldn’t last much longer unless he found water soon.

There being no further reason to linger, he started walking. Or stumbling. Or even staggering. After a while he saw that he had a shadow. Swiftly the World grew brighter, and a lark began to sing overhead. The grass all around here had been burned, and soon he was dusted all over by soot blowing in the wind. The ragged peak of RegiKra stood majestic along the horizon.

He wondered how long he could keep walking. This was definitely the final lap. If he lay down, he would never rise again.

The sun was above his left shoulder. Off to his right, roughly southwest, brilliant fires flamed along the horizon. Huh? Whatever was happening there was manmade, and human life meant water, so he turned and dragged his boots in that direction. Before long he realized that he was seeing sunlight reflected off bronze cannons. Furthermore, he had been noticed and eight horsemen were galloping in his direction.

He wasn’t alone any more.

There was a proverb about buying a lion to get rid of the mice.

Chapter 6

Vixini stopped and waited, and in a few moments he could make out seven brown kilts and one red. In a few more there were horsemen all around him.

“Your name and allegiance, swordsman?” the Fifth demanded. He was young for his rank and had a hard smartness about him that Vixini found encouraging. As long as everything was done by the sutras, he should not be in much trouble. On the other hand, if these were the sorcerer allies who had massacred Soo, then he had fallen in the midden.

He tried to speak and produced only a croak.

The Fifth smiled sympathetically and handed over his own canteen. Vixini drained it, then handed it back, wiping his mouth with his right hand. His bandage reminded him that he was covered in dried blood. That could not look good. He reached for his sword.

“Leave that! Just answer my question.”

“My name is Vixini, protégé of Filurz of the Fifth, and I am sworn to the Tryst of Casr.”

The Thirds exchanged glances.

“I am Malaharo of the garrison of Fex. Whose blood is that, Swordsman Vixini?”

“Mine, Master Malaharo.”

“How did you get here and why did you come?”

“My horse died under me some hours ago. I rode there from Soo and am now walking, as you see. My protégé was kidnapped by some sorcerers and I am looking for him.”

This time all eight exchanged glances. They did not look happy.

“Alone?

“Quite alone.”

“Aren’t there sorcerers at Soo?”

“There were. They attacked me, so I killed them.”

“All of them?”

“Four. That was all I could find.”

His captors did not seem happy to hear this, either, which was odd. Vixini was quite proud of it.

“I will treat you as a witness,” Malaharo said, “if you swear to abide by Sutra 243.”

That was generous indeed. Vixini would not be blindfolded and could keep his sword, although he mustn’t draw it without permission. “I so swear. Thank you, master.”

Malaharo told his two smallest men to double up and provide Witness Vixini with a mount. He was so weak that he needed help to mount. They closed in around him and escorted him up the slope toward the cannons.

The makeup of the squad was interesting. Malaharo wore two ribbons on his right shoulder strap, one violet and one green, plus a blue one on his left, meaning he was sworn to a mentor who was sworn to a Seventh. His own protégés would wear violet, green, blue on the right, but only two of the Thirds did. The others wore an assortment of colors, although the highest rank was always either violet or red. Two Thirds also had a colored flash on the left shoulder to show that they had sworn protégés of their own. The Tryst of Casr used the same ribbon system, but would assign a patrol duty like Malaharo’s to one man and expect him to use his own followers, making up any shortfall by borrowing from one or more other seniors. That Pollex was doing otherwise suggested that he had doubts about his counter-tryst’s loyalty.

As Dad often said, a swordsman bound by the blood oath must obey orders, but he didn’t have to enjoy doing so, and that could make a big difference to how well he performed his duties—designating Vixini a witness and not a prisoner, for example, might be a form of protest.

Nothing in Sutra 243 said a witness couldn’t look. Vixini looked. He saw plenty. The line of eight bronze canons along the crest of the rise was terrifying. An army on foot could not possibly maneuver around them for a flank attack as fast as they could be turned to counter it. Even cavalry might not be mobile enough.

From that slight ridge the land sloped gently down to the River, a mile or so away, with the faint smudge on its far bank likely Plo itself. Between guns and river bank stood the camp of the counter-tryst: rows and rows of tents, hundreds of them, with flags, latrine pits, and smoking cook fires. A camp that size must billet thousands of men. Dad had expected to bring seventeen or eighteen hundred with him, but unless those tents were bluff, Kra had assembled many more than that, without even counting the cannons. The inhabitants were eating breakfast, scores of men lined up to receive sizzling plates of ribs and loaves of fresh bread. Vixini realized that he was starving.

He was taken before a Sixth who looked very much like Filurz—short, wiry, and mean. He was sitting outside his tent, gnawing meat and quaffing beer, while scowling at having his feast interrupted. His shoulder flashes showed that he was Malaharo’s mentor, and Malaharo addressed him as Honorable Impendoro. He told Malaharo to interrogate the “spy” and listened without interrupting his meal.

Vixini repeated what he had said earlier. He claimed that he had a duty to come to his protégé’s rescue, and hinted that all honorable swordsman had a duty to aid him in this. There was some sutra to that effect, but it was higher on the list than he knew so far, and he could see the hints bouncing off the Sixth like hailstones.

He refused to answer questions about Dad or the Tryst, citing Sutra 175, “On Secrecy”. This did not go down well. A lot of middle ranks had gathered around to listen, and the Sixth seemed to become aware of them at that point. Perhaps sutras were about to become embarrassing. He drank beer, wiped his mouth on his arm, and stood up.

“Bring him,” he said. “Have the rest of you got nothing better to do?”

Vixini had. He needed to eat two large breakfasts, drink two buckets of beer, and sleep for a week. And then find Addis.

The headquarters of the counter-tryst was marked by a line of three larger tents, each flying a colored flag: violet, red, and black. Soon the senior officers assembled on chairs and stools to inspect the witness, or prisoner: two Sevenths and five Sixths for the swordsmen, a Seventh and two Sixths for the sorcerers. No one offered Vixini a seat.