The Death of Nnanji (5 page)

Addis looked up with horror, face flaming at the insult. “If any slob tries anything like that with me, I’ll rip his balls off.”

“Oh, well, that’s different. I didn’t know you were expert in martial arts! Show me. Put a headlock on Master Filurz.”

Master Filurz drew his sword and laid it on the table, out of the way. Then he hunched his shoulders, waiting for the attack.

Addis hung his head again, probably to hide some teeth being ground. “I didn’t mean it that way, my lord.”

“You didn’t? Addis, nasty things can happen to pretty boys, no matter who their fathers are.” And here was an excellent opportunity to test the lad’s swordsman potential without his realizing. Wallie turned to the frowning Filurz. “Do you know of anyone in the Tryst who’s an expert in gutter fighting? Things like choking, eye gouging, finger breaking, biting, fishhooking, kidney punching?” The swordsmen’s sutras strictly forbade fighting with any weapon except a sword, but swordsmen were more born than made, and they sprang from all sorts of backgrounds. The Tryst could usually spit forth an expert in almost anything.

Filurz actually laughed. “You have one of the best brawlers right under your nose, my lord—Swordsman Helbringr. Her father runs a tavern on the dockside at Quo. She and her brothers grew up as a rat pack bouncing drunks. And each other, I suspect.”

Wallie enjoyed having a bodyguard named Helbringr, although the name did not mean what it would sound like in English, but he hadn’t known of her curious background. She would probably achieve promotion to Fourth soon, and there were few women of that rank in the Tryst yet.

He said, “Excellent. If you refuse to accept a bodyguard, Addis son of Nnanji the swordsman, then you’ll have to learn how to defend yourself properly. Stay here, and Adept Filurz will send Swordsman Helbringr down to collect you. Adept, I don’t want to know where she takes him. I want him taught how to defend himself with his bare hands. And feet, and teeth. I’ll collect what’s left of him later, probably around sunset. Well, Addis? You man enough to accept some bruises in a good cause?”

The liege’s son was unsure how to take this alarming prospect. Behind the bright eyes, a subtle but inexperienced young mind was calculating how best to respond.

“Wrestling with a woman?”

“I’ll bet she can wipe the floor with you, and the ceiling as well.”

“Puberty, here I come?”

“Oh, you sound just like your Uncle Katanji. Wait here.”

Wallie headed back upstairs with Filurz.

Filurz could be quite subtle when he needed to be, which wasn’t often. “My lord, the boy seems to think you’ve just sentenced him to a beating.”

“Whatever could have given him that idea? No broken bones, of course, but he’s been warned too often.”

“I’ll tell Helbringr to make sure he won’t forget this time.”

“Also, adept, please pick out four Thirds to examine Vixini at the assembly. You willing to tell lies in a good cause?”

“Of course.”

“Then you may explain to them in confidence that the boy is far too cocksure of himself and I want him taught a lesson in humility. In other words, I will not be offended however tough they are on him. I don’t want the Tryst to think my son is being given special treatment.”

“He’s still very young to be even a Second, if I may say so, mentor.”

No he might not say so! As well as captain of Wallie’s bodyguard, Filurz was also his protégé, and by addressing him as mentor, had just reminded him of that fact. He wanted promotion to Fifth, and was hinting that Wallie was neglecting him, too.

“Tell them that too. I don’t want you fixing this promotion, understand? Very few Thirds are capable of beating Vixi at fencing now, as you know. I am directing you to make sure that the sutra test is as brutal as possible, so the spectators can’t start rumors of favoritism. No easy ones, understand?”

Wallie had been holding Vixi back because he was not mature enough for the responsibilities usually given to Thirds. Yesterday that had seemed right; after the events of the night, it felt wrong, whatever Vixini himself wanted.

Sometimes a despot just had to be despotic.

Horkoda had done a thorough job of weeding the antechamber. Only four swordsmen remained, all needing approval of plans for celebrating the liege’s return. The program had become traditional. There must be a big thanksgiving service in the temple, a banquet at which minstrels would sing of deeds of arms—mentioning Lord Nnanji at every excuse—and an assembly of the Tryst, at which missions would be announced, novices admitted, and candidates for promotion would demonstrate their fencing. Any try at promotion was a public event, but the outcome was never certain, and a candidate who failed in front of an assembly made both himself and his mentor look foolish. The betting could be ferocious, which provided opportunities for gain, both legal and illegal. To throw a match was “to do a snail”, since snails moved very slowly and coiled up inside their shells when threatened. Some bouts where both fencers were obviously trying to lose had given birth to legends.

None of this could be allowed to interfere with the annual celebration of Healers’ Day, two weeks away, although that would include some of the same events.

Wallie did not need long to approve the plans, but the sun was casting very short shadows when he finished. The day was close to noon. Why had there been no word of Nnanji’s progress? Neither man put the problem into words, but Wallie could see that Horkoda was as concerned as he was.

“I shall go and call on the wizard,” he said. “Send a runner for me as soon as you hear any news.”

The sorcerers’ tower stood just outside the lodge on the landward side, and normally Wallie would have taken only one or two companions with him on his stroll across the plaza. After last night’s episode and Nnanji’s strange delay, he took his entire bodyguard. Today every moment must be put to use.

“You also wish to try for promotion, adept?”

Filurz brightened. “If you believe I am ready, mentor.”

“Certainly. You only are seven sutras short, as I recall. Here goes.
Number 975, On the Control of Crowds: The Epigram…”

In most cities the sorcerers built their towers of the darkest stone they could find, but Casr possessed only one building stone, which Wallie identified as a micaceous arkose. It came in attractive shades of pink through gold. Some quarries produced it in fissile slabs that made good roofing tiles, so on sunny days the whole city shone as if it were made of bronze. If the sorcerers felt cheated that their tower could not appear as menacing as they would like, they had never said so. The Casr tower was only a part of a larger complex including several more orthodox buildings. How many people lived and worked there was, like all sorcerous matters, a secret. So was whatever they got up to inside, but whatever it was frequently involved sinister flickering lights and irritating, jagged noises.

No one could doubt that it was the sorcerers’ lair, though. Pigeons strutted on the ground outside, looking for grains of the food scattered there for them. The roof of the tower itself sported dovecotes and perching wires. The sorcerers’ facemarks were feathers, perhaps because they held birds sacred, or perhaps because they had invented writing and used quill pens to do so.

Out of courtesy, Wallie had sent a herald to announce his coming, and he was ushered at once upstairs and into the presence of Lord Woggan, sorcerer of the Seventh, the wizard of Casr. As usual, Woggan received him in his study, which resembled no other room Wally had seen in the World, in that it featured shelves laden with leather-bound books. Apart from that, the room contained few comforts, all the chairs being hard-backed and upright, the floor tiled, the exposed walls undecorated. He strongly suspected that receiving non-sorcerer visitors was its only purpose and, if so, it contained no secrets or valuables. Even the books might be fakes, for his hints that he would love to borrow some of them had always been ignored. The windows were small and barred, commanding a good view of the lodge grounds.

Lord Woggan bore so little resemblance to Rotanxi, the sorcerer with whom Wallie had negotiated the epoch-making treaty, that they must have been brewed in different cauldrons. He was short and had once been plump, but now his fish-belly-pale face looked as if it had melted, sagging into jowls, bags, and folds, and settling his mouth in an expression of permanent disapproval. Nothing more of him was visible inside his bulky blue brocade gown, and even his hands usually remained hidden in his sleeves.

As the visitor, Wallie saluted first. The sorcerer responded with the customary hand gestures, but using words that differed from the People’s standard by invoking the Fire God instead of the Goddess. “Please do be seated, lord swordsman,” he added.

No stool being provided to accommodate sword-bearing guests—they never were—Wallie turned a chair sideways and sat.

“I shan’t keep you, my lord,” he said. “I am sure you are busy. I just wanted to ask about that curious message from Lord Nnanji last night.”

He had not truly expected to catch Woggan out, and the old man’s reply was the predictable, “Which message was that, my lord?”

Anyone who thought that the wizard of Casr did not read the liege lords’ mail ought to have his head bronzed.

The Tryst and its troops in the field had three ways of communicating with one another. The safest was to dictate the message to a couple of third-rank swordsmen with good memories, put them on a ship, and wait the better part of a year for a reply. That was safe because most of the People were still preliterate and their memories were honed like razors; also because no one tampered lightly with two journeyman swordsmen.

The second was to write or dictate a letter and have it delivered by the river folk in relays, from town garrison to town garrison. Letters could be lost or intercepted.

The fast way was pigeon post, but the sorcerers ran the pigeons and charged for their use. Moreover, the birds would only fly homeward and thus had to be physically transported to their point of departure. To carry a word from the farthest reaches of the empire back to Casr would require many flights. That was certainly the least reliable and least secure method.

“It came in late, addressed to me from Lord Nnanji, and said only, ‘Where is Lord Mibullim?’ As we have no Mibullim of any rank in the Tryst and Lord Nnanji did not stipulate a craft, we assume it must refer to one of your brother sorcerers, my lord.”

“If we had a Seventh by that name, I should know him, certainly.” Woggan rose stiffly, went to a bookcase, chose a leather-bound volume, and fingered through it until he found what he wanted. He pursed wizened lips, replaced the book, and returned to his chair. “No, my lord, we have no record of a Mibullim in the Vul coven in the last century or so.”

“How about other covens, then?”

Doughy smile: “You will have to ask them, I’m afraid. We sorcerers are not as well unified as you swordsmen.”

Wallie could have scripted the entire conversation in advance. For thousands of years, swordsmen had slain sorcerers on sight, until he and Rotanxi had made a peace treaty. Nnanji had accepted it—to everyone’s astonishment—and had persuaded the rest of the Tryst to tolerate it. Anyone who killed a sorcerer now was charged with murder, anyone at all.

But the cooperation was threadbare and grudging. The sorcerers had expected to retain their monopoly on all forms of literacy. Wallie had bribed them with a few minor technical advances, such as soap and the basic door lock, backed up by a threat that he could and would introduce his own method of writing. So they had taught him their system, which had turned out to be syllabic, not alphabetical, but phonetic and easy to learn. He had taught others. All apprentice swordsmen now had to pass a literacy test for promotion to Third, although most of the seniors still scorned such namby-pamby affectations. Priests, healers, and traders were also taking up this arcane but useful art.

Woggan leaned back in his chair and tucked his hands farther into his sleeves. “The most likely explanation, if I may say so, Lord Shonsu, is that your Mibullim was a free sword or a guard commander who willingly swore loyalty to your tryst and was therefore accepted by Lord Nnanji as a helper. Your practice is to send high-rank recruits back here to Casr for indoctrination, is it not?”

“I wouldn’t use that word, but yes, you are right.” Wallie rose. “And Mibullim either changed his mind on the way here or met with ill fortune. I should have thought of that eventually, I suppose.”

This pretense of stupidity made Woggan’s eyebrows shoot up like white flags. He didn’t underestimate Lord Shonsu any more than Lord Shonsu underestimated him. He might or might not know what had happened to the missing Mibullim; either way he was not about to tell.

Chapter 5

Mercifully, the Tryst’s marching band fell silent as soon as it had left the town to begin the long ascent through the surrounding vineyards. In front rode Lady Thana’s glittering all-female troop of cavalry, escorting her grandiose carriage, which was drawn by eight of the World’s ugly camel-faced horses, all bedecked with bright ribbons and silver bells. Wallie’s bodyguards brought up the rear. The pace of the procession was set mainly by the coach, which resembled a large shed on wheels. It rocked and creaked abominably, and Wallie could look forward to at least another two hours of this torment. But he owed it to Nnanji, and even to Thana, to be present when the liege returned.

She sat across from him at one side of the big coach. The window seats on the other side were occupied by her daughter, Nnadaro, and younger son, Tomisolaan, aged around ten and five, respectively. Unlike Addis, both had inherited Nnanji’s red hair. So far they were behaving themselves, but their presence made their older brother’s absence obvious.

“You still haven’t seen Addis anywhere, Shonsu?”

Wallie sighed, tempted to say that he had better things to do than babysit for her. “Thana, I have no idea where your firstborn is, beyond a vague belief that he is somewhere in Casr.” Being bounced up and down on a hard floor, very likely, by a woman larger than himself.