The Reluctant Swordsman (21 page)

The priest smiled back and waited.

“Yesterday,” Wallie said cheerfully, “an odd thing happened to me—I talked with a god. Now, it is rather a long story, and I should not want to bore you . . . ” Evidently he was out of character for Lord Shonsu, for he received a look of astonishment, followed by a polite but bewildered smile.
 
“Pardon me, holy one,” he said. “I should not joke on sacred matters. It gets me into trouble. But I did talk with a god, and one of the things he said to me was Honakura is a good man—him you may trust. So I wish to tell you the whole story, if I may, and receive your wise counsel.”

The old man stared back in silence and suddenly tears were trickling down his cheeks. It was several minutes before he noticed them, then he wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “I beg pardon, my lord,” he mumbled. “It is many years since I received praise from a superior and I have forgotten how to handle it. Pray forgive me.”

Now feeling an utter heel, Wallie said, “Let me tell you it all, then.” He wondered briefly how ancient the priest really was—at least three times Shonsu’s age. Yet there was nothing senile about Honakura. He was a needle-sharp old rascal, obviously a power in the temple, and probably unscrupulous in whatever he might choose to regard as a good cause. Now he snuggled down into his great chair like a bee crawling into a trumpet blossom. Wallie told him the whole story, including the first two talks with the god. Honakura studied him unblinkingly, only small movements of his mouth showing that he was alive at all. At the end he closed his eyes and seemed to mutter a prayer, then he sniffled a little and said, “I am in your debt, Lord Shonsu . . . or Walliesmith. Your tale is more wonderful to my ears than I can tell you. Always I have hoped to witness a miracle—a real, carved-in-stone miracle. And now, after all these years!”

“There is one other thing,” Wallie said hastily. “When I asked the god about miracles, he told me that I could trust you, and to ask you to tell me the anecdote from the seventeenth sutra.”

Honakura, had listened to the whole extraordinary tale without expression, but that remark produced a twitch of surprise . . . then a quickly suppressed frown.
 
Wallie remembered how the god had smiled mysteriously when he gave the order.
 
“Ah!” the priest said. “Well . . . I expect that your swordsmen sutras are much like ours—most contain a little story to help fix them in the memory. The episode in our seventeenth concerns Ikondorina. Under the circumstances, of course, I shall tell it to you.

“Ikondorina was a great hero, who went to the Goddess and gave Her his sword and swore that he would rather trust to Her miracles than his mortal strength. So his enemies pursued him up some high rocks and the Goddess turned him into a bird. Then his enemies pursued him to the River and the Goddess turned him into a fish. A third time his enemies strove against him, but this time they slew him, and when his soul came before the Goddess, he asked Her why She had not saved him the third time. And She gave him back his sword and told him to go and do his own miracles. So he returned to the world and butchered his enemies and was a great hero again. You see how well the story fits your own case?” He smiled hopefully.

Wallie did not. “That is all?”

“That is the whole anecdote,” Honakura replied carefully.

“What else can you tell me about this Ikondorina, then?” The old man’s expression was very guarded. “He is mentioned by name in a couple of other sutras, but there are no other tales about him.” He knew something that he wasn’t saying. The god had sent him a message that Wallie was not to share.
 
Irritated but helpless, Wallie said, “May I ask if there is a moral attached to the story?”

“Certainly. Great deeds honor the gods.”

He thought that over. “And great deeds are done by mortals?” “Of course. And miracles are done by gods, but being easy for them, bring no honor.”

Wallie wished that he, too, could lean back in a comfortable chair. “So the message for me is that I am to expect no help from the gods?” “Not quite that, I shouldn’t think.” Honakura frowned. “But whatever it is that the Goddess requires, She wishes it to be done by mortals—by you. She may help you, but you must not expect Her to do the work.” “The god mentioned that I would be guided. But he also told me that this sword could be lost or broken, and that the gods do not do miracles upon demand. Do I have it right, do you think?”

Honakura nodded, the folds on his neck flapping. “And whatever your task may be, my lord, it is obviously very important. Your reward will be great.” “If I succeed,” Wallie said grimly. He wished that the demigod had given him a few rainchecks for miracles.

“The first problem, then,” the priest said thoughtfully, “is to get you out of here alive. But I forget my duties . . . do try these cakes, Lord Shonsu. Those with pistachios are delicious, I recall, although beyond my own abilities these days.” He held out the cake plate without brushing off the insects.
 
Wallie declined. “Why should staying alive be a problem? I am protected by the code of the swordsmen as their guest. Who can harm me?” The little man shook his head sadly. “I wish I could advise you more exactly, my lord. There is only one way out, and it involves a long trail, much of it through jungle, and a ferry crossing of the River to Hann. It is sure that several highrank swordsmen, who might have been a threat to Hardduju, started out from Hann and never arrived. I do not know if the culprits were renegade swordsmen or assassins in his pay.”

Assassins were any civilians who killed swordsmen—and the worst criminals of all in the swordsmen’s eyes.

“How . . . ” Wallie began and then answered his own question. “Archery?” Bows were an especial abhorrence to swordsmen.

The priest nodded, nibbling cake. “I expect so. Or sheer weight of numbers.
 
There have been many pilgrims waylaid on the trail over the centuries. It is the guard’s duty to patrol it and keep it safe, but I fear that the dogs have been running with the wolves of late. There is a horse post maintained at the ferry, so that news of important arrivals can be brought quickly to the temple. We suspect that the messages have been going to the wrong persons, and the richest offerings have not arrived.”

Wallie had been expecting a discussion of his unknown task, and of the god’s mysterious riddle, not of imminent danger. “But why me?” he asked. “I am leaving, not coming. Would these creatures of darkness seek to avenge Hardduju’s death?”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Honakura poured more wine inattentively. “Their association was commercial, not sentimental. But you have told me what sword you bear; may I see it?”

Wallie drew the seventh sword and held it out for the priest to study. Unlike the armorer and the swordsmen, he was little interested in the blade, but he fingered the hilt and murmured his appreciation. He touched the great sapphire and glanced up at his guest’s hairclip.

“Yes,” he said at last, “I think that sword may possibly be the most valuable movable piece of property in the World.”

Wallie choked on a mouthful of the rank wine. “Who could afford to buy it?” he demanded. “Who would want it?”

“The griffon is a royal symbol,” Honakura said contemptuously. “There are dozens or hundreds of cities ruled by kings. Any of them would buy it, for almost any price—which they would plan to recover afterward, of course.” His face darkened.
 
“Certainly the temple would buy it, were it for sale. Some of my colleagues would feel very strongly that Her sword belongs here . . . And you must carry it along that trail.”

Wallie did not need to consult the sutras to know that here was a very nasty tactical situation. Air freight, he thought, would be a good solution. “Then I should request an escort from the guard?”

Honakura’s face became unreadable. “You could ask Honorable Tarru, certainly.” Wallie raised a skeptical eyebrow, and the priest breathed an audible sigh of relief. Obviously they shared the same opinion of Tarru, but courtesy demanded that it not be spoken.

“Who else would you suggest?” Wallie asked, and Honakura shook his head in frustration.

“I wish I knew, my lord! Swordsmen will not discuss other swordsmen, for obvious reasons. Most, I am sure, are men of probity, at worst reluctant accomplices.
 
They obeyed orders, so long as those orders were not too blatantly evil, assigning any breaches of honor to the account of the reeve. And what else could they do? For example, there are stories of condemned prisoners who did not reach the Place of Mercy.”

“Ransomed?” Wallie said, working it out. This tale of wholesale corruption was unnerving to him, and he could feel his Shonsu nature raging on some deep level.
 
“But you can count the executions from the temple steps and you know how many .

. . ”

“Bags of rocks, we believe,” Honakura said patiently. “Not all bodies return to the pool. But some of the swordsmen must have been deeply implicated, and those are your danger now.”

“Guilty consciences?” Wallie said. “They will greatly fear a new reeve, a new broom. Past sins beget future crimes?”

Honakura nodded and smiled, perhaps relieved—or even surprised—that this swordsman was not going to start blustering about the honor of his craft and throw caution to the wolves.

The waters gabbled and bees hummed uninterrupted for a while . . .
 
“The first question, then,” Wallie said, “is timing.” He glanced at his bandaged feet. “And that depends on when I become mobile again. At least a week and probably two—I would be crazy to leave before I am healed. The second question: do I announce that I am leaving, or do I let them think that I am Hardduju’s successor?” He paused to consider. “I doubt that we could keep up such a pretense for very long, and I should prefer not to.” The priest nodded. “It would not be honorable, my lord.” Wallie shrugged. “Then we shall be honest. As a mere visitor I shall be less of a threat, and hence in less danger. That will come when I try to leave, will it not? So my best plan is to hobble around, being as lame as possible for as long as possible, to try to determine who among the guard may be trusted—and then perhaps to vanish overnight and without warning.” The old man was beaming, a Cheshire bird in a wicker cage.
 
“Meanwhile, I suppose,” Wallie continued, “I keep my back to the wall, stay out of dark alleys, refrain from eating in private, and sleep with the door locked?” Honakura rubbed his hands in glee. “Excellent, my lord!” Obviously he had been regarding Wallie as a mere slab of muscle with quick reflexes and was pleased to see that this swordsman did not regard caution as cowardice. “It is just over two weeks until Swordsmen’s Day. I should have hoped to have augmented the normal observance to induct you as reeve. As that may not be, perhaps we should announce a special service of blessing on your mission? That should keep you safe until then—as you say, the danger will come when you try to leave.” He hesitated and then added, “If you will pardon my presumption, Lord Shonsu, it is a pleasure to meet a swordsman who does not mind being unconventional. I do not know what opponent the Goddess has in mind for you, but I think he may be very surprised.” He chuckled.

Wallie had been using common sense and a smattering of sutras—mostly common sense—and tactics were supposed to be his business, so he found the priest’s surprise somewhat insulting, yet also amusing. You do not think like Shonsu . .

.

“I have a nephew who is a healer,” Honakura said, “and can be relied upon for discretion. He will extend your convalescence as long as possible.” “I shall pay him by the day,” Wallie assured him solemnly and was rewarded with a noisy view of the old man’s gums. “But, tell me, holy one, if the Goddess has gone to all this trouble over me, will She not stand by me when I am in danger?” Instantly the priest’s joviality vanished. He shook a finger at the swordsman.
 
“You have not comprehended the lesson on miracles, then! As a senior swordsman you are supposed to understand strategy. Put yourself in Her place. You have sent in your best man, and he has failed—disastrously, you said. What does that mean?”

Wallie suppressed an angry retort. “Not knowing the task, I can’t guess. Perhaps Shonsu lost an army? Or lost ground to the enemy—whoever or whatever the enemy is.”

“In either case,” the priest said, “it is not something you wish to happen very often, is it? So what do you do? You send in your next man and if he fails then the next one? Then the next? Of course the gods have infinite resources . . . ” “You are right, holy one,” Wallie said repentantly. He should have seen that.
 
“You pick the next man—and then you train him so that he is better than the first.”

“Or at least you test him,” the priest agreed. “And if he can’t even escape from the temple . . . ”

He did not need to finish the thought.

“And even if he can,” Wallie said glumly, “there may be other tests in store in the future? I see now—no miracles.”

Miracles, he decided, were readily addictive.

Honakura again held out the plate of cakes and offered to top up Wallie’s glass.
 
Wallie refused both, fearing that much of this rich living would fatten him like Hardduju. He must remember to think of himself now as a professional athlete and stay in training, for his life would depend on it.
 
“And your first task is obviously to pick some followers,” Honakura said, settling back in his chair to enjoy a cream roll.
 
Wallie chuckled. “Well, I found one. You saw him yesterday.” He told of Nnanji, his courage and absurdly romantic ideas of duty and honor, and he described the scene with Briu that morning.