The Reluctant Swordsman (24 page)

Do you believe in the legend of Chioxin, apprentice?”

Briu pulled a face. “And after that I learned that one of my protégés had . . .
 
” He paused and added sarcastically, “been insufficiently instructed regarding the third oath.”

Nnanji said nothing.

“Not that you had any choice, apprentice. But it left me with a dirty job to do.
 
And then he goes and accuses me of cowardice! Cowardice? What courage does it take for a Seventh to lip a Fourth? I thought I was dead when I gave him the sign.”

Shonsu did not kill unless he must—but Nnanji could not say that, either.
 
Briu glanced at his companion and shrugged. Then he swung back to Nnanji and demanded, “You were going to take my signal this morning, weren’t you?” Landinoro, slapped Briu on the shoulder, “I’ll tell them you’re coming,” he said. He gave Nnanji a cryptic glance and tactfully departed. Nnanji wished he could go with him, even if he had to leave his new sword behind.
 
“Well?” Briu demanded. “You weren’t going to roll over, were you?” Nnanji squirmed. “I was going to ask for the grace, adept. You would have given me that, wouldn’t you?”

“Three days?” Briu snorted. “You think this miracle man of yours can turn you into a swordsman in three days?” He shook his head pityingly. “I’d have tried to leave your arm and do your leg, but even that sometimes doesn’t heal well enough.”

Nnanji squirmed some more. “If I’d made obeisance you’d have demanded the abasement, wouldn’t you?”

“So? Swords can be replaced. Hair grows back.”

Nnanji was silent. He would rather die, much rather die than do those things.
 
Briu shrugged, raised the sword to squint along the edge. “And we all know why it was Rusty he ran into on the beach, don’t we? Not Fonddiniji, or Ears, but Rusty.”

“You always put me on beach duty when you had Death Squad,” Nnanji protested.
 
Briu scowled at him. “You didn’t like throwing rocks, did you, apprentice? You know why you were there, because you didn’t want to know if we were throwing rocks. And I humored you, gods help me.”

Only once had Nnanji seen a buyback. He had refused the silver he had been offered when the payoff came—and nothing had ever been quite the same since then.

“Who’s first?” Briu snapped.

“A-adept?” Nnanji stammered, not understanding.
 
“Who’s first? You’ve got a real live blue of your own now, haven’t you? All to yourself. The guard would like to know, apprentice: which one of us does Rusty shout first?”

Why had he been such a fool as to ask Briu to dedicate the sword? Nothing that Darakaji or Fonddiniji could have done or said could have been this bad. He had told Shonsu that Briu was a man of honor, but of course that was a report made by a protégé to a mentor, so he could not tell Briu that, either.
 
“What do you expect me to do, adept? Denounce the whole guard? Do you think he would believe me? I saw no abominations! I witnessed nothing! The abominations were the fat man’s. The rest of us followed orders. We’re all men of honor when we get the chance.”

Briu studied him coldly. “Some are. All of us took the money, all but you, apprentice.”

“I don’t think he cares!” Nnanji shouted.

The older man’s eyes narrowed. “Then he isn’t going to be reeve! He’s going away?”

Nnanji wished he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. Jail would be fine.
 
After a moment Briu said, “You’ve got what you always wanted, then? You’re going to be a free sword?”

“Adept . . . one seventy-five!”

Briu sighed. “No, you can’t talk about Shonsu. But talk about you, then. You were his second when the thin man challenged. Why did you let him have a draw?” Because Shonsu had signaled, with a nod. Was a nod an order from a mentor, which must not be discussed? Nnanji sweated some more and then said, “If my principal had wanted blood, he could have drained him on the first pass, adept.” “So I heard. But a second has discretion. Are you proud of your decision, apprentice?”

Silently Nnanji nodded. It was what Shonsu had wanted.
 
Briu frowned, then shrugged. “Well, I still have to decide what to do with this metal.” Nnanji looked up hopefully.

“Open your mouth wide, Rusty,” Briu said. Nnanji grinned with relief.
 
A party of swordsmen came out the door and started down the steps. Nnanji thought Briu would wait until they had gone, but he didn’t. He dropped to one knee, held out the sword, and said the words of dedication: “Live by this. Wield it in Her service. Die holding it.”

Reverently Nnanji took hold of the hilt and spoke the reply: “It shall be my honor and my pride.”

Briu rose, seeming unaware of the surprised glances from the men going by.

“Thank you very much, adept,” Nnanji said.

“Good luck, young Nnanji,” said Briu. “Maybe you even deserve it.”

“Thank you, adept,” Nnanji said again.

“You’re going to need it, you know.”

“Why?”

Briu gave Nnanji a strange look, then said quietly, “One seventy-five!” He turned round and walked away.

Adept Briu was sworn to Master Trasingji.

†††††††

The banners in the big mess hall hung limp in the noon heat. As he entered, Wallie hobbled conspicuously, more than necessary, for his feet were doing better than he had expected. There was no sign of Tarru. Only a dozen or so men were there, mostly standing and eating at the same time—lunch was evidently an informal snack. He headed for a trio of Fifths at a table and returned their salutes as they bounced up to greet him, then deliberately sat with his back to the room, to display a confidence he no longer felt.
 
Honorable Tarru had been summoned to a meeting of some holy ancients’ council.
 
So the Fifths had guessed that Lord Shonsu was not to be their new boss. They were relaxed and almost friendly.

“I expect they will ask him to be reeve,” Wallie said offhandedly, “at least temporarily.” He helped himself to a roll and some soft yellow cheese, and accepted a tankard of the weak ale from a waiter. Then he smiled at his politely silent but obviously curious audience. “I did not accept their offer this morning. I have been ordered elsewhere.”

“Ordered?” two of the Fifths echoed in horror.

So Wallie, between munches, gave them an abbreviated version of his story. It would not hurt to wrap his sword and himself in a little divine authority. He could not tell how much they believed.

Then another Fifth arrived and one departed, pausing on the way out to chat with some Fourths. Very soon the story would be everywhere. Tarru returned, accompanied by Trasingji of the Fifth, who seemed to be his closest crony—a large and craggy man with a dark complexion. He had startling white eyebrows and a bald spot that left him only a very wispy ponytail.
 
Tarru looked extremely pleased with himself and accepted congratulations. Of course it was just a temporary appointment, until a Seventh could be found . . .

And could arrive safely, Wallie thought.

He dawdled over his lunch, waiting for Nnanji, and waiting until he could get Tarru alone, but that turned out to be unnecessary. Tarru had just finished assuring him that he and his liegeman were most welcome to remain as the guests of the barracks for as long as they wanted, when he suddenly leaned across the table. He held out a fist to Wallie and palmed him the jewel. At least it felt like the same one, but Wallie put it in his left pocket so that he could check it later and make sure it had not shrunk.

“Is there anything you need, my lord?” the acting reeve inquired rather sourly.

“Any favor we can do to make your stay more enjoyable?” Payoff time . . . but Tarru had chosen this public forum so that he need not compliment Wallie on Nnanji’s honesty.

“There is one thing,” Wallie said. He was going to enjoy this. He glanced around at the obviously puzzled Fifths. “As you are all aware, I recently spent a couple of nights as guests of the guard in less salubrious quarters.” They frowned uneasily. Such things were not discussed among gentlemen.
 
“The prisoners are pinned by both ankles,” Wallie said. “After a few hours this becomes extremely painful. Is this torture a recent innovation, or has it always been done that way?”

Whatever Tarru had expected, it was not a discussion of the jail. “It has always been done that way, so far as I know,” he said, staring.
 
“Then if you change it, it will likely always be done the new way in future? And some prisoners are later found to be innocent. If you only pinned one ankle, they would have much more freedom of movement. Does the Goddess demand such torment? Is it just?”

The swordsmen looked at one another in astonishment—a strange idea, indeed! Who cared?

“A strong man could lift the slab if he could get close to it,” Tarru suggested, frowning.

“I doubt it,” Wallie said. “It takes two slaves, standing upright, to lift one end. Would you like to go over there with me, and I’ll try? If I can’t, then few could. They are very smooth, slimy chunks of rock.” Tarru seemed to come to a decision. “You have made a very good observation, my lord! I shall make it my first business in my new post—and while I am at it, I shall order a new roof for the jail. It certainly brings the Goddess no honor.” There was a surprisingly generous surrender! Then Wallie realized that Tarru’s lost wager was not going to cost Tarru himself anything.
 
Tarru’s eyes still kept wandering to Wallie’s sword.
 
Gradually the others completed their lunch and rose to make their excuses and leave, until only Trasingji and Tarru were left. Then Nnanji came in and detoured around the table to make sure that Wallie saw him and knew he was back—or perhaps just to let as many people see him as possible. His kilt was brilliant yellow linen, with pleats as sharp as his sword. His boots were butter-colored suede, his harness shiny and embossed. A silver hairclip glittered beside the hilt of his new sword. He looked a trifle out of breath, as though he had been running.

Tarru and Trasingji glanced at each other and thereafter avoided Lord Shonsu’s eye . . . which was just as well. Sevenths should maintain a certain dignity in public, and Wallie was turning bright red from suppressed laughter.

The exercise area was a courtyard, partially roofed, three sides open to catch any breeze that might wander in from the parade ground. It was unfurnished, except for a few full-length mirrors, some racks against the wall to hold masks and spare foils, and a small raised gallery for spectators. On that, Wallie stood for a minute to study the place. Nnanji, beside him, was twitching with eagerness to have his first fencing lesson from this superb Seventh.
 
Over the parade ground the afternoon sun raged. In that suffocating heat, the twenty or so swordsmen present were slouched around in groups, chatting listlessly. Wallie was looking now at the colors of their kilts and—so far as he could see—at their boots. He had done the same when he was leaving the mess hall, for Nnanji’s new splendor had emphasized his previous shabbiness—the washed-out drabness of his kilt and the patches on his boots. Wallie was looking to see how many more impoverished swordsmen there were around.
 
He could see none. Perhaps Nnanji gave a his pay to his parents. Perhaps he spent it all on women.

Or could he be the only honest man in the guard?
 
Now they had been noticed. In a few moments all the men were masked and paired off, leaping back and forth, stamping up clouds of dust, and clattering foils with terrifying enthusiasm.

“We seem to have inspired some action,” Wallie remarked sarcastically.

“They have heard that you are leaving, my liege. They are auditioning.” “The devil they are!” Wallie studied the fencing carefully through Shonsu’s eyes. “Are these fairly average, or are they a duffer class sent in for extra practice?”

Nnanji looked surprised. “They are average, my liege.” He started to point out some of the men, commenting on those who were thought likely to win promotion soon, a few who were thought to be slipping.

“Remembering that you don’t repeat to anyone what I tell you,” Wallie said after a while, “I will give you my opinion. They are the worst collection of ducks I ever saw outside a farmyard.”

“My liege!”

“I mean it!” Wallie assured him. “I can’t see one Third fencing like a Third, one Fourth fencing like a Fourth. Admittedly they’re all so eager to show off right now that no one is left to supervise, but I find them disgusting. I’d drop them all one rank at least!”

Nnanji looked worried and said nothing.

Probably few of these swordsmen had ever fought a serious fight in their lives.
 
They herded prisoners and bullied pilgrims and that was all. Most of them looked as though they had never had a proper lesson. Tarru was a good swordsman—did he not care?

“How many Seconds in the guard?” Wallie demanded suddenly, still leaning on the rail and staring in disbelief at this mass incompetence.
 
“Twelve, my liege, without me.”

“How many of those can normally beat you in a best of three?”

“Two, maybe three,” Nnanji said uneasily.

Wallie turned his eyes to look at him. He was very pink.