The Reluctant Swordsman (28 page)

He smiled and let Wallie catch up with him. “But you met Shonsu that first day .

. . ”

“And then your eyelids had parentmarks,” the priest agreed. “I don’t remember them, but their absence is so unusual that I am sure I should have noticed.” “And I am supposed to find my brother! The god removed them?”

“Apparently,” Honakura said complacently.

Wallie sat and brooded on his problems for a while and inevitably came back to Tarru.

“The god warned me that I must learn to be more ruthless,” he said. “I should have killed him when he challenged me.” Shonsu would have done so, probably any Seventh.

“Then you failed,” Honakura remarked, “and have made you own job more difficult.” He did not seem very worried, but then it was not his blood that was going to wet the sand. “But some of your problems cancel out, my lord.” “How do you mean?”

The priest counted on his fingers. “You were worried about brigands, dishonorable swordsmen in general, and about Tarru. You should also add priests, I regret to say—some of my colleagues believe that the sword of the Goddess belongs here in the temple, if it is indeed Her sword. But if Honorable Tarru is after it, then he will not alert the brigands, nor cooperate with the priests.
 
And he must have his own worries about swordsmen.”

That was true. The ungodly might well squabble among themselves over the loot.

Unfortunately it was likely to happen after Wallie was dead.
 
“I suppose,” Wallie said thoughtfully, “that the Goddess will eventually provide a new and more suitable reeve for Her temple?”

“Certainly, my lord.”

Another Seventh? With another Seventh beside him, Shonsu could turn the whole guard into a plate of cutlets . . .

“Eventually,” he repeated.

“Eventually,” Honakura echoed. “We may be wrong, of course, but if you are indeed being tested, my lord, then I should anticipate that the replacement will not arrive until . . . until you have resolved your problems by yourself.” “Damn!” Wallie said. “I need time! Time to heal! Time to find some friends! I envision him working his way through the whole guard like a cancer, swearing them at swordpoint, one by one. When he has got them all, or nearly all, then he can strike—kill me, take the sword, and leave. If it is a fraction as valuable as you say, then he can throw away everything else and make a new life for himself somewhere. Or he can make himself master of the temple . . . ” He stopped, following the thought through and then observing the priest’s quiet amusement.

“He wouldn’t need the sword, then? He could pillage the treasure in the temple itself!” Wallie said. “It has been done? In all those thousands of years some reeve must have tried it?”

The wrinkled old face broke into a broad smile. “At least five times, although not for many centuries now, so I suppose someone is about due to try again. Of course it does not work! First of all, your blood oath does not take precedence over everything, my lord. Your swordsman code puts the will of the Goddess ahead of the sutras, is that not so?”

“True. So the temple is protected? But I am not!” “That is so, I’m afraid, but there is another protection—they must leave by boat.” The priest chuckled and refilled the silver goblets.
 
Wallie stared at him blankly. “So?”

“So the boats don’t go!” Honakura retorted, surprised by his obtuseness. “The Goddess will not cooperate with those who despoil Her temple!” “Ah, you mean a miracle?” Wallie said.

No, said the priest, he did not mean a miracle, he meant the Hand of the

Goddess. Boats went where She willed on the River, for the River was the Goddess

. . .

“And the Goddess is the River,” Wallie finished, his deep growl drowning out the toothless mumble of the priest. “Perhaps you had better explain, my lord.” It took a while, for Honakura could not comprehend how ignorant Wallie was of the ways of Rivers. There was only one River—it was everywhere in the World. No, it had no beginning and no end that he knew of. All towns and cities were on the River, like Hann. Usually Fon was downstream from Hann and Opo was upstream, but not always.

At last Wallie began to understand—the geography of the World was variable. Now Jja’s story made more sense, and he asked about Jonahs. A Jonah, he was told, was a person whom the Goddess wanted elsewhere. If he or she stepped on a boat, then the boat went to that place. If the Goddess wished you to stay where you were, then your boat would keep returning. No, that wasn’t a miracle, Honakura insisted. It happened all the time. Wallie’s sword, now, that was a miracle.
 
There were good Jonahs and bad Jonahs, but mostly they were good—which might be why the word translated fuzzily for Wallie. As soon as the Jonah was put ashore, then the boat was normally returned to its usual haunts and often granted good fortune.

The World sounded like a very interesting place. Obviously pillaging the temple treasury would not be a profitable operation, but the demigod had specifically warned Wallie that his sword could be stolen.

“Do not these priests you mention believe in the miracle?” Wallie asked.
 
Honakura scowled at the paving stones. “I am ashamed to admit that some of the priesthood are displaying a lamentable lack of faith, my lord. There is a group that believes . . . the legend says that the sword was given to the Goddess.
 
There are those who interpret that to mean that it was given as an offering here, in the temple, that it has been hidden here somewhere, all these centuries.” He looked up angrily. “I have been accused of giving it to you, Lord Shonsu!”

That explained Tarru’s thinking, then.

Honakura laughed uneasily and again offered the plate, although he had eaten most of the cakes already. “Have faith, my lord! The gods do not choose idiots.
 
You will think of something. But now it is my turn! Tell me about your dream world.”

So, for the rest of the morning Wallie slouched limply on his stool in the hot courtyard and told Honakura what he wanted to know about the planet Earth—Jesus and Mohammed and Moses and Buddha, Zeus and Thor and Astarte and all the others.
 
The little man drank it all in and loved it.

That afternoon Wallie made a reconnaissance. Accompanied by an equally shaky Nnanji—the two of them looking like disaster survivors—he made a complete circuit of the temple grounds.

The River might just be fordable in a few places, and the cliff might be climbable in a few others, but nowhere could he find both together. There were bad rapids downstream, so he need not dream of boats or rafts.
 
Now he knew that the canyon had been designed by the Goddess to protect Her treasures, so he was not surprised.

Both ends of the great wall stood, as Nnanji had said, in the water and in fast, deep, swirling water. There was no way around.

Wallie stood near the gate for a while and watched the pilgrims coming and going, plus a steady stream of artisans and tradesmen, slaves and carts. It was a busy place, the temple entrance, but now there were eight men on the gate, three of them Fourths. Once he had entered there unseen, but miracles were never produced upon demand.

The new work at the stables consisted of massive doors with wickets for the identification of visitors. A Sixth was required to know almost all the sutras, and Tarru was obviously familiar with those concerning fortifications.
 
The temple enclosure was a very comfortable place. But now, for Lord Shonsu, it was a very comfortable prison. How long would Tarru allow him to enjoy it? How long until he sent his army?

At sundown Nnanji seemed much better. He had even recovered most of his normal high spirits. Wallie informed him that this evening he was to be social secretary and protocol attaché—although in translation all that came out was “herald”—and they went off to the women’s quarters to collect Jja.
 
She paused shyly in the doorway to let him admire her gown. That was not hard for Wallie to do. It would not have passed in Paris and it was still a shamefully sexist way to clothe a woman, but bare chests and harnesses and swords had their own sexual overtones, so perhaps they were evenly matched. She had chosen a pale aquamarine silk, so sheer that it seemed ready to blow away like smoke, and she had made a tight and simple sheath that displayed every detail of her gorgeous figure. The neckline plunged to her waist, her nipples glowed through the filmy material, and Wallie found that effect enormously more exciting than the previous night’s tassels and purple paint.
 
When she started to walk forward, the slit he had suggested opened to reveal the smooth perfection of her leg. Nnanji gasped in astonishment and uttered a low growling sound, probably the local equivalent of a wolf whistle. Then he looked nervously at his liege.

Wallie grinned sideways at him, without being able to take his eyes off his slave as she approached. “As long as you only look,” he said, “I will refrain from disemboweling you.”

He thought Jja had worked her own private miracle. He kissed her fondly and told her so, and she shone with pleasure at having pleased her master.
 
Nnanji led the way to the place he called the saloon, the evening social center for the barracks. In the vestibule, an ancient one-armed attendant guarded a rack of swords. Nnanji dutifully drew his and handed it over. Wallie merely raised an eyebrow, not wishing to give Tarru his prize without at least some sort of struggle. The attendant smiled politely and bowed him through.
 
It was like no saloon that Wallie had ever seen, but there were hints of a bar, a ballroom, a restaurant, a club, a society salon, and a brothel. Most of it lay outdoors, on a rooftop terrace dotted with tables and illuminated by flaming torches along the balustrades. A group of musicians wailed in a strange seven-tone scale while young people pounded and cavorted on a dance floor.
 
Bachelors leaned against a rail, drinking and commenting, laughing and quarreling.

For a society so formal and hierarchal, the nightlife was astonishingly relaxed.
 
True, an upper balcony was reserved for highranks and their guests—Nnanji qualified, being with Wallie—but that seemed to be about the only restriction.
 
The men mixed freely, accompanied by their wives or their slaves or the communal barracks girls, and they ate and drank and talked and danced. Swordsmen, valuing footwork, were keen dancers and mostly good ones. The food and the drinks and the girls had to be paid for, probably to restrict consumption by high-spirited juniors, but Wallie was politely informed by the waiter that all services were free to guests. He chose a table on the upper level, sat with his left shoulder to the rail, observed the social life, and for quite a while was able to forget his worries.

Of course the highranks had to bring their wives to meet the Seventh, so he was constantly rising and sitting down again. Of course his slave must rise when he did. He noticed with amusement the careful study being given to Jja’s dress and the subtle movements she made to display its properties. Long dresses were not sexy, apparently that had been the local creed, for almost all the women wore extremely short and gaudy garments much bedecked with sequins and tassels. Some wore only the tassels, as Jja had. The color coding of ranks seemed to be forgotten for recreational wear, at least here in the barracks, but her long dress was a surprise, and the men’s expressions showed that the creed was due to be reconsidered.

After a while Nnanji asked to be excused and trotted down to the lower level. He was visible for a few minutes in a wild dance with one of the scantily dressed girls. Then he vanished. He returned in an astonishingly short while and drained an entire tankard of ale. He repeated the performance three times while they were eating dinner. Wallie decided privately that he must be indulging in inter-course intercourse, but unfortunately the pun would not translate.
 
The meal was almost over when a disturbance broke out at the far end of the balcony. Wallie came alert at once. Then the cause appeared out of the shadows, and he laid down his goblet to stare in astonishment. She was very large and very hideous, a female version of a sumo wrestler, her near-naked body trimmed with tassels and sparkles that emphasized more than concealed a bloated ugliness. Layers of paint on her face hid neither the wrinkles nor the badly broken and misshapen nose. She was old and scarred, wearing a spangled patch over her left eye. Rolls of fat and varicose veins and . . . “boobs like meal sacks,” Nnanji had said. Obviously this must be Wild Ani.
 
Her arrival was causing consternation. It was a fair guess that a slave was not supposed to be there. Shonsu instincts: when there is a disturbance check around in case it is a diversion. At once Wallie saw the group of Seconds on the lower terrace, grinning and watching. He swung his eyes back to Wild Ani, and she was heading toward him, rolling her way through the tables. That sway came from more than obesity.

A couple of Fifths guessed her destination and sprang up to block her path.
 
“Shonsu!” she cried, spreading her arms and staggering slightly. Then the Fifths reached her and grabbed, determined that the noble guest not be insulted.
 
Obviously the juniors had liquored up the old woman and sicked her on to Shonsu for sport. A slave might well get beaten for that.
 
“Ani!” he boomed in his thunderous voice. He jumped up and held out his arms, while Nnanji gulped in horror. “Ani, my love!”