The Reluctant Swordsman (33 page)

You sneaky damn smart-aleck! Wallie thought bitterly. One thing about Tarru—he was no fool. If Wallie insisted on his own interpretation, then Tarru would be free to drive him out of the barracks with an endless string of challenges.
 
“I think Adept Gorramini should reconsider,” Wallie said loudly. “I am sure that he has no lethal intent, but he must remember that Apprentice Nnanji is my liegeman.”

And almost certainly Gorramini was Tarru’s. If either man died in the bout, then his liege would have to avenge him. Suddenly the possibility of a massacre was hanging over the fencing ground. Wallie gave Tarru what he hoped was a meaningful and threatening stare.

“Then let us agree that it is a naked match,” Tarru said at once. That did not mean undressed, it meant that onus of vengeance had been waived. But the curious choice of words—let us agree—was an implicit acknowledgment that Gorramini had sworn the blood oath, also. Gorramini was now wearing a startled expression, as though he had not expected things to go that far.
 
“You will not reconsider, adept?” Wallie asked, addressing him for the first time.

Gorramini glanced momentarily at Tarru, licked his lips, and then said, “No!” firmly.

Everyone waited for Wallie’s decision. As a Seventh he could issue a veto, but he knew that it was too late. Nnanji’s eyes were staring at him, silently pleading like a spaniel’s. He had been sheltered from Briu by his mentor. It would be shameful to be saved that way again, and on his own challenge.
 
Gorramini had his orders and could not disobey. Tarru had worked it very well—he was probably going to lose a follower, for Nnanji had been fighting like a champion, but Tarru could afford a loss. Wallie could not. Many men who were good with foils were paralyzed when faced with an edge and a point. Nnanji would have to prove himself indeed.

“A naked match, then,” Wallie said.

Nnanji yelped with delight and hurled his mask in the air. Perhaps it was bravado, perhaps he really felt that way. No one in the crowd spoke, but the faces radiated anger and disapproval.

There was a necessary delay while a First was sent running to bring a healer.

Then the two returned together, and the duel could begin.
 
Now there were no masks, no judges, merely razor steel against flesh. Ghaniri stepped forward to be his friend’s second. Wallie likewise moved to Nnanji’s left. The two principals faced each other, both grinning confidently. Nnanji sent Wallie a wink.

“We are ready,” Wallie said formally.

“Now!” said Gorramini. The two swords hissed from their scabbards and met with a clang. Clang. Clang. Clang . . . They were toe to toe and whirling their blades, neither willing to back off. Wallie felt sweat prickle on his forehead. Both men were fighting well up in Fourth rank, perhaps inspiring each other.
 
Clang-clang-clang . . . someone had to give, and it was Gorramini. He began to recover, and then Nnanji drove him without respite, effortlessly flickering his sword, advancing behind that murderous silver fog, while onlookers scampered back out of the way. There was no doubt now who was the better. All that was needed was some trivial nick to show blood, then Ghaniri could call for a draw.
 
Wallie had his acceptance poised on his tongue.
 
Thrust-parry-riposte-parry-cut-parry . . . Gorramini screamed and fell, clutching his belly—sudden silence.

Nnanji stepped back, panting, and glanced a grin across at Wallie.
 
“Healer!” yelled the crowd, milling in around the fallen man. Wallie lurched forward, hurling two men out of the way when they tried to move in front of him.
 
Ghaniri knelt down to help, but Gorramini had been disemboweled and was about to die.

The healer did not even stoop to examine the injury. “I do not accept this case!” he announced.

Tarru had turned and was walking away.

“TARRU!” Wallie’s roar came echoing back across the parade ground like thunder.
 
For a moment the wounded man was forgotten. The spectators looked nervously at Wallie and then at Tarru, who spun around to glare, and snap, “Yes?” Gorramini was groaning and screaming by turns, dying in agony.
 
“You will now examine my protégé in the sutras required for Fourth rank!” Wallie was seething with fury at the unnecessary death, teeth grinding, fists clenched.
 
This was Wallie Smith’s anger, not Shonsu’s. Tarru hesitated, looking equally murderous—and rebellious.

Wallie made the sign of challenge to a Sixth.

The spirits of death leaned very close now, waiting for Gorramini, and waiting to see who else might need their services . . .
 
“I waive the examination.”’ Tarru growled. “If you have taught him . . . We all know of your vassal’s memory, my lord.” He peered around to locate the face marker who had been optimistically summoned for Ears’ attempt at promotion. “I certify for Adept Nnanji!” Then he looked back narrowly at Wallie. “Anything else?”

Wallie shook his head—secret challenge withdrawn. Tarru turned away once more.
 
The spectators were fading like smoke. Trasingji nodded his consent to the facemarker and followed them. The courtyard was empty, except for Gorramini whimpering out his last breaths, writhing in a sea of his own blood and spilled bowels, Ghaniri kneeling beside him weeping, and Nnanji standing with his sword still in his hand, seeming unperturbed and satisfied. The facemarker hovered nervously nearby. The healer departed quickly, stiff-backed.
 
“Congratulations, adept.” Wallie could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.
 
Nnanji beamed. “Thank you, my liege. You do not cut notches in your shoulder strap?”

“No,” Wallie said. He thought Gorramini had heard the question.
 
“Then I shall not.” Nnanji was waiting for his victim to die, so that he could claim his sword.

Not a word, thought Wallie—not a single word of regret!
 
One lonely figure stepped forward to shake the victor’s hand. Nnanji grinned with pleasure and accepted Briu’s congratulations. Briu glanced impassively at Wallie, made the fist-on-heart salute, and walked away. Everything Wallie did seemed to diminish Briu, even this dramatic transformation of a pupil who had baffled him for years.

The dying man’s ordeal came to an end. Ghaniri closed his friend’s eyes. As he rose, Nnanji stepped by him to wipe his sword on the body—Lord Shonsu had done that to Hardduju. Then he turned expectantly to his second. Unhappily Wallie bent to pick up Gorramini’s blade. He knelt and proffered it to the victor.
 
Nnanji took it and looked it over approvingly. “Nice bit of metal,” he said.

††††††

Apprentice Nnanji, having received two more facemarks, plus instruction from Wallie in the secret signals of the third and fourth ranks, had now become Adept Nnanji, swordsman of the Fourth. He must therefore dress the part.
 
The tailor’s shop was a dingy, cluttered room at the far end of the barracks.
 
There he purchased an orange kilt and a hairclip with an orange stone. His hero wore a stone, so it was the right thing to do. Orange did not suit his red hair, but the combination made him seem like a young fire god, glowing with immense satisfaction. He stood and preened before a mirror, his bruises and scars still obvious, but in his own eyes a gorgeous Fourth. He had not mentioned Gorramini, even yet.

Wallie regarded him with sadness and doubt. Clad in middlerank garb and filled with a new confidence, Nnanji seemed years older than he had done that first day, on the beach. He even looked bigger and he held himself with assurance. No longer did Wallie think of him as being ungainly. Possibly that illusion had come from his very large hands and feet. When he broadened out, in a few years, Nnanji was going to be big. The awkward adolescent had suddenly become a very dangerous young man.

He finished his admiration session before the mirror and swung around to Wallie.

“I may swear to you again, my liege?”

“Of course.” The second oath lapsed upon promotion.
 
Apparently a tailor’s shop was a suitable location for oath-taking—at once Nnanji pulled out his sword, dropped to his knees, and became again protégé to Lord Shonsu. His grin was so persistent that he had trouble removing it for even that solemn act.

“Now,” he said, as he rose, “you will be visiting with the holy one, my liege?” Most days Wallie did call on Honakura. at about this time, and today the need was urgent. Somehow he must come up with a plan, and Honakura was the only person who might help. “What do you have in mind?” he asked cautiously.
 
“I have a sword to sell. The armorer has the rest of my money ready. I want to give it to my parents before we leave.” He assumed an expression of great virtue and innocence.

Swordsmen, being athletes, gained rank much faster than other crafts. Most of Nnanji’s childhood friends would still be only Seconds, or even Firsts. A swordsman of the Fourth was an important and powerful citizen. His father, as Wallie had learned from some chance remark, was a Third. There were several younger brothers and sisters to impress, also.

So he did have some human emotions!

“Two hours!” Wallie said and was at once alone, feeling as though that Cheshire-cat grin was still hanging there before him, left behind in the rush.
 
He went off to the temple.

The most holy Honakura was not available.

Fighting a steadily rising apprehension, Wallie took a walk in his unfamiliar boots. He inspected the great wall again, looking for trees that might overhang it, but none was close enough or tall enough. There were a few crumbling old buildings against the wall, but again none was high enough to allow escape without a ladder. He was being followed, he knew, and ladders would not be permitted.

Bitterly he regretted uncovering his sleeper. That had been an error, and it had led Tarru into a worse one. The blood oath was not totally one-sided, for a vassal was owed protection by his liege. Tarru had callously thrown away Gorramini. He must have had morale problems before, and now they would be much worse. He might well be forced into some desperate act.
 
The only fragment of a plan that Wallie could find was to sneak out the temple gate in disguise. It was a very leaky boat of a plan. Nnanji would be appalled by the dishonor, and it meant going unarmed. It was horribly risky—Shonsu’s body was so damned large and conspicuous—but there seemed to be no other solution.
 
Even the suppliers’ wagons were searched as they departed, or so the slaves said. And he would still be a long way from the ferry.
 
And what disguise? A swordsman’s ponytail was distinctive and inviolable. The facemarks of the People were sacred. To tamper with them was a major crime.
 
Reluctantly Wallie had concluded that Shonsu of the Seventh would have to become a woman, using his long hair to cover his forehead. The only concealed foreheads he had seen belonged to female slaves and probably were permitted in their case only because the slavestripes ran all the way down their faces.
 
Beginning to swelter as the sun grew more cruel, still brooding, he headed back toward the barracks. On this side the shrubbery grew right up to the building, and his way led along a paved path that wound and twisted between high bushes, almost a jungle. Frequent crosspaths and branches formed a maze. He was unfamiliar with this area, although he could hardly get seriously lost. For some time he wandered aimlessly, partly mulling over his problems, and partly—as he suddenly realized with amusement— instinctively making himself familiar with the terrain . . . sutra seven seventy-two . . .

He had drawn very close to the rear wall of the barracks, when something came thrashing through the bushes toward him. Wallie stopped, and a slave emerged onto the path ahead. He was a large and blubbery youth, dirty, and wearing only a black cloth. He stood and panted for a moment, staring at Wallie, still clutching a trowel in his hand. That, and his coating of mud, showed that he was one of the gardeners.

“My lord?”

Slaves did not accost Sevenths—trickles of apprehension ran over Wallie. “Yes?” The youth licked his lips, apparently not sure what to say next. He was either overcome by nervousness, or else merely stupid. Or both. “My lord,” he repeated.
 
Then, “Was told to look for you.”

Wallie tried to smile encouragingly, as though dealing with a child, but he had never been at ease when dealing with the disabled. He recalled Narrin, the idiot slave in the jail, and wondered if slavery itself produced mental deficiency, or if impaired children were callously sold to the traders. Of course the World had no institutions where they could be conveniently shut up and forgotten.
 
“Well, you’ve found me.”

“Yes. My lord.” Another pause.

“Who told you to look for me?”

“Mother.”

Impasse. “What’s your mother’s name?”

“Ani, my lord.”

Ah! “And what’s your name?”

“Anasi. My lord.”

“Can you take me to her, Anasi?”

The slave nodded. “Yes, my lord.” He turned and started to walk along the path.

Wallie followed.

Obviously this was trouble, but at once Wallie registered more trouble—a quiet tap of boots behind him. Then a pause . . . then more taps. Of course he was being followed, and of course a tail must stay close in a maze such as this. Had the conversation been overheard? Should he pull off into the shrubbery with Anasi, and let his follower go by?