The Reluctant Swordsman (43 page)

With difficulty, Wallie pulled his eyes away. “Don’t be in too much of a hurry, Nnanji,” he warned. “In some ways it is even more terrible than the third oath.
 
But it is fair. It binds both parties equally, not like slave and master.” Honakura coughed in the gloom. “Is it, by any chance, an oath of brotherhood, my lord?”

“It is,” Wallie said, smiling. “You see, Nnanji, the first thing I have to do, the god told me, is to find my brother, and . . . and I don’t have any brothers that I know of.”

“Me?” Nnanji was greatly excited. “The god meant me?” “I’m sure he did, because he put you on the beach, so that I almost fell over you coming out of the water. You have a part to play in Her task, Nnanji, if you will swear to be my oath brother.”

“Give me the words, my lord!”

Time had run out. Katanji’s kilt had flopped to the mattress.
 
“Nnanji,” Wallie said. “I hate to interrupt this important conversation, and it is certainly none of my business, but did you give your protégé permission to do what he is just about to do?”

“Do what?” Nnanji asked, turning round. “Arrrrgh!” He went scrambling rapidly aft, while Honakura smothered sniggers. A sharp cry of pain rang out, followed by thumping noises.

“You didn’t mention the part about gaining wisdom,” Honakura remarked.
 
“I suspect that ‘another’ means another brother,” Wallie replied, stretching himself out on the mattress, “and if so, then the man in question just gained a little wisdom for his own account.”

“But chain, my lord? Chain your brother?”

“The fourth oath is irrevocable.”

“Indeed? I have never heard of such an oath. That is interesting!” “But now it is your turn. How did you know about Katanji’s black hair? And brotherhood?”

“Mmm, yes,” Honakura said. He also lay down and made himself comfortable. “I told you that Ikondorina was mentioned a couple of times in other sutras, my lord. Once there is a reference to ‘Ikondorina’s redhaired brother,’ and once to ‘Ikondorina’s black-haired brother.’ That is all. Red hair is very rare, as you know, and pure black hair is unusual.”

Wallie gazed up at the rings and the stars. “Tell me the stories about them, then.”

“Maybe one day,” Honakura said.

Why was the old man so reluctant? What had he guessed? Wallie had no way of finding out—and perhaps he would be happier not knowing. Yet he was sure that he had now begun his task. He had solved the first part of the god’s riddle. Nnanji had a role to play, and almost certainly it was Katanji who would bring wisdom.
 
In fact, he had already done so, for it was he who had turned the trial around.

Thus Wallie’s laughter and joy in the guardhouse—he was on the right track.
 
The boat started rocking with a new rhythm, and he sat up to find the cause. The cause lay with Cowie.

He could not sleep. Something was missing, some thought struggling to escape from his subconscious. The events of the day crawled all over his mind and would not let him go. The old man was snoring. There was something sticking in his back . . .

He moved to a new position and tried again, with no more success. The light of the Dream God reminded him of his nights in the jail. Then he tried turning on his side and found himself looking into a pair of big dark eyes not far away.
 
Katanji, also, could not sleep, and that was hardly surprising. If it had been a big day for Wallie, what had it been for him?

“Homesick?” Wallie asked quietly.

“A little, my lord.”

Even at Katanji’s age, his brother would have pulled out all his toenails rather than admit to that.

“It would be nice to be at home,” Katanji whispered, “just for a little while, telling them all about the day I have had.”

“You can’t expect a day like that very often,” Wallie told him.

“But there will be other good days, my lord?”

This had been a good day? Well, perhaps it had, in the end. “I expect so. Good night, Novice Katanji.”

“Good night, my lord.”

Nnanji started rocking the boat once more.

Then Wallie opened his eyes again, and the boy was still awake.

“Thank you, Katanji. I didn’t know about the piranha.”

“I thought not, my lord.”

Wallie said, “That money I gave you on the trail . . . ” “Oh!” Katanji started to fumble with his unfamiliar harness pouch. “I forgot, my lord.”

And eggs could fly! “No,” Wallie said. “You keep it.”

Katanji thanked him solemnly.

After a pause, the boy whispered again. “My lord? You did not have any parentmarks?”

“Did not?”

“You have a fathermark now, but still no mothermark.”

“I do?” Wallie said aloud, and then dropped his voice again. “You’re serious?”

He rubbed his right eyelid with a finger and some spit. “Still there?”

Katanji leaned closer to have a look. “Yes, my lord. A sword.”

“Thank you, Katanji. Now . . . try to sleep.”

“Yes, my lord.”

A sword . . . Shonsu’s father? Or Detective Inspector Smith? Or just a sign of approval from the demigod, who must be laughing, somewhere. Thank You, Shorty.
 
What craft had Shonsu’s mother followed? Wallie Smith’s mother had been a crime reporter. That would translate as minstrel, he supposed, and chuckled.
 
He lay and listened to the creak of the ropes and the hiss of water flowing by.

He thought of the silvery death that swarmed below him, only inches away.

“My lord?” It was a very soft whisper.

Wallie opened his eyes. “Yes?”

“What happens tomorrow?” Katanji asked.

“Oh, I expect we’ll think of something,” Wallie said.
 
That was what had been wrong—he had been brooding on the past day, which was gone and done, washed away forever in the waters of the Goddess, like the bodies. He should be thinking of the future. The struggling thought in his subconscious surfaced, and it was the command of the demigod: Go and be a swordsman, Shonsu! Be honorable and valorous. And enjoy yourself, for the World is yours to savor.

Then he slept.

And the Dream God shone among the stars.