The Reluctant Swordsman

by David Duncan

  They studied each other in silence for a moment. The swordsman frowned. While his kind had few scruples at eradicating each other, they did not often appreciate advice on the subject from civilians. Honakura decided to reveal a little more.

  "It is rare for highrank swordsmen to visit the temple," he said. "None at all for at least two years. Curiously, though, I have heard of several who arrived at Hann and stated that to be their intention-at least one Seventh and a couple of Sixths."

  The swordsman's huge fists clenched. "Implying?"

  "I imply nothing!" Honakura said hastily. "Pure hearsay. They were reported to be planning to take the ferry, and then that long trail through the trees. Probably they changed their minds. One did make as near as a pilgrims' hostelry, but was unfortunate enough to partake there of some tainted meat. You are all the more welcome for your rarity, my lord."

  Muscles did not necessarily imply stupidity-the young man understood. A dark flush of fury crept over his cheekbones.

  He glanced around, looking at the grandiose facade of the temple and at the great court below, flanked by the shingle beach and the still pool, beyond that to the River frothing and foaming as it emerged from the canyon, and along the canyon to the mist-shrouded splendor of the Judgment. Then he turned his head to survey the wooded park of the temple grounds with the big houses of the senior officials. One of those would certainly go with the office of reeve. "To be a swordsman in Her temple guard would be a great honor," he said.

  "It seems to be even better rewarded these days than it used to be," Honakura remarked helpfully.

  The hard face became menacing. "A man could borrow a sword, I expect?"

  "That could be arranged."

  The young man nodded. "My service is always to the Goddess."

  Now that, Honakura thought happily, was how a deal should be made. Murder had not even been mentioned.

  "But first the exorcism?" the swordsman said.

  "Certainly, my lord." Honakura could not remember an exorcism in the last five years, but he was familiar with the ritual. "Fortunately, it does not require that your craft or even rank be mentioned. And your present garb will be adequate."

  The swordsman sighed with relief. "And it will succeed?"

  One did not become or prevail as Third Deputy Chairman of the Council of Venerables without learning to cover one's hindquarters. "It will succeed, my lord, unless..."

  "Unless?" echoed the swordsman, his broad face darkening with suspicion...

  Or was it guilt? Carefully Honakura said, "Unless the demon has been sent by the Most High Herself. Only you know whether you have committed some grievous transgression against Her."

  An expression of great agony and sorrow fell over the swordsman's face. He dropped his eyes and was silent for a while. Then he looked up defiantly and growled, "It was sent by the sorcerers."

  Sorcerers! The little priest staggered back a step. "Sorcerers!" he blurted. "My lord, in all my years in this temple, I have never heard a pilgrim mention sorcerers. I had hardly thought that such truly existed any more."

  Now the swordsman's eyes became as terrible as the priest had guessed they might. "Oh, they exist!" he rumbled. "I have come very far, holy one, very far. But sorcerers exist, believe me."

  Honakura pulled himself together. "Sorcerers cannot prevail against the Holiest," he said confidently. "Certainly not in Her own temple. If they are the origin of your distress, then the exorcism will succeed. Shall we see to it?"

  * * *

  Honakura beckoned over an orange-gowned Fourth and gave orders. Then he led the swordsman through the nearest arch and along the length of the nave to the statue of the Goddess.

  The big man sauntered at Honakura's side, taking one stride to his three, but his head twisted and turned as he gaped around at the splendor, as all visitors must on their first glimpse of this most holy sanctuary-seeing the great blue statue itself, the silver dais before it loaded with heaps of glittering offerings, the multicolored flaming of the stained-glass windows along both sides, the miraculous fan vaulting of the ceiling hanging like distant sky above. The temple was busy, with many priests, priestesses, pilgrims, and other worshipers moving over the shining mosaics of the pavement, yet their tiny figures were dwindled to dust specks by its immensity, and the vast space seemed filled with a still peace.

  Inevitably, as he drew near, the swordsman became conscious only of the majesty of the statue, the Goddess Herself, the shape of a robed woman sitting cross-legged with Her hands on Her knees and Her long hair spilling down. Huge and ominous and majestic, She loomed more and more enormous as he approached. At last he reached the edge of the dais and threw himself on the ground in reverence.

  An exorcism called for many priests and priestesses, for chanting, dancing, gesturing, ritual, and solemn ceremony. Honakura stood to one side and allowed Perandoro of the Sixth to officiate, for it was a rare opportunity. He himself had led an exorcism only once. The swordsman crouched on his knees within the circle, head down and arms outstretched as he had been instructed-put a tablecloth on that back, and it would hold a dinner for three. Other priests and priestesses watched covertly as they went about their business. Pilgrims were shunted tactfully to the sides. It was very impressive.

  Honakura paid little attention to the preliminaries. He was busy planning his next move against the unspeakable Hardduju. A sword was easy-he could get one from Athinalani in the armory. A blue kilt for a Seventh was no problem, either, and a hairclip was a trivial detail. But swordsmen sported distinctive boots, and to send for a pair of those, especially in the size required, would certainly provoke suspicion. Furthermore, he was fairly sure that the rituals of dueling required that his new champion obtain a second, and that could make things complicated. It might be that he would have to spirit this dangerous young man out of sight for a day or two while the preparations were put in hand, but so far his presence was a secret. Honakura felt great satisfaction that the Goddess had not only answered the priests' prayers in this fashion, but had also entrusted him with the subcontracting. He felt sure that Her confidence was not misplaced. He would see that there were no mistakes.

  Then the chant rose to its climax, and a chorus of, "Avaunt!" The swordsman's head came up, first looking wildly around, and then up at the Goddess.

  Honakura frowned. The dolt had been told to keep his head down.

  "Avaunt!" proclaimed the chanters once more, their rhythm just a fraction off perfection. The swordsman jerked upright on his knees, head back and eyes so wide that the whites were showing all around. The drummers went ragged on their beat, and a trumpeter flubbed a note.

  "Avaunt!" cried the chorus a third time. Perandoro raised a silver goblet full of holy water from the River and cast the contents over the swordsman's head.

  He spasmed incredibly, leaping straight from his knees into the air and coming down on his feet. The dirty loincloth fluttered to the floor, and he stood there naked, with his arms raised, his head back, water dribbling down his face and chest. He shrieked the loudest noise that Honakura had ever heard uttered by a human throat. For perhaps the first time in the age-old history of the temple, one voice drowned out the chorus, the lutes and flutes, and the distant roar of the Judgment. It was discordant, bestial, horrifying, and full of soul-destroying despair. It reverberated back from the roof. It went on for an incredible, inhuman, unbelievable minute, while the singers and musicians became hopelessly tangled, the dancers stumbled and collided, and every eye went wide. Then the ceremony ended in a chaotic, clattering roll of drums, and the swordsman swayed over backward.

  He fell like a marble pillar. In the sudden silence his head hit the tiles with an audible crack.

  He lay still, huge and newborn-naked. The rag had fallen off his forehead, revealing for all to see the craftmarks on his forehead, the seven swords.

  ††

  The temple was a building whose origins lay hidden back in the Neolithic. Many times it had been enlarged, and most of
the fabric had been replaced from time to time as it had weathered or decayed-not once, but often.

  Yet the temple was also people. They aged and were replaced much faster. Each fresh-faced acolyte would look in wonder at an ancient sage of the Seventh and marvel that the old man had probably known so-and-so in his youth, little thinking that the old man himself as a neophyte had studied that same so-and-so and mused that he was old enough to have known such-and-such. Thus, like stones in an arch, the men and women of the temple reached from the darkness of the past into the unviewable glare of the future. They nurtured the ancient traditions and holy ways and they worshiped the Goddess in solemnity and veneration...

  But none of them had ever known a day like that one. Elderly priestesses of the Sixth were seen running; questions and answers were shouted across the very face of the Goddess, violating all tradition; slaves and bearers and healers milled around in the most holy places; and pilgrims wandered unattended before the dais itself. Four of the largest male juniors were led into back rooms by venerable seniors of unquestioned moral probity, then ordered to take off their clothing and lie down. Three respected Sevenths had heart attacks before lunch.

  The spider at the center of the web of confusion was Honakura. It was he who poked the stick in the ant hill and stirred. He summoned all his authority, his unspoken power, his unparalleled knowledge of the workings of the temple, and his undoubted wits-and he used them to muddle, confuse, confound, and disorder. He used them with expertise and finesse. He issued a torrent of commands-peremptory, obscure, convoluted, misleading, and contradictory.

  By the time the valiant Lord Hardduju, reeve of the temple guard, had confirmed that truly there was another swordsman of the Seventh within the precincts, the man had totally vanished, and no amount of cajolery, bribery, interrogation, or menace could establish where he had gone.

  Which was, of course, the whole idea.

  * * *

  Even a day like that one must end. As the sun god began to grow tired of his glory and dip toward his exit, the venerable Lord Honakura sought rest and peace in a small room high in one of the minor wings of the temple. He had not visited those parts for years. They were even more labyrinthine than the rest of the complex, but ideal for his purpose. Trouble, he knew, was seeking him out-it might as well be given as long a search as possible.

  The room was a small, bare chamber, higher than it was wide, with walls of sandstone blocks and a scarred floor of planks bearing one small, threadbare rug. There were two doors, for which even giants need not have stooped, and a single window of diamond panes, whorled and dusty, blurring the light to green and blue blotches. The window frame had warped so that it would not open, making the room stuffy, smelling of dust. The only furniture was a pair of oaken settles. Honakura was perched on one of those, dangling his feet, trying to catch his breath, wondering if there was any small detail he might have overlooked.

  Knuckles tapped, a familiar face peered in and blinked at him. He sighed and rose as his nephew Dinartura entered, closed the door, and advanced to make the salute to a superior.

  "I am Dinartura," right hand to heart, "healer of the third rank," left hand to forehead, "and it is my deepest and most humble wish." palms together at the waist, "that the Goddess Herself," ripple motion with right hand, "will see fit to grant you long life and happiness," eyes up, hands at the sides, "and to induce you to accept my modest and willing service," eyes down, "in any way in which I may advance any of your noble purposes," hands over face, bow.

  Honakura responded with the equally flowery acknowledgment, then waved him to the other settle.

  "How is your dear mother?" he asked.

  Dinartura was a stooped young man with thinning light-brown hair and the start of a potbelly. He had lately abandoned the kilt of youth for the sleeveless gown of middle age, a cotton robe in the brown color of his rank, and he tended now to hold things very close to his nose when he wanted to see them. He was the youngest of Honakura's sister's children and, in Honakura's opinion, an inexcusably prosaic dullard, boringly reliable.

  After the formalities had been given a respectable hearing, Honakura said, "And how is the patient?" He smiled, but he waited anxiously for the reply.

  "Still out cold when I left." Dinartura was presuming on his nephewship to be informal. "He has a bump on his head this big, but there are no morbid signs. Eyes and ears are fine. I expect he will awaken in time, and be as good as new in a day or two."

  Honakura sighed with relief, so the healer added hastily, "If She wills, of course. Head injuries are not predictable. If I did not know you, my lord uncle, I would be more cautious."

  "We must be patient, then. You think two days?"

  "Three might be safer," the healer said. "If you have any strenuous exercise in mind for him," he added, being uncharacteristically perceptive. "When you need to tie him down would be about right, I think." After a pause he said, "And may I inquire what all this is about? There are many rumors, not one of which seems credible."

  Honakura chuckled, slavering slightly. "Find the least credible and you will be closest to the truth. Under the nightingale, then?"

  "Of course, my lord."

  Honakura smiled to himself at the memory. "Your patient is one of five young men injured in the temple today."

  "Five!" Dinartura peered closer to see if his uncle was serious.

  For a moment Honakura wondered how much power he had expended during the day. He had very few IOUs left to call now; he had amassed debts. "Very sad, you will agree? All lying prone, covered by sheets, and not speaking or moving. All have been rushed to safe places-in litters, in sedan chairs, in carriages. In some case the litters were borne by priests, too! At least twenty-two healers have been running around, and a few dozen other people. A couple of the victims were taken right out of the temple grounds, into the town, but others went from room to room, in one door and out the other... There are eight or nine sickrooms like this"-he gestured toward the other great oaken door-"presently being guarded."

  That door led out into another corridor, but he saw no reason to mention the fact.

  "Guarded by priests," the younger man said. "Then you do not trust the swordsmen? Of course I saw my patient. Do swordsmen really act as you obviously fear?"

  The priest nodded sadly. "In this case, nephew, perhaps."

  The temple had a guard to maintain order, to protect the pilgrims, and to punish crime... but who watched the watchers?

  "I have heard stories," Dinartura muttered, "of pilgrims molested on the trail, especially. Are you saying that the swordsmen do this?"

  "Ah, well!" Honakura replied cautiously. "Not directly. The gang or gangs on the trail are not swordsmen-but they are not tracked down as they should be, so there is bribery."

  "But surely most are men of honor?" protested his nephew. "Are there none you can trust?"

  The old man sighed. "Run down to the courtyard, then," he suggested. "Pick out a swordsman-a Third, say, or a Fourth-and ask him if he is a man of honor. If he says-"

  The healer paled and made the sign of the Goddess. "I had rather not, my lord!"

  His uncle chuckled. "You are sure?"

  "Quite sure, thank you, my lord!"

  Pity! Honakura found the thought entertaining. "You are right, in a way, nephew. Most, I am sure, are honorable, but every one is sworn to a mentor, who in turn is sworn to his own mentor or, ultimately, to the reeve himself. He alone has given an oath to the temple. Now, if he does not order a patrol on the trail, who is to suggest it to him? The rest obey orders-and say nothing. Indeed, they must guard their tongues even more carefully than the rest of us. Their danger is greater."

  Then he noticed the look he was being given and knew exactly what thought accompanied it: The old boy is wonderful for his age... He found that very irritating and patronizing. He was still better at almost anything than this ninny would ever be.

  "So what are you doing about it, my lord uncle?"

  Typically
stupid question, Honakura thought. "Praying, of course! Today She answered our prayers by sending a Seventh. She summoned a demon to drive him here."

  "Are your exorcisms always so violent?" Dinartura. asked and flinched at the frown he received.

  "Exorcisms are rare, but the sutras warn that there may be extreme reaction." Honakura fell silent, and there was a pause.

  The settle creaked as Dinartura leaned back and regarded his uncle with some curiosity. "This Seventh?" he asked. "Why insult him with those quarters, with a single slave instead of a flock of attendants?"

  Honakura recovered his good spirits and chuckled.

  "It was the most unlikely place I could think to put him-a lowly pilgrim cottage. It opens directly onto a busy road, and he has no clothes, so he isn't going anywhere if he wakes up. But tell me," he added with interest. "The slave? Kikarani promised a pretty one. How did she look?"

  His nephew frowned, thinking. "Just a slave girl," he said. "I told her to wash him. She was tall... and large. Yes, quite pretty, I suppose." He thought some more and added, "A certain animal sensuality, if a man wanted that."

  That was typical! At least Honakura still noticed pretty girls. He knew very well what duties Priestess Kikarani assigned to her slaves. She fought fang and claw to keep her position as hospitaler, so he could guess what sort of girls she had. "Nephew! Did you not notice?"

  The younger man's face turned pink. "I think that she will suffice, uncle, if the swordsman wakes up and wants something to do... and finds that he has no clothes."

  The old priest cackled. He would have said more, but at that moment the door flew open, and loud voices could be heard shouting in the anteroom. Then the reeve marched in. Honakura scrambled to his feet and scurried over to the other exit. He turned his back on the door and the blandest expression he could manage on the newcomer.

  Hardduju of the Seventh was a large man, although not the size of Shonsu. He was around forty, starting to run to fat. His beefiness bulged over the top of a kilt of blue brocade shot through with gold thread; it bulged also between the tooled leather straps of his harness. He had no neck. The sword hilt behind his right ear glittered and flashed with many small rubies set in gold filigree. The hairclip holding his thinning ponytail shone in matching gold and ruby fires, as did the gold and ruby band on one fleshy arm. His boots were of kidskin beaded with garnets. His heavy face was inflamed and furious.