by David Duncan
Wallie nodded. No mention of sadism?
Then Nnanji plunged ahead. "My liege? Why would the priests have ever appointed such a man to be reeve? He was a disgrace to our noble craft!"
"Perhaps he was a good man when they appointed him?"
Nnanji looked blank. "My liege?"
"Power corrupts, Nnanji!" It was a problem much on his mind that day, but obviously a new idea to Nnanji, so Wallie explained, telling how he had been jeered by the crowd.
"Thank you, my liege," said his vassal solemnly. "I shall remember that when I attain high rank." Nnanji was, of course, an idealist, and hence a romantic.
Wallie said hopefully, "Nnanji, the trouble seems to be over. Do you want me to release you from your oaths?"
Nnanji's expression indicated that he would rather be ground up in a corn mill or fed to vampire moths. "No, my liege!"
"Not even the third? That's a pretty horrible oath, apprentice. I can order you to do anything at all-crimes, perversions, even abominations."
Nnanji just grinned-his hero would do no such a thing. "I am honored to be bound by it, my liege." He was probably happier than he had ever been in his life, shining in his own eyes by reflected glory.
"All right," Wallie said reluctantly. "But any time you want to be released from that oath, you just ask! The sutra says that it must be annulled when the immediate need is past."
Nnanji opened his mouth, closed it, looked at Wallie, then at his feet; then decided to risk it.
"You have a task for the Goddess, my liege," he said quietly. He had not made it a question, but he was obviously tortured by curiosity.
So Nnanji thought he was in on that, did he? Wallie sighed. He would have to find a few good swordsmen to guard his back and the fortune he bore on it, but the last thing he would choose on a quest would be to have a lubberly adolescent underfoot. A mere apprentice would be no protection, more nuisance than use. Again his fatigue brought on absurdity: Nnanji, just run up to the cave and ask the dragon to step outside? Nnanji, trot over to the castle and warn them to start boiling the oil...
Then he remembered that there might be treachery afoot. How would he find swordsmen whom he could trust, who would truly guard his back and not stick a knife in it? He would have to find loyalty, and there it was, glowing at him. Moreover, Nnanji could advise him on who else in the guard would be safe to recruit. He heard his own voice, Shonsu's voice, quoting: "It's a poor road that doesn't run two ways. "
Nnanji produced his enormous grin. "Second sutra," he said. "'On Protégés.'"
Wallie stared at him for a moment-shabby dress; lanky and ungainly, but a good reach, red hair, snub nose, invisible eyelashes, and every bone showing; inexperienced as a newlaid egg, but as willing as it was possible to be. Already he had shown courage to the point of insanity, talking back to a naked sword. Nnanji was indeed entitled to consider himself in on the god's task, for Wallie also had sworn an oath that day, to cherish, protect, and guide. In a preliterate world, he had signed a contract. He could hardly just vanish and abandon the lad to the vengeance of Hardduju's friends. Like it or not, he was stuck with this Nnanji.
"You are familiar with the sutra 'On Secrecy'?" he asked carefully.
Nnanji beamed. "Yes, my liege." And before Wallie could stop him, he gabbled it off at high speed.
#175 ON SECRECY
The Epitome
A protégé shall not discuss his mentor, his mentor's business, his mentor's orders, his mentor's allies, nor any report that he himself may have made to his mentor.
The Episode
When Fandarrasu was put to the torment he did not speak, but his breath smelled of garlic. Thus Kungi learned that supplies had reached the besieged city.
The Epigram
The tongue is mightier than the sword, for a single word may destroy a whole army.
"Right," Wallie said, amused at his eagerness-if nothing else, this Nnanji was going to provide entertainment! "Everyone is assuming that I'm going to be reeve-let's leave it at that for the moment. As to the task, I know nothing about it. All the god told me was that... a certain very great swordsman... had tried and failed, and I'm next. It is important to the Goddess..."
Nnanji was silently nodding, looking awed.
"I was told to go out in the World and be an honorable and valorous swordsman. The task will be revealed to me. It will mean leaving here and traveling. I suppose danger. Possibly honor."
He paused then, relishing the sight of Nnanji's wide eyes and open mouth. "I don't suppose... would you like to come along as my protégé?"
Obviously it was a silly question. Protégé to a Seventh? On a mission for the gods? It was an offer Nnanji could not have equaled in his wildest fantasies. His reply was blurted out in more of the barracks slang: "And keep my baubles, too?"
Wallie laughed, feeling better for his rest. "I hope so," he said. "I certainly plan to keep mine! But listen, vassal, I know that I'm a good swordsman, and some strange things have been happening to me. I shall try to be a good mentor to you, but I'm not a superman. I'm not one of those heroes you find in epics."
"No, my liege," Nnanji replied politely.
That was the only thing Wallie could have said that he would not believe.
BOOK THREE:
HOW THE SWORD
WAS NAMED
†
The barracks was a massive marble block with balconies and arched windows, somewhat like a medieval Moorish palace. Tarru had sent word, and the visitor was greeted by a deputation of the staff, ancient or crippled swordsmen who had put away their swords. The commissary had all his limbs, but he was old and so bowed that his gray head stuck out like a turtle's, and his hand gestures were hidden beneath him when he presented himself as Coningu of the Fifth. He appraised Wallie's condition with a practiced eye, terminated any further formalities, and asked what his lordship required.
"Hot bath, bandages, food, bed?"
Coningu nodded to a subordinate, then led the way up a marble staircase wide enough to have carried a two-lane highway. Apparently everything associated with the temple was built on the same titanic scale, and the ceilings were all so high that it took three flights for the staircase to mount each story. Wallie dared not look back in case he was leaving bloody marks on every step for slaves to clean. At last they reached the top floor and went along a passage of matching dimensions until Coningu opened a door and stepped aside.
Wallie was impressed. The room was huge and airy-floor of glassy wood with gaudy rugs on it, cool marble walls hung with bright tapestries, and an incredibly high plaster ceiling with faded frescoes that might have come from the Sistine Chapel. There were four beds and numerous other pieces of furniture, but the room was so big that they did not crowd it in the least. Then he saw that Coningu was advancing to another door-this was merely the antechamber.
The main guest room was three times as big, with a bed as large as a swimming pool. Shaded windows at both ends led to balconies and allowed a cool breeze to float across. The rugs and hangings were works of art, the woodwork everywhere blazed with polish. From the expression on Nnanji's face, he had never seen this part of the barracks and was overwhelmed.
"What do you think?" Wallie muttered, hoping that Coningu could not hear. "Will this do, or should we look for a better place down the road?"
Nnanji stared at him in bewilderment. Coningu did hear, and smiled a sideways glance that said nothing.
"It's magnificent," Wallie assured him hurriedly. "Fit for a king."
"It's probably seen many of those, my lord," replied the commissary, mollified.
Wallie could not resist teasing him. "How about jailbirds? You know where I slept last night?"
Coningu flashed a cynical smile. "Those, too, my lord, I expect. The temple court has been overruled before."
Sore feet momentarily forgotten, Wallie browsed around. He found the bellrope and a weighty keg-sized bronze receptacle embellished with nymphs and flowers in bas relief. He deci
ded that it must be the chamber pot. The ornate wall lamps seemed to be real gold. A massive carved chest was full of foils, fencing masks, and barbells-everything a vacationing swordsman could want. He paced off some of the rugs and decided that they were silk, as were the wall hangings. Seeing thick iron bolts on the inside of the door, he confirmed that the outer door was similarly fitted, and then limped out on a balcony to inspect the security there.
The shadowing overhang was wide and the flanking walls smooth. Any burglar trying to enter would need wings. Below him stretched the picturebook park, and beyond that the high wall, the tenements and slums of the town, then the valley wall with its steep road and the row of pilgrim cottages... and finally the indigo tropic sky. The other balcony probably faced the jail. Wallie frowned at the town, recalling the squalor and how he had reacted to it two days earlier. He could hear the messages he was being given: The Goddess rewards Her servants well. Do not question the justice of the gods.
He found a full-length silver mirror. There again was the Shonsu illusion he had seen in his delirium, except that the vision had been naked, not wrapped in slaves' sackcloth, and now the face and body were bruised and scraped and swollen all over, eyes puffed and purple, the black hair half in a pony tail and half loose. He grimaced at himself, and the overall effect was terrifying. How could Nnanji have balked at an order from such a horror?
Voices and clatter announced the arrival of slaves with a huge copper bathtub and steaming buckets. A one-legged swordsman snapped orders. Another of the cripples led in more slaves, with towels and boxes. The room began to fill up. Now Wallie realized that he was expected to perform his toilet in public, like Louis XIV, but he was too weary to argue. Nnanji unbuckled Wallie's harness and took his sword and scabbard, evidently one of the duties of a protégé. Slaves poured water and ran for more. Wallie sighed a sigh for a whirlpool tub with some good soap, then accepted the royal treatment.
The slaves slaved, Wallie soaked sensuously in the tub, and the old swordsmen quietly clustered around Nnanji. There were half a dozen of them there, for Wallie was perhaps the most exciting thing to happen for a century or two. Any excuse was good enough to attend and enjoy the drama.
"May I draw it, my liege?" Nnanji asked.
It was the sword that was attracting the swordsmen-they were gathered about it like boys around a foreign sports car.
"Sure," Wallie said sleepily. He heard the murmurs of wonder as the group admired the blade itself. Then Nnanji suddenly declaimed, in a curious chant:
"A griffon crouched upon the hilt
In silver white and sapphire blue,
With ruby eye and talons gilt
And blade of steel of starlight hue.
The seventh sword he wrought at last,
And all the others it surpassed."
"What in the World is that?" asked Wallie, waking up suddenly and hurling bathwater over slaves and floor.
"A minstrel jingle, my liege." Nnanji was staring at him, nervous at the reaction. "About the seven swords of Chioxin. I can tell you all about the first six, if you wish, but it is rather a long poem."
"Chioxin! Chioxin?" A picture floated into Wallie's mind-a piece of a sword blade fastened to a wall, a blade old and damaged, broken at both ends, yet inscribed with figures of men and monsters. He reached for more, and there was nothing. It was a Shonsu memory, a fragment on the border between the professional memories he had been given and the personal memories denied him. The sensation made him uneasy. Where or what was Chioxin?
"It sounds like that sword, doesn't it?" he said. "Griffon and sapphire? What else do you know about it?"
Nnanji looked suddenly embarrassed. "I never heard the rest, my liege. It was my first night in the barracks, when I was a scratcher." He grinned at the memory of his younger self. "Looking back now, I don't think he was a very good minstrel, but then I thought he was marvelous. He sang the ballad about the seven swords of Chioxin, and I wanted to hear all of it. But he just got to the last part, about the seventh sword, and then... then I had to leave, my liege."
"Wild Ani, I bet," said one of the others. They all shrieked and cackled with laughter, and Nnanji turned a furious red.
Coningu, hovering on the edge of the group like a wind-bent cypress on a beach, was staring at the sword. He sensed Wallie's eye, glanced at him, and then turned quickly away. Coningu had heard that ballad, all of it, and he knew what it had told of the seventh sword. Old cynic that he was, he looked impressed by something.
Wallie hauled himself out of the tub to provide a diversion. Soon he was dried and being offered a choice of blue kilts from some barracks store. He chose the plainest, although even that was of finest lawn. Nnanji buckled on his harness for him-and then stripped and plopped into his mentor's discarded bathwater. A protégé's privilege, obviously.
Two healers, a Sixth and a Third, bowed before Wallie and nodded approvingly at a patient so spectacularly battered, but still basically healthy. Reluctantly he allowed them to smear salve on his scrapes. Then they prepared to bandage his feet.
"Stop!" he barked. "What are those?"
"These are bandages, my lord," the Sixth said, surprised. "They are very good bandages. They were blessed for me in the temple many years ago and have healed a great many patients."
They looked like a pile of old garage rags.
"What happened to the last two patients?" Wallie demanded, and his answer was a look of discomfiture. "Get some new ones, healer. You have worn out the blessings those. For now you may use towels."
The healer started to protest.
Wallie was too tired to argue. "Vassal?" he said, and Nnanji, who had just finished dressing, smiled and drew his sword.
Wallie's feet were bundled in towels, like a terminal case of gout.
A table of food had been laid out, and that was all he needed. He thanked them and ordered them away-commissary, slaves, swordsmen, healers, and bathtub-refusing offers of table service or musicians or female company... Nnanji looked a little disappointed at that. Then he slid the bolts on the door to the corridor. Peace!
Nnanji lifted the silver covers off the food. Wallie's mouth watered so hard that it hurt. Soups, baked fish, roast fowl and a savory meat pie, something curried, vegetables, desserts, hot breads, cheeses, six flasks of wine, cakes, and fruits. No, not the fruit, thank you.
"There seems to be enough here for twenty men," Wallie said, sitting down. "So I may be able to spare you a little, vassal. What do you fancy to start?"
"After you, my liege." Nnanji's eyes were bright, but he was expecting to wait.
Wallie ordered him to a seat and for some time they gorged in silence. Wallie was astounded at how much he ate, but he was a big man now and had starved for days. Nnanji, as the model adolescent, matched him bite for bite; there were advantages to being vassal to a Seventh. By the time they slowed down and started up a conversation, there was not much left.
"That's a little better than the jail."
"And a lot better than the juniors' mess!"
They laughed together, and Wallie rose.
"I am going to sleep until morning," he announced, "but whether tomorrow morning or the day after, I am not sure. At least one of those doors must stay bolted, because my little god might be a bit annoyed if I let his sword get stolen. If you like, I can let you out now, and you can go and prowl somewhere, then sleep in the outer room. Please yourself."
It was early yet for sleep, but Nnanji could not bring himself to leave. Perhaps he was frightened Wallie would disappear like a dream.
Wallie laid his sword on the bed, piled up some pillows, and lay back, sinking into the mattress.
"Feather bed! Softer than the jail floor!" Then, because he wanted his companion to do the talking, he said, "Tell me about Wild Ani?"
Nnanji blushed again. "One of the barracks women, my liege. A slave. She's huge and ugly and tough as an old ox. Boobs like meal sacks, one eye gone. She makes bets that no man can rape her, no holds barre
d, and claims a perfect record." He giggled. "They say that some men lost more than they thought they were betting..."
"The girl of my dreams," Wallie said sleepily. "And the scratchers?"
"It's a tradition. We... the Seconds tell them that they have to prove their manhood. Every scratcher spends his first night with Wild Ani." He giggled again. "That was why I didn't hear the rest of the ballad."
"You don't need to tell me."
"It's all right," Nnanji said unashamedly. "She's a great woman, really. You want a she-dragon, she'll be a she-dragon, rough as you like. But with a scratcher she's patient and sympathetic... and helpful. Well, I mean, I didn't know where to... I mean, what to..." He grinned as the memories came back. Then he saw that his liege lord was already asleep.
††
On one side of the sword seven swordsmen fought with seven mythical beasts; on the other the same beasts were being fed, ridden, or comforted by seven maidens. No pose was repeated exactly, and even the expressions on the faces were distinct. Wallie could not guess how lines of such delicacy and artistry could have been inscribed in so hard a material.
The barracks was silent yet, and dawn was still drawing breath in the east, preparing to proclaim the day with fanfares of light. An anonymous blanket bundle lying across the doorway showed how a certain vassal's romantic ideas of duty had outweighed the attractions of a bed. A hank of red hair protruded at one end.
Wallie was lying in the vast feather bed, examining the god's sword at leisure and periodically wriggling luxuriously. His bruises had faded to the sort of pleasurable ache that can come from too much exercise; the throbbing in his feet was a mere whisper of what it had been. The World was his to enjoy as the demigod had told him. A few days to complete his healing and enlist a couple of good middlerank protégés, then he could be on his way to explore that World, to be valorous and honorable, and to await the revelation of his task. Yesterday he had awakened on slimy stone, facing sentence of death; today he floated in luxury and reveled in power and freedom.