by David Duncan
"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?
Before he could decide, the path came to an end. Straight ahead was the wall of the barracks and a small doorway. The public entrances were huge and imposing, so this one was likely for slaves' use. Damn! There were no more side branches to the path. If Wallie v
anished now, his follower must surely guess that the slaves were involved.
"Anasi!"
The youth stopped and turned his moon face to Wallie. "My lord?"
"I'll wait here. You tell Ani where I am."
Anasi thought that over, nodded, and disappeared through the door. As quietly as he could manage, Wallie hurried back to the last comer and stepped aside into the bushes.
He had been very stupid. He had allowed Nnanji to leave, dividing his forces. Without Nnanji, he was ten times as vulnerable. And now he might have betrayed his secret relationship with the slave population-Tarru was smart enough to work that out from very few clues. Shonsu was not much help in cloak-and-dagger work of this nature, but Wallie Smith should have known better-much better. Idiot! He cursed himself for incompetence and he could feel his Shonsu self raging at the need for concealment and stealth.
The bootsteps came closer, louder.
A swordsman of the Third passed by, a short and skinny man. He stopped in surprise when he saw the end of the path and the doorway. Wallie stepped out behind him and joyfully swung a fist hard against the place where neck joined shoulder, crumpling his victim to the ground. With a quiet clatter of sword hilt against paving stone, the man rolled over and lay still.
That had felt good! Wallie rubbed his hand and pondered what to do next. The doorway was too close. No matter where the victim woke up, he would remember that slaves' entrance just ahead of him. He would have to be tied up and held prisoner.
Wallie dropped to his knees and looked more closely.
It was young Janghiuki, Ears' mentor.
Knocking men out and tying them up was good spy story behavior, but forbidden behavior for a swordsman. And trickier than it sounded, especially for a man who had recently acquired a new body and did not know his own strength. He had broken Janghiuki's neck. The kid was dead.
#7 ON DUELS BETWEEN SWORDSMEN
The Epitome
The abominations are seven:
To attack without warning,
To attack an unarmed man,
Two against one,
Any weapon but a sword,
Anything that is thrown,
Anything that throws,
Armor or shield.
The Episode
Fifty-two came against Langaunimi
And twenty-five he slew.
Great is the name of Langaunimi.
Who were the fifty-two?
The Epigram
A kill without honor destroys two swordsmen.
†††††††
Anasi returned, accompanied not by his mother but by another male slave, one previously unknown to Wallie. He had many more wits about him than Anasi. The noble lord was in danger, he said. Honorable Tarru had set up an ambush in the guest suite, men with clubs and nets. Lord Shonsu must not return to his room.
Then Nnanji must be sent for, Wallie replied, and he needed a place of concealment.
They led him down to the cellars, and anywhere less like his own quarters he could never have imagined.
The roof was so low that he could not stand erect, even between the massive beams that supported the ceiling. It would be a fiendishly impossible place for him to fight. It was low and very long, like a tunnel. Small barred openings dropped puddles of reluctant light on piles of dirty straw, on cobwebs and filth, and on variegated patches of fungus in the corners, on scraps of broken furniture long since discarded by rightful owners. Precious hoarded rags dangled from pegs. A couple of ramshackle partitions had been constructed to make a pretense of small private areas, but they only made the whole place darker. It was the male slaves' dormitory, a human stable reeking of centuries of unwashed bodies.
The wonder was not that old slaves were sent to the Judgment when no longer useful, the wonder was that any of them lived that long.
Wallie sat slumped on a wooden chair that had lost its back and he brooded. Jja had been informed. Anasi had returned to his gardening duties. Janghiuki had been left under a bush and was doubtless already attracting attention from insects.
Murder! What he had done would be first-degree murder on Earth and it was murder in the World. He could have killed Janghiuki quite legally had he wished. Challenge, draw, lunge, wipe sword-five seconds' work for Shonsu, and no one would have raised an eyebrow. But he had tried to be merciful and now he was a murderer.
Janghiuki of the Third... he had done no wrong. He had been obeying orders-follow Shonsu. Spying on a guest was not in itself a breach of hospitality, although poor manners. The lad's only error had been to swear the blood oath without due cause being shown, and undoubtedly Tarru or Trasingji or one of the other highranks had been standing by, with sword already drawn. The kid would have had no real choice. Probably Tarru had given him a plausible excuse anyway: "Lord Shonsu has purloined the Goddess' sword, and we must retrieve it." Believable enough, when disagreement meant death.
Sooner or later, Tarru was going to realize that Shonsu was not returning to his room. The hunt would begin. Janghiuki's body would be found. Then Tarru's morale problems would be solved at once. Then the hounds would bay.
Slave owning, idol worship, capital punishment, flogging... all were things that would have filled the old Wallie Smith with horror. Now he had added murder. Morals don't change, he had told the little boy that first morning. The demigod had said that was something else he must unlearn. But he couldn't.
Shonsu would have killed Janghiuki without scruple, doing it by the sutra and feeling no guilt afterward. He would have dismissed the hospitality problem by quoting some sutra or other, and no one could have questioned his interpretation. Wallie Smith could never learn to think that way. He had promised to try to be a swordsman, but he was not going to succeed.
The Goddess would have to find another champion.
Something rustled in the straw behind him. He jumped, but whatever it was, it was not human.
He wondered if Honakura had ever seen slave quarters like these, and what he would say to them. Probably he would only gabble about slavery being punishment for misdeeds in a previous life. Tough to be punished for something you could not recall doing! But Wallie had promised not to tell the Goddess how to run Her World.
There were hundreds of slaves. There were hundreds of swords in the armory. As he had done several times before, Wallie toyed with the thought of a slave army. He rejected it as he always did. The sutras allowed a swordsman to arm civilians in an emergency, but the wording specifically excluded slaves. That would be both crime and abomination. More important to Wallie, though, was the certainty that it would be a massacre. Swordsmen would be infinitely more deadly, no matter what the odds, and he would not save himself at the cost of innocent lives. Furthermore, he was certain that the slaves' friendship would not go so far. They would understandably fear retribution. No slave-owning culture could ever tolerate a slave revolt, no matter who organized it. If Shonsu tried to be Spartacus, he would unite the rest of the World against him.
What to do? Wallie struggled to unravel Tarru's thinking. He must be feeling pressured. Forcing men to swear to him for a dishonorable cause was an abomination. Ordering them to keep the third oath secret was another. There were limits to how long he could hope to keep his illicit army together, and how far he could even trust it. So Tarru had felt his hand being forced. He must find the sword soon and depart. His only lead to it was Shonsu, who, even if he truly did not know where it was, must know who did. Nets were an obvious tactic if a Seventh was to be taken alive.
The penalty for failure, the demigod had said, was death... or worse. Tarru was planning torture.
The door creaked and Jja slipped in, with Vixini on her back. Wallie rose, unable to straighten, and kissed her, then pulled over another broken chair so that they could sit close.
Jja smiled reassuringly at him and squeezed his hand.
Wallie was astonished at how relieved he was to see her. By not taking Jja hostage, Tarru had overlooked a winning strategy. But no n
ormal swordsman would mortgage his heart to a slave as Wallie had done, so Tarru could not have known.
He tried to explain that to her, and she seemed as surprised as Tarru would have been.
"I am not doing very well, Jja."
She studied him for a while. Was his guilt so obvious? Did he now have Murderer written on his brow?
But no. What she said at last was, "Do you know what the gods want of you, master?"
There was the nub.
He nodded. "I do know. And I don't want to do it. You are right, my love. I must learn obedience." He went back to staring at the floor.
"Ani is coming, master. Honorable Tarru and his men are still waiting in the room. Kio has gone to find Adept Nnanji."
"Who is Kio?"
Jja's white teeth showed in the gloom. "His favorite. He could not afford her before, until you gave him so much money. She has taken half the sword already, the women say."
Wallie smiled and was silent. It was hard on Nnanji to drag him back into the shark pool, but that was his duty. In any case, he must be warned, and danger to his liege would surely bring Nnanji running anyway.
What orders had Tarru given? Nnanji might well die at the gate.
Vixini began fussing. Jja untied him and put him down. He set off on a voyage of exploration like an eager brown bug.
The door creaked again, and this time it was Ani, huge in a black muumuu. Only her big ugly face was truly visible, floating just below the ceiling, with the black patch over her left eye like a hole in it. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and a thin line of silver framed her face, undyed roots from ear to ear. She bobbed respectfully to Wallie, yet she was trying to hide a smirk at the absurdity of a lord of the Seventh cowering in a slaves' cellar. Her son might have little more intelligence than the plants he tended, but Ani had cultivated men. She had a primitive native shrewdness and also a strange aura of authority, as though she were Queen of the Slaves.