by David Duncan
"What does a sorcerer do if, say, the apprentices riot?" Tomiyano asked.
Another laugh. "We keep our apprentices under better control than that, Captain. But we have had violent persons―visiting swordsmen have attempted violence on occasion. I can tell you that the sorcerers' methods are just as effective as the swordsmen's. More so, I should say. A spell can be cast from a distance."
Tomiyano was a skeptic. "Turning them into frogs?"
"Turning them into corpses, Captain. Sometimes charred corpses." Pause. Within the dim deckhouse, glances were exchanged.
The officer was still being amiable. "But apart from that one restriction, Captain, Aus is like any other city and more pleasant than most. The trading fee is two golds."
The captain raised his eyebrows into the fringe of his hair. "That seems very reasonable."
"In most cities that is the fee. The difference is graft, and my masters do not permit that."
Tomiyano silently handed over two coins and shook hands. The young man bowed his handsome head slightly and turned as if to go.
"You said two laws?"
"Oh, yes. Stupid of me." The port officer flashed his smile again. "There is an absolute restriction against swordsmen of high rank―Sixths or Sevenths. They are not even allowed in port. But such are rare. You have no free swords aboard, do you?"
"Of course not," said Tomiyano.
The officer turned to look at the deckhouse, then back to Tomiyano with quiet amusement. "And you swear that by your ship, sailor?"
Sweat broke out on Wallie's brow. His hand tightened on the hilt of the seventh sword.
"I do."
Nnanji drew breath with a hiss.
The port officer gave the captain a long cynical smile, shaking his head as one might disapprove of a naughty child. Then he spun on his heel and departed, his sandals slapping on the gangplank. Tomiyano absentmindedly wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and began shouting orders.
"My lord brother!"
Here it came. Ever since the first time they had met, Wallie had known of Nnanji's impossible idealism. He had known that some day it must lead to trouble. And here Nnanji had an open-and-shut case.
"I have told you that you cannot make a denunciation to me, Nnanji. Will you denounce the captain to his mother?"
Nnanji flushed scarlet and glared around the group. Even in the gloom of the shuttered deckhouse, Thana, Lina, and Matarro were visibly hostile. Brota's eyes were chips of steel.
"I think my son's remark was made for your benefit, adept!"
"I do not hide behind perjury, mistress! Then my own honor would be sullied."
This was insanity! Suicide! Wallie had two cities full of sorcerers to worry about now, and Nnanji was provoking the sailors as if he actually wanted to be thrown ashore. He would certainly not live to the next port, nor would Wallie. Then Wallie saw away out.
"It was not perjury, Nnanji. It was simple, honest-to-Goddess truth. We are not free swords."
Nnanji turned to stare at him blankly.
"You told me there were three types of swordsmen. You missed one―mercenaries."
"Well, that's not really a type, lord brother. I mean the chance doesn't come up very often." Nnanji was ambivalent about mercenaries. Taking money to wage war was barely honorable. On the other hand, mercenaries could wallow in blood and feats of honor.
"Nevertheless, we are on a specific mission for the Goddess. Therefore we are mercenaries, not free swords! So the captain spoke the truth. Now shut up!"
"Yes, mentor."
Brota gave Wallie a long, hard look and then almost smiled. "You swear that, my lord?"
"By my sword."
She nodded, apparently satisfied.
Tomiyano marched in and pulled the door closed behind. He leaned against it and glared at Wallie. Old Lina threw open a shutter on the River side, admitting gratifying light and fresh air.
"Thank you, Captain," Wallie said.
"He knew you were here!"
"Apparently."
"I think we should leave," Brota muttered. "I don't like this."
"Can't!" her son snapped. "No wind now. Calm as milk."
Wallie was not surprised. "I should prefer that you stay awhile, anyway."
Brota scowled. "You mean that? Why?"
"Because," Wallie said, "I have to learn more about sorcerers. The Goddess would not have given me an impossible task, so there must be some way to fight them. They must have a weakness. I can't guess what it is, and the only way to find out is to ask questions in places like this. How many more cities have been captured? When? How? Where is the nearest swordsman city? Those sorts of questions. You can find out for me, mistress; you and your crew. It will be a service to the Most High."
It might be a penance, also, but Wallie was not about to inquire about Sapphire's cryptic past.
Tomiyano looked at his mother and she nodded. "I'll lay out some samples, then," he said grudgingly.
"Two questions, " Wallie said. "You shook the port officer's hand. Was it smooth or calloused?"
"Smooth. Why?"
"Not a sailor's hand?"
The captain's eyes narrowed. "I expect his father is an elder, or something. He's just a playboy sailor. Never mind that―"
"Second question: have you ever in your life queried a tax for being too low?"
Tbmiyano's face reddened. "What the demons does that matter? You saw and heard, didn't you? He knew about you. The sorcerers have told him."
"He was a sorcerer," Wallie said.
Facemarks were so basic to their culture that the idea took a while to sink in. Brota seemed to accept it first, and her shrewd eyes shrank to slits within their wrinkles. "Why do you say that?"
"Because he refused the extra money," Wallie said. "If that really is the custom, as he said?" She nodded. "So? He did that to persuade us that his masters were all-seeing, all-powerful. But he didn't act like a flunky being watched by his masters―he was amused, relaxed. And you can't buy that sort of higher loyalty, because he could take the extra salary and demand the graft, too. His hand is smooth. He is a sorcerer."
The others exchanged frightened glances.
"Well, we're here," Wallie said. "Go and do your trading. But remember that anyone may be a sorcerer, regardless of facemarks. I suggest you don't allow more than one stranger on board at a time."
"My lord brother?"
"Yes?"
"Sorcerers can make themselves invisible. The ship may be full of them already."
Wallie groaned. "Thanks, Nnanji. Good thinking."
†† † ††
A display of lumber and a few brass pots had been set up on the quay. Brota settled into a chair on deck and waited for customers. Sailors slipped down into the crowd and wandered off in search of information, river lore as well as military intelligence. Honakura went also, at his tortoise pace, and he was sure to be a shrewd investigator. Hawkers came by with carts, calling wares. Old Lina tottered down to haggle over pink plucked fowls and baskets of strawberries. From time to time sorcerers went by in pairs, paying no especial attention to Sapphire. The afternoon wore on, hot and airless.
Nnanji had gone back to sit by Matarro's bag of swords. He had scowled over each one in turn, finding them much shorter than he expected, and had finally pulled out his whetstone and started to sharpen them.
Vixini had gone to sleep. Jja and Cowie sat like sculptures, with slaves' unlimited patience. Wallie watched through the shutters.
"Mentor," Katanji said. "May I go out on deck?"
"No. Why aren't you wearing your sword?"
"My kilt is downst―below decks, in Mat'o's cabin."
Nnanji grunted and went back to whetting. Wallie did not interfere, although he saw no reason why Katanji should be imprisoned as he and Nnanji were. Katanji had no ponytail and his facemark was a festering red sore, almost unreadable even at close quarters.
Time passed. Nothing much happened. A trader sniffed disparagingly at Brota'
s lumber and walked on. The first two sorcerers went by again. Nnanji's whetstone scraped nastily and untiringly. Honakura wandered back past the ship to explore in the other direction. Katanji fretted, mooning from window to window. Wallie grew tired of standing, rolling his problems around in his mind until he was giddy. Always the answer was the same―he must have more information.
It was not fair! How could he wage a war unless he knew his enemies' powers? Military intelligence was what he needed. Mata Hari... George Smiley... In Thondi's house he had been a whodunnit detective. Now he found himself in a spy thriller, and the damnable facemarks of the People made it impossible. He needed to become, for a while, James Bond, or even Travis McGee. A few days as a longshoreman or a porter in Aus would let him uncover the data he needed, but he had seven swords indelibly engraved on his forehead.
Nnanji's whetstone made a tooth-jarring screech.
That did it.
Several times, Wallie had been forced to remember that emotions were not a mental process. In acquiring Shonsu's body, he had also acquired his glands. He had learned to look out for danger signals when he had his sword in his hand and adrenaline could be expected, but sometimes those glands could sneak up on him.
As now.
Frustration, impotence, the ignominy of hiding, even perhaps some residual jet lag, all suddenly boiled over. Wallie Smith lost Shonsu's temper.
"Hell!" he snapped. "I'm going ashore!"
Nnanji looked up approvingly. "Right!" he said, and put away his whetstone.
"You're staying here," Wallie told him. "You'll guard my sword and my hairclip. Katanji, go to Brota and ask her for some black cloth. Shut up, Nnanji."
* * *
Ten minutes later, he had stripped down to a piece of black burlap around his loins and a rag around his brow. He had never felt more naked, and his conscience was whimpering cautions at him, but it was too late to back down. He started for the door.
"My lord brother!" Clutching Wallie's harness and sword, Nnanji was glaring mutinously. "This is wrong! A swordsman without his sword is without his honor. You asked me to tell you―"
"Your objection is noted." Wallie stepped around him and marched out on deck.
Brota stood with fists on hips and looked him over without expression. "You're all beef and no brains. What are you trying to prove? It's stupid!"
Insolence! But he was not a lord of the Seventh when his head was bound. He walked by her without a word.
Jja stood at the top of the plank, pale and troubled. He smiled cheerfully and tried to get by her, also, but she stepped in his path and put her arms around him.
"Master, please? I know a slave should not say such things, but please do not do this! It is very dangerous."
"Danger is my business, Jja."
He kissed her forehead and eased her out of his way.
She clung to him. "Please... Wallie?"
She never called him that except when they were making love.
He shook his head. "We must trust in the Goddess, darling."
He looked both ways for sorcerers. Not seeing any, he trotted down the plank and mingled into the pedestrians, settling to their pace. He had a good view over people's heads, and no one seemed to pay much attention to him, although he intercepted a few
scowls mat he found more puzzling man threatening. He strolled past display tables loaded with wares and guarded by traders; past hawkers' carts bearing piles of bright fruits, golden loaves, and heaps of bloody meat encrusted with flies; past stationary wagons with horses tossing their nose bags in a jingle of harness. He stepped out of the way of other wagons rumbling along; he jostled in and out of the crowd and was careful not to get his bare toes stepped on, or stub them on the cobbles. He scanned the litter of trade goods being loaded and unloaded. He began to enjoy himself.
The air was still; hot and sticky. The docks of Aus stank, but he was having fun.
Then he saw a couple of cowls approaching. Turning his back on them, he squeezed into a group around a hawker's cart where lumps of something were being roasted on a brazier and offered on sticks. The old man tending it gave him one of the scowls he had noticed and then muttered, "Here, men," and handed him a stick.
Now Wallie recalled that beggars also wore black and bound their heads. So the mighty Shonsu was a beggar, a big, husky beggar who should go and find an honest job? He suppressed a grin, thinking of his pocketful of jewels back at the ship. He bit into the offering and found it rubbery but delicious, hot and spicy. On a second mouthful he decided that it was octopus, or squid. Fresh-water octopus?
In return he mumbled a benediction: "May She strengthen your arm and sharpen your eye."
The scruffy old hawker recoiled in shock, and at once Wallie wished he could bite back his words, for that was a swordsman's blessing. The hawker was frowning―an athletic young man with long hair...
Wallie grinned. "As they say."
The hawker's eye flickered over Wallie's shoulder, to about the spot where the sorcerers might have reached. "Not any more," he whispered. "Not here." Then he shouted, "Be off with you!"
Wallie glanced round and the sorcerers had passed. He set off again through the crowd, chewing on his snack. He passed a ship unloading baskets of vegetables, another loading tiles. Then be stopped in surprise, causing a man behind to bump into him and curse. Just ahead was a large, two-horse wagon, parked by a small ship. Sacks from the wagon were being carried up the plank by a gang of youths, and the plank squeaked loudly with every step. Beyond it the dock was heaped with goods/ mostly long rolls of cloth, with a few anonymous bales and bundles. In front of the plank, closer to Wallie, the rest of the ship's cargo had been spread out all over the ground, from ship to wagon: boxes and jars, but mainly copper and brass pots, shining bright in the sunshine.
What had caught Wallie's eye among this clutter were two large, snakelike copper coils. Studying the collection of pots, he identified a couple that were as big as garbage cans and had lids and narrow spouts at the top. Hypothesis: the coils fitted on top of the pots. That meant distillation.
Wine, yes; beer, yes; but he knew of no words for brandy or moonshine or spirits or alcohol. Was this sorcery? Excited by his discovery, he headed toward the ship.
And there was Tomiyano, talking to a sailor. He saw Wallie at the same moment as Wallie saw him, and his face blazed with rage. He broke off his conversation and strode over.
"What in hell are you doing, Shonsu?" he demanded in a low and furious voice.
"Snooping," Wallie said. "I am a Nameless One, though. Only swordsmen may search me."
The captain was not amused. "There's enough under that headband to kill you seven times over. You're endangering my ship!"
Perhaps he was, but Wallie smiled innocently. "No I'm not. Your ship is safer with me ashore. Now tell me, see those copper snakes? What are they, and what are they for?"
Tomiyano looked around reluctantly. "I've no idea," he said. "Come over here, out of sight."
He returned to the bottom of the plank, and Wallie followed, safely hidden from general view by the high-piled wagon. The gang of grubby adolescents and young men continued bearing sacks on board, many of them trailing a trickle of yellow dust behind them, while a blowsy woman leaned over the rail and counted on an abacus. The older sailor wore a captain's dagger and he was pulling sacks down from the wagon for bis workers. The ship's hull was shabby and badly in need of paint. It was a mean and dirty parody of the family ship that Wallie had left.
The captain was overweight, gray-haired, and looked both stupid and lazy, compared to the sinewy Tomiyano as their respective ships compared. He eyed Wallie suspiciously, but greeted Tomiyano's return as an opportunity to break off work once more and continue their chat. When the next adolescent came for a sack, Wallie hauled one down and loaded it on his back. Then he did the same for the others; that would keep the captain talking.
Wallie eavesdropped. Down from Aus were shoals, said the sailor, and beyond those the Blac
k Lands―no cities and no people for two weeks' sailing. Captain Tomiyano should head up. Next city was Ki San, big and rich. No sorcerers there. Things had been slack in Aus ever since the sorcerers came. Ki San would pay more for luxury stuff like sandal wood. A big copper and brass city, Ki San. That was a natural opening for Tomiyano to ask about the coils―and the sailor closed like a constipated clam, an obstinate oyster. Coils he would not discuss.
Now Tomiyano's curiosity was aroused, also, and he went over to examine the mysteries. Wallie joined him. The tubing was made from soldered copper sheeting, but it was skillfully wrought, and when Wallie picked one up he had no trouble in attaching it to one of the two big pots. The lids were tight-fitting, and both pots were empty, but they could only be intended for distillation. The old sailor was nervous and trying to change the subject, although in answer to a direct question he admitted that the goods were headed for the tower. Tomiyano, obviously intrigued now and being helpful to his silent companion, offered to buy one and was emphatically turned down.
"What would a sailor want with those?" asked a high-pitched voice behind them.
Wallie spun around and found himself facing two sorcerers.
One of them was holding a silver fife.
* * *
Both were strangely bulky in their cumbersome garments. The taller was a man of about forty, wearing a Fourth's orange. A thin, suspicious face showed from under his hood, and his arms were folded inside his sleeves.
The other was in brown and had three feather marks. He was plumper and younger. His lips were curled in an arrogant sneer, close to the mouthpiece of that slim silver tube. Three notes on one of those had been enough to kill Random.
The remark had been addressed to Tomiyano, but both sorcerers were looking at Wallie.
Trickles of sweat ran cold on his ribs; he was trapped. On one side was the wagon and on the other the ship, with the sorcerers blocking the exit toward Sapphire. Behind him the way was obstructed by the litter of trade goods and the gangplank and the mountain of rolled cloth. He could think of at least three sutras that should have warned him, quite apart from common sense. Nnanji's honor, Brota's practicality, Jja's love―he had spurned them all and now must pay for his folly.