The Death of Nnanji: The Seventh Sword Book Four

by Dave Duncan

  “That seems like an excellent idea,” Wallie said. “The pickets out at the Divide will signal us when his train approaches.” He glanced at Horkoda, who nodded to imply that that arrangement had been confirmed. Such signals were sent by pigeon. Nnanji was always pleased to receive a royal welcome when he returned from campaigning, but probably had little idea how much organizing that took. “There has been no further word from Lord Nnanji?”

  Horkoda pulled a face. “A brief note, rather cryptic.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Saying only, Where is Lord Mibullim?”

  Blank looks all round.

  “I do not recall any lord Mibullim,” Wallie admitted. Nor even an Honorable Mibullim, as he would have been before winning promotion from sixth rank. Nnanji must be referring to a swordsman, or he would have specified the unknown man’s craft when he dictated the message. “When did that arrive?”

  “Just before dusk last night, late for the bird to fly. I have made extensive inquiries since then, my lord, and no one in the lodge has ever heard of a swordsman named Mibullim.” Horkoda’s idea of extensive inquiries might have involved staying up all night to question a thousand swordsmen.

  Nnanji was at Quo. Casr was on the RegiVul loop, a part of the River very hard to access by boat, so the city’s door to the rest of the World was the overland trail to Quo. A swordsman of the seventh rank never went anywhere without an entourage, so if Nnanji had expected to meet this Mibullim in Quo, the man should have been easily located. If Horkoda had found no trace of him, the man did not belong to the Tryst.

  “Very peculiar,” Wallie said, “but I expect we shall learn more when Nnanji arrives.” There was no point sending a query to Quo; he would be well on his way by now. He turned to Thana again. “The moment I hear that Nnanji’s party has been sighted, my lady, I shall ride over to your palace and be most happy to ride in your carriage with you.”

  She rose. “I expect he’ll be here shortly. By the way, have you seen Addis anywhere today?”

  Was that the real reason she had come here? Probably someone had seen the boy going off with Vixi and she had followed in hot pursuit to their most likely destination.

  “Has he run off without his guards again?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I suggested last time that we put a ball and chain on him, remember?”

  Body guarding an active fourteen-year-old was like trying to glue a snowdrift to a ceiling. Thana had often appealed to Wallie to play the in-loco-parentis role and put the fear of the Goddess into Addis, but he was Nnanji’s son: threats just bounced off him.

  “If I see him, Thana, I will chain both his balls, I promise you.” But Wallie was fairly sure that there must be more behind this visit, so he fed her a cue. “It’s about time you found a mentor to handle him.”

  Cats never really smiled, but some smiles were catlike. “Which craft would you recommend?”

  How much she had guessed about Vixini’s abduction of her son that morning? Any child balked by one unreasonable parent would at once appeal to the other, and Shonsu was Addis’s father substitute until Nnanji returned. Thana was within her maternal rights in not wanting Wallie interfering in the matter of her child’s initiation, except that her son’s choice of craft might become a matter of geopolitical importance some day.

  Wallie had an empire to run, a reception and assembly to organize, a celebration to plan, and here he was, all entangled in the consequences of one boy’s hormonal maturation. But that mattered. Of course it mattered! Addis was the eldest son. The World had never know an empire before Thana and Katanji invented that use for the Tryst, but it had umpteen petty kingdoms, and male primogeniture was the commonest means of succession. Vixini had said she wanted Addis sworn in as a priest. That made sense, because kingship was not a craft, and royal heirs were usually sworn to the priesthood. Priests were sacrosanct. Only a swordsman could wear the seventh sword of Chioxin, the sword of the Goddess, but a civilian could own a sword as long as he did not wear it or try to use it. Wallie was not at all sure that she was right, but now he knew how her mind was working, and he could see that the next day or two in the life of Addis, son of Nnanji, might well determine the future history of the World.

  Why had there been a diamond in his bed to waken him? Why another assassination attempt just now? Who was Lord Mibullim? On Earth he had distrusted coincidences. In the World he saw them as the handiwork of the gods. All these odd events would turn out to be related, even Addis’s coming of age.

  “I’m not sure,” he said truthfully. “Addis is a clever boy. He has lots of charm. And lately he’s been getting very good at using it! He’s his father’s son when it comes to stubbornness, and probably courage. It’s up to you and Nnanji to decide, of course, but don’t try to make a fish fly, as they say.”

  Thana bit her lip and headed for the door. “I shall let you busy men get on with your labors. See you shortly, Lord Shonsu.”

  “This way is more private!” Wallie hastily crossed the room and let her out through the guardroom. He did not want her coming face to face with Katanji, or vice versa. Life was complicated enough at the moment without getting any deeper into a family quarrel.

  He went back to his stool. “Treasurer Katanji next, of course, please. And, master, why don’t you see who else is out there and put off anyone whose business will wait until tomorrow?”

  He meant that he wanted no witnesses when he spoke with Katanji, who was usually skirting some law or other on the wrong side. Understanding perfectly, Horkoda wheeled himself over to the door and went out. Wallie opened the hidden liquor cabinet and filled a silver goblet with his best sweet wine. He put a much lesser amount in a second goblet, then turned to hand the first to Katanji as the treasurer strolled in.

  Katanji never bothered with formal greetings when he met Shonsu, because he knew Shonsu didn’t like them. He had given up carrying a sword years ago. He was dressed very simply, without jewelry or expensive trappings, in a brown robe that would have suited an elderly cobbler or priest, although a sharp eye would note that it was finely cut from first-quality silk and his shoes were crafted from kidskin. This was Katanji posing as a humble state servant. While Nnanji knew nothing of money, Katanji was a financial genius, the richest man in the world. Nnanji lived only for honor and fame. Katanji hadn’t an honest corpuscle in his bloodstream. His black curly hair was already receding, exposing the three sword marks on his forehead, only one of which he had come by honestly. His withered arm could have been concealed under his robe, but he carried it in a sling of silk brocade, as evidence of how harmless he was.

  He sniffed the air while accepting the drink. “Magnolia scent. Thana’s been here. What did she want?”

  “The exact opposite of whatever you do, I expect. To the liege’s happy return.”

  “And speedy departure!” They clinked goblets and drank. “Face it, big man, life is more restful when Nanj isn’t around. What did she want?”

  Wallie waved his visitor to a seat and resumed his own. “You go first.”

  “My dear nephew, Addis. You seen him lately?”

  “Starting to ogle girls, is he?”

  “They’ll be ogling him soon if we don’t hide the evidence. The question is what craft does he swear to? You know what Nnanji will say. What does Thana want?”

  “I think she wants him to become a priest.”

  Katanji pulled a face. “Priests must be able to chant. Have you ever heard Addis singing? He thinks his home key is what locks the house up. And he’s no more swordsman material than I was.”

  Said who? Granted that Addis might well have same of his uncle’s trader instincts; that didn’t mean he had no other talents.

  “He’s been working on you, too, has he? What does he have against his father’s craft? Just juvenile rebellion?”

  “Good sense.” No one but Katanji would dare make such a remark, and even he would have to be careful who heard him doing so.

  “He’d make a g
ood priest,” Wallie said. “He may not sing well, but he can certainly talk.” Priests were more than prayer spouters and alms gatherers. They were also roughly the lawyers of the world, dealing with inheritance and civil disputes, just as swordsmen were policemen as well as warriors. There was no craft guild for politicians; priests were the closest.

  Katanji sipped his wine. “The boy says he wants to be a sorcerer. I told him that would be over his father’s dead body. The trouble is that being a swordsman is likely to be over his own dead body.” He chuckled. “Seriously, Shonsu, can you imagine him trying to wear the seventh sword? He’d be challenged in a minute. Every minute! That thing is a death warrant for anyone except Nanj to wear.”

  No swordsman could refuse a challenge. If one of the duelists died, the winner could claim his sword. “Or you, of course. Would you wear it now?” Only Katanji would be so brash as to ask that.

  Of course Wallie would, and without a second’s hesitation. The seventh sword was the Mona Lisa, the papal tiara, the Cullinan diamond. “Perhaps not. But he could own it without wearing it. Remember Arganari?”

  “No.”

  Wallie hadn’t thought about the boy for years.

  After a moment, Katanji said, “What’re you staring at?”

  “Oh, just memories…” Why did those memories suddenly seem so pertinent? Because Wallie had seen the hand of the Goddess in that long-forgotten encounter, and he was starting to think Her hand was at work again now. “Arganari was a young prince from Plo who came aboard Sapphire briefly, at Tau. His mentor wouldn’t let him stay on board, and later they were both murdered by pirates. Remember now? On Nnanji’s wedding night? Arganari was just a novice swordsman, but he owned the fourth sword of Chioxin, the topaz. Fragments of others are around, but the topaz is apparently the only other one still usable. He owned it, but didn’t wear it.”

  And the demigod had made some sort of prophecy about the dead Arganari, which Wallie couldn’t recall offhand, which might mean that he wasn’t supposed to.

  Katanji drained his goblet. “Shonsu, when you gave Nnanji the seventh sword, you made it the emblem of the Tryst. Any other swordsman who manages to win it will claim to be liege lord and order all the rest to swear allegiance. But the Tryst isn’t a kingdom; it will never accept orders from a priest.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Addis should be a trader, which is what I am, despite my facemarks. The boy can talk fish out of a pond.”

  “He does have a way with words.”

  “Like me, you mean. He looks more like me than I do.”

  “I wouldn’t mention that too loudly if I were you.”

  Katanji grinned. “It’s funny, isn’t it? Back in those days, when we were all shipmates on Sapphire, I was about the same age Addis is now, but I got it off with every nubile girl in the ship, often two a night. I even talked my way in with a couple of the wives. But not Thana! She was Nanj’s. I stayed well away from her. Yet Addis looks more like me than Nanj.”

  “He’s your nephew, not you reborn. He could be a swordsman. Not a great one, but a competent Third.”

  “A common, journeyman sword banger, whereas he’d be a fantastic trader. Vixini’s good, I’m told. You don’t have to worry about him not being yours, anyway.”

  Everyone except Jja and Wallie had forgotten that Vixi wasn’t Shonsu’s son. Handy things, miracles.

  “And it’s not an abstract problem,” Katanji mused. “Nanj spends about two thirds of his time in the field, campaigning. When he meets a Seventh he doesn’t approve of, he challenges him. One of these days his luck will fail him and he’ll run into some wunderkind he can’t handle. Pardon my plain speech, but you’re not getting any younger either. We need a viable plan to hold the Tryst together if anything ever happens to Nnanji. Addis at thirty still in a brown kilt struggling to get promoted to orange just won’t do.”

  Wallie nodded. He knew much more about war and insurrection than any native of the World did. Even Rome had been sacked, and Nnanji’s empire was only fifteen years old, not yet armored in tradition and respect. Casr might burn for days if law and order once broke down. No one had more to lose than Swordsman Katanji.

  “Have you considered prayer and an offering to the Goddess?”

  Katanji gave him a sour look. “Thana came from a trader family. She should see that her son’s talents lie more in trading than anything.”

  “Thana isn’t a water rat anymore. She has grandeur now. She’s wife of the liege.” That was as close as the language could come to the word Wallie was thinking, which was empress. “Addis as a priest makes sense. No one kills priests.”

  “Oh, well. If you won’t, you won’t. Anything you need?” Katanji was a great believer in mutual favors.

  “Can you get me something to hide parentmarks?”

  “Huh?” It was rare to see Katanji at a loss. “You know the penalty for doing that?”

  “I asked first.” Wallie smiled. Mention of Sapphire had reminded him of a certain novice swordsman who had hidden his facemark under a lampblack slave stripe and gone spying on sorcerers. Katanji had his faults, but cowardice had never been one of them. Wallie had no reason to believe that the liege lord’s brother ever indulged in such deception these days, but his hesitation in answering now suggested that he at least knew people who did.

  “I might be able to lay my hands on a sort of makeup that ladies use to hide moles and so on. It comes off when you wash your face.”

  “That will do. I will send a junior over to your hutch to pick it up. I need it right away. I’ll think about the Addis problem when I have time.”

  “Don’t wait too long.” Katanji rose and handed back the silver goblet, which had been a gift from him in the first place. When offering wine to Nnanji, Wallie always used an unglazed earthenware beaker.

  Chapter 4

  As soon as Katanji had left through the waiting room, Wallie went out by the other door. His guards sprang to their feet, scattering knucklebones and money, but he spoke only to Filurz. “I need you to come with me, the rest of you stay. If Master Horkoda comes looking for me, we’ll be down in the kitchen.”

  Leaving a dozen eyes stretched wide with amazement, he marched out into the hallway. “I hope you know the way to the kitchen, because I don’t.”

  “Yes, mentor. Along here.”

  Swordsmen tended to be short, since agility mattered more than strength. Filurz was one of the shortest seniors in the Tryst, a swarthy little man with a high opinion of his own opinions, which he tended to offer unasked. Wallie usually overlooked his presumption, because he had a high opinion of them too. Too many swordsmen were either dumb jocks or toadyish yes-men.

  “This may not be good mentorship,” he said as they started down a long flight of stairs, “but I may be about to involve you in a major felony.”

  “In a good cause, I hope?”

  “I think so. Adept Sevolno told you about the attempt on my life last night. Did he tell you where he confined the prisoner?”

  “In the cell in your palace, my lord.”

  Wallie had a jail in his basement that his guards used as a brig if one of their number came on duty drunk, or otherwise offended. He had excused it to Jja on the grounds that a palace that didn’t have everything wouldn’t be much of a palace, would it? The children often played in it on rainy days.

  “I want you to arrange for her to be taken to the city jail and locked up in the dingiest, smelliest cell they’ve got. But she must be on her own. The city jail is usually pretty full, as I recall.”

  “Yes, my lord. I’ll have to get a cell emptied for her. Not that they won’t do it, or anything.”

  Not when a swordsman of his rank demanded it.

  “And obviously I want her very well guarded. Requisition some swordsmen to keep watch. There may be attempts to rescue her or kill her.”

  “And in either case we try to take prisoners?”

  “Of course. Tomorrow we’ll give her some company. Dig
up some baby-faced junior who’ll cooperate and be discreet about it afterwards. One who can read. We’ll paint over his facemark and put him in her cell; see if she’ll talk.”

  “Adept Sevolno said—”

  “Yes, I know. She has no tongue. But she can still signal yea or nay.” If she were a sorcerer, she would be able to write.

  Filurz opened a door, letting Wallie walk through into warm, cozy odors of freshly baked bread. Apprentice Vixini was leaning back against a high worktable, gnawing on half a loaf while chatting up a couple of young slave girls. No doubt the older cooks in the distance disapproved of this, but they were not daring to criticize a swordsman, even a lowly Second. Addis, son of Nnanji, was hunched over, leaning hands and elbows on the worktable, watching but not participating. He was probably fair game for teasing at the moment.

  Wallie had not seen the boys together for a while and the contrast startled him. Apart from not growing facial hair, the men of the People went through much the same adolescent metamorphosis as earthly males. Vixini had crossed that divide. He was a young man, close to his final adult height, broad, and piling on muscle, while Addis was still a child, just about to start his growth spurt. His arms and legs were spindly, his face elfin and androgynous. He looked absurdly immature and spindly beside his brawny friend, although there was less than two years between them.

  Vixi whipped the bread out of sight. The girls fled. Addis straightened up and gave Wallie the salute to a superior. Wallie responded. He often wondered how much of the day the People wasted in these useless rituals.

  “Son, I want you to go straight to Treasurer Katanji at his home. He’ll give you a package. Bring it back to the lodge and give it to Master Filurz, who will have some delicious hot sutras waiting for you.”

  Vixini gave his stepfather mentor a look of a sort that respectful protégés should not, but repeated his orders smartly and departed. Most apprentices would be jumping up and down with excitement at the prospect of an early promotion.

  Wallie bent and leaned his forearms on the workbench to put his eyes roughly level with those of Addis, who was now upright. The boy certainly didn’t look like a swordsman, or likely to look like one for quite some time. Instead of his father’s red hair and pale eyes, he had his Uncle Katanji’s jet irises and black curls, and probably his crafty brain as well.