The Death of Nnanji: The Seventh Sword Book Four

by Dave Duncan

  The armory and magazine seemed genuine, but were almost empty. According to Uzdrawun, all the weapons and ammunition had fallen into the hands of the Tryst at the Battle of Cross Plo. If she was telling the truth, the sorcerers in Kra did not have enough gunpowder left to blow up anything significant.

  The foundry impressed Wallie, although he knew little about casting. The furnaces were cold that day and the only person he met there was an elderly supervisor of the fifth rank. Wallie explained what a piston was and asked if he could make one tight enough to compress air, but slick enough to move. He outlined how a steam engine worked, with a boiler, a cylinder, and a condenser.

  “A device like that,” he said, “could drive ships against wind and current both. Can you imagine that? Think how easy travel would be then. Such a device plying the waters of the River would be a true marriage of your Fire God and the Goddess.”

  He left the old man open-mouthed, but he thought Uzdrawun was starting to believe in him.

  The telegraph office was located on the uppermost room of the tower where he had seen the aerials. It was an untidy jumble, as if a packrat’s workshop, a laboratory, and a library had all been run through a blender together, but it was a glorious treasure house for him. He could have spent days there. Amid this spider’s nightmare of wires, few of which seemed to be insulated, he recognized equipment he had seen in museums: Leyden jar capacitors, acid batteries the size of washtubs, and the brass rods of a spark-gap transmitter. The tiny glass tube of the coherer fascinated him, because it proved that the sorcerers could create vacuums. They were further advanced than he had thought.

  A single male Third sat at a table, sorting pieces of paper. He looked up in alarm when he saw two swordsmen gazing down at him.

  “I am Shonsu,” Wallie said, “the monster himself. I am not going to draw my sword in here, nor even wave my hands around, so let us forget formal saluting. Your name?”

  “Zzamb, my lord.” He touched his forehead in the sorcerers’ salute.

  “We do not use formal gestures within the coven,” Uzdrawun said.

  “Good. Tell me how god speech works, Sorcerer Zzamb.”

  The Third looked in fright to the Sixth.

  “Do as Lord Shonsu says.”

  It was much as Wallie had guessed: a spark-gap transmitter, an aerial, and a receiver using the iron-filings coherer. “I can show you how to make one much, much better. How far can you reach? Can you send a message directly to Casr?”

  “Certainly not at this time of day, my lord. After dark I have done so, sometimes. Just now I would direct the message to Ulk, with instructions to send it on, by way of Zan. If Zan or even Casr, managed to receive it clearly, they would cancel the repeat.”

  “And if Honorable Uzdrawun wished to send such a message, could she dictate it to you, or would she have to write it down?”

  Again Zzamb hesitated and again the Sixth told him to answer.

  “Regulations are to write it down, my lord, but I could send from dictation, if she spoke slowly.”

  “I will write one out for you.”

  Wallie sat down and wrote on the slate provided, “SHONSU, LIEGE OF TRYST, TO WOGGAN, WIZARD OF CASR STOP KRA HAS FALLEN STOP MY WORD IS LAW STOP INFORM LORD BOARIYI WAR IS WON STOP INFORM LADY JJA HER SON GREAT HERO PROMOTED ADEPT STOP INFORM LADY THANA HER SON BETROTHED PRINCESS NOW HEIR TO PLO KINGDOM STOP NOT JOKING STOP ASK RECIPIENTS TO REPLY STOP MESSAGE ENDS”

  Zzamb had been fussing around, making his equipment ready, turning switches, connecting wires. When he was ready, he pulled a face at the length of the text, while he stuffed his ears with felt plugs. Then he reached for a brass key the size of a car jack, and began.

  Blue fire exploded between the brass rods with a clap of thunder that made Wallie jump. The noise was incredible, going on and on, but in recognizable dots and dashes. Soon the air reeked of ozone. Zzamb stopped, unplugged one ear, and put it close to a box the size of a hockey puck supported on two slender rods. Wallie decided that a set of headphones might be a good first improvement. Of course a better way of generating radio waves would help, too—either an alternator, or a thermionic tube.

  Zzamb’s frown suddenly became a broad smile. “I have Ult responding already, my lord!”

  He replaced the plug in his ear and the spark machine began its terrible racket again. Wallie gestured to his companions that it was time to go, and led them down the stairs. Now he understood the noises he had heard in the Casr tower.

  Even at ground level, it was possible to hear that Kra was still transmitting. God speech was well named. The larger alphabet would make any Morse-type code less efficient, and each dot and dash took far longer than should be necessary. It might take an hour to spell out the message to Ult, and twice as long again to reach Casr, but even a Neolithic-quality radio still beat pigeons. Wallie chuckled, thinking that he would know when the message had been received when he heard Thana’s screams of joy. She would probably come to Plo for the coronation.

  “That is very impressive,” he told Uzdrawun. “But I can show you how to make it a hundred times better. That little river… Does it flow year-round?”

  She nodded, bewildered by the apparent change of subject.

  “And does it flow through a narrow gap, anywhere? Could it be dammed, I mean?”

  “I have no idea, my lord.” Evidently senior sorcerers did not go mountain climbing.

  “Never mind just now, then. We shall make your god speech so clear that Zan can talk to Kra and Ult at the same time, or even have the palace in Plo speak directly to the palace in Casr. We shall put stations in every city in the World and charge people to send messages. Please let me know when you receive acknowledgment or replies.” Damn! “But I forgot to ask after Lord Nnanji. Have you heard news of his health recently?”

  “We received a report on Lord Nnanji yesterday, my lord. He left Casr about six weeks ago and should arrive in Plo no later than Midwives’ Day. Extraordinarily fast travel!”

  So the Nnanji express was running again. Wallie discovered that he was not surprised by the news. He had played out the stand-in role he had been given and was now expected to return the seventh sword to Nnanji so he could continue his life’s work of building the Tryst into a world-wide regime of law enforcement. Wallie’s job had always been to kick-start an industrial revolution, and clearly he had not been progressing fast enough to satisfy the Goddess.

  But he also felt a huge surge of relief that Nnanji had been spared. The Tryst had dodged the bullet this time. It could not always be as lucky.

  Chapter 7

  The ship just tying up at Plo was flying Nnanji’s flag. He must have learned in the last few days that the war was over, but he had a sizable crowd of swordsmen on board with him, so he had been prepared to fight. Wallie was waiting on the wharf with an honor guard.

  Typically Nnanji did not wait for the port official’s clearance, but came running down the gangplank as soon as it was in place, red ponytail flapping. Fifteen years ago he would have vaulted over the rail, but he was in his thirties now and even Nnanji had to start slowing down eventually. Yet he had changed very little in those years, even retaining most of his youthful slimness. And now he seemed none the worse for his recent narrow escape, except that he might be wearing the waistband of his kilt a fraction lower than was normal, thus exposing the edge of his scar. Amazingly, after all those years of frequent mortal combats, that was still almost the only scar he had. Grinning mightily, he strode over to Wallie and pulled his sword in salute. His eyes gleamed when he saw the seventh sword making the response.

  “Not now, brother,” Wallie said. “When we get to the palace.”

  Barely visible eyebrows rose. “Not the barracks?”

  “No, you and I to the palace. May I present Reeve Ozimshello…”

  As soon as a minimum of formalities were over, the two liege lords mounted and rode off, leaving the reeve to deal with the rest of the visitors.

  “You won the war, I
hear. I feel cheated.”

  “I did not. I made an idiot of myself. I stood up before the assembly and promised all kinds of things and did none of them. I was outwitted by a sorcerer, can you imagine that?”

  Nnanji looked impressed, if not quite convinced that he was hearing the truth. “Well, what did happen?”

  “I sent Vixini against them. He did it. It’s quite a story.”

  “Later, then. This is quite a town. And if that’s where we’re headed, that’s quite a palace. What’s the hurry?”

  “A couple of things you should know. One is that the old king is failing. His heir may have to take over almost any day now. His heir is another Arganari.”

  “He had two sons named that, or he sired a replacement?” Nnanji never forgot anything.

  “He adopted a likely lad and gave him that name. He’ll succeed as Arganari XV.”

  Nnanji shrugged. “We’ll keep him honest. What’s the second thing?”

  “That the heir is so desperately eager to meet you that I almost had to tie him to the throne to stop him from rushing down to the port with me, and royalty mustn’t do that.”

  The familiar pale eyes narrowed in a sideways grin. “You’re keeping something from me, brother.”

  “The heir’s original name was Addis.”

  It was very rare to see Lord Nnanji surprised, but he gulped and rode on in silence for about half a minute as the horses plodded up a steep part of the hill. “Is this your doing?”

  “Not a bit of it. The old fellow is almost blind, but he thought he recognized his son’s voice, and you’d given him the hairclip. Why did you give him the hairclip?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t remember giving him the hairclip, although Thana swears I did.” Had Nnanji ever had to make that sort of admission before?

  “Well, the king realized that Addis was Arganari reborn, and adopted him.”

  “You say ‘realized’? You believe that?”

  “I’ve sort of known it since before he was born,” Wallie said. “The last time I saw the demigod he hinted at it. The prince was killed just after you and Thana had exchanged your marriage vows, remember, and the god told me that you conceived a son that night. He said that Arganari’s was one of the great souls, and they are always needed for important lives.” Nnanji himself was another, the god had said, but Wallie wasn’t about to tell him so. His ego needed no additional support.

  Nnanji whistled and took another look at the palace looming over them. “The gods have done him proud, haven’t they! My son a king? He’s very young…”. .”

  “He’s doing wonderfully already. Vixini’s been watching the palace officials coming around to the idea. At first they thought they’d run the brat, then they were outraged that he wouldn’t march to their beat, and now they’re starting to believe the old king’s dictum that the Goddess has sent them a miracle. I guessed something like this was in the wind on the day Addis was sworn. The assembly cheered him because he was the son of Nnanji. He hadn’t even had time to sheath his sword, but he saluted them with it, and they loved it. It was perfect! Now Plo has taken him to their heart. If the son of Nnanji marries their princess, then the ferocious Nnanji the Barbarian won’t sack their city.”

  Nnanji might not have heard that. Often he seemed superhuman, but just then his face had taken on a very goofy proud-father expression. His parents had been rug makers, and his son was to rule one of the World’s greatest kingdoms.

  “The Goddess moves in strange ways, sometimes,” he said at last. “You had to fight and win a war just to get Addis to Plo?”

  “I didn’t win it, brother. I told you, Vixini won the war. You should hear what the minstrels are singing about him.”

  “Good for him,” his oath brother said coolly. Nnanji loved heroic epics, especially epics about Nnanji. Epics about swordsmen of the next generation would take some getting used to. “So who started this war? Who killed all my men at Gor and Arbo?”

  “A grossly corrupt reeve, Pollex, who knew his reign would end as soon as you hit town, and a reactionary grand wizard, Krandrak. Once they’d killed some of your men, war was certain, which let Pollex swear his men by the blood oath.”

  “They’re both dead now?”

  “Very. Oh, by the way, you must have made a very fast recovery after we shipped out.”

  “I don’t like lying around in bed doing nothing.”

  Wallie laughed aloud. “Oh, I know that! You never do. What I was about to say is that your wife tells me she is expecting your fourth child. Congratulations.”

  By the time he had explained as much about god speech as Nnanji would ever want to know, they were riding into the palace courtyard. Wallie did not mention his plans to turn Kra into a university. The language had no word for that, and Nnanji wouldn’t be interested anyway. Nor did he mention his idea of opening a branch office of the Tryst here in Plo. There would be time aplenty to talk about that.

  A band was playing, the palace guard was lined up outside the great door.

  “Is this for me or the holiday?” Nnanji asked as he dropped to the cobbles.

  This was Midwives’ Day, start of a new year. That felt nicely symbolic.

  “Both.”

  Only after the formal salutes and responses were the liege lords ushered into the great hall. Prince Arganari seemed very small at the far end, standing by the throne, and Vixini behind him not a great deal bigger.

  “Wait!” Wallie said, drawing the seventh sword. “Take this now. We can say the words later if you want. He’s only a prince yet, so he will salute you. But he’s got the fourth, so you’d better have this for your response.”

  And then, not even waiting for the heralds to announce them, the two proud fathers marched forward, side by side, hastening to greet their spectacular sons.

  EPILOGUE:

  THE DEATH OF NNANJI

  The summons came just after dawn: a quiet tap on the door, a voice outside.

  “Coming!” Wallie called, and pulled himself awake. He sat up, rubbed his face, ran fingers through his hair. Then he put his feet on the floor and dressed. It didn’t take long, although a robe was slower than a kilt. He gathered his hair into his ponytail—a thinner ponytail now, far more salt than pepper. He fumbled with his harness.

  “You go ahead,” Jja said from the far side of the bed. “I’ll follow as soon as I can.”

  “Whenever you’re ready, love. I’m sure it’ll be a while yet.”

  The corridor outside was empty. As he strode along it, he reflected that an epoch was ending. He thought briefly of that gangling, awkward teenager he had met on a beach, a Second so hopelessly cursed by the Goddess that he could no longer fence. He thought of the man that boy had become and what he had achieved, transforming a world. Then he nodded to the heralds and guards on the door, crossed the antechamber, and arrived finally at the bedchamber beyond.

  Thana was there—bent, now, and silver-haired. She rose as Wallie entered, and he embraced her briefly. She had probably been there all night. The healer was a nervous little man, strangely unimpressive for his high reputation, but perhaps he was merely awed at having to preside over such an epochal passing. Wallie raised eyebrows in a question, the healer nodded, mouthing the word, “Soon.”

  And Nnanji. Bright red hair had long since faded to a dowdy fawn, lean features had become gaunt. He had recognized Wallie and the others when they first arrived, two days ago; he had smiled but not spoken. Now his eyes were closed and his breathing was very shallow. The door opened to admit Lord Tomisolaan. He went first to Thana, as Wallie had, and then to stand over the dying man. He glanced at the healer and then Wallie, both of whom nodded that the time had come.

  Tomisolaan, swordsman of the seventh rank, took up the seventh sword of Chioxin from the table beside the bed, and placed it on the coverlet, laying his father’s hand on the hilt: Live by this; wield it in her service; die holding it. No swordsman could ever have obeyed those commands any better than Nnanji had. And this
son looked very like him. His hair was as red, and his mastery of a sword almost as impressive. His eldest, another Nnanji, had been sworn in as a novice just a year ago.

  Three more family members entered to join the vigil: Queen Argair, King Arganari XV the Blessed, and Tomisolaan’s wife, whose name Wallie never could remember. Jja arrived, closely followed by her second son, Lord Jjon, who went to stand with his parents. Voices murmured outside, in the antechamber, and more family members entered.

  The last were Lord Vixini, reeve of Plo, and his wife Nnadaro. Theirs had been the fastest romance in the history of the World. Nnadaro had accompanied her parents to her brother’s wedding in Plo, and lightning had struck the moment she and Vixini set eyes on each other. Childhood friendship had blossomed into marriage fast enough to use up the leftover wedding cake—so Addis had said. Nnadaro put an arm around Thana.

  So Nnanji was dying at last, but dying in the best way possible: at peace, in his own bed, in the care of his loved ones, not bleeding to death on some distant street with his bowels in his hands, a fate he had risked innumerable times. And in a sense his world was already dead, murdered by the sorcerers and Wallie, who had taught them. Swordsmen often carried guns now, and the juniors bragged as much about their marksmanship as their fencing. An industrial revolution was what the Goddess had wanted, with the Tryst to keep order and fairness and avert the worst of the calamities that beset that transition on other worlds. Wallie had delivered the first, and Nnanji the second.

  None of the youngsters present, Wallie reflected, could really appreciate what a great miracle it was that the family contingent from Plo was able to be there at all. The telegrams had arrived only two weeks ago. He had at once sent word to Addis that the gunboat Chioxin was at his disposal, and would have steam up within two hours.

  Exactly two hours later they had departed, leaving Prince Argie to take care of the kingdom—plus, of course, his own children, including the future Arganari XVII the Tyrannical. Addis had been unsympathetic to his son’s misgivings, pointing out that he had been a lot younger when the kingdom had been dropped on him.