The Coming Of Wisdom (7 page)

Nnanji naturally suspected nothing and would have to be kept that way . . . and then Wallie remembered the oath he had just sworn.
My secrets are your secrets
. He could keep nothing from Nnanji now.

The gods had tricked him again.

No! He was not going to commit a massacre. It was not fair. He had killed six—no, seven—men the previous day. He had proved that he could be bloody if he had to be. How much slaughter did She want from Her champion?

He was not going to start killing innocent people.

Goddess be damned!

Then he realized that the room had fallen into a horrified silence. He had been glaring at Nnanji, and even Nnanji was wilting under that glare.

“You don’t want me to tell about the battle, my lord brother?” he asked nervously. Nona was standing beside him, and he had his arm around her.

Wallie had not heard a word. He pulled his wits together. “I don’t care,” he said, “although I doubt that these gentle ladies will be interested in such a tale. No, something you said reminded me of another battle. That’s all.”

Everyone relaxed, including Nnanji. He leered up at Nona. “You don’t need me for a little while then, do you, my lord brother? Farmer Nona has offered to show me her house.” For him, this sudden interest in domestic architecture was a surprisingly tactful way of describing what the two of them obviously had in mind.

“Yes, I do need you,” Wallie said. “I’m putting you in charge for . . . for a little while. I want to see Apprentice Quili’s house.”

Quili blanched. Then she bared her teeth at Wallie in an attempt at a smile. “I shall be greatly honored, my lord.” It came out as a whisper.

“Then let us go right away. Ladies, I thank you for the meal. It was superb.”

With varied expressions of surprise and amusement, approval and disapproval, the company moved out of the way as Wallie followed Quili around to the door. The outside air seemed cool and fresh after the stuffy room, flapping his loincloth as if to mock such unswordsmanlike dress. The rain seemed heavier.

Huddled again in her cloak, the priestess pointed to the far side of the pond. “That one, my lord. We should run!”

Hers was the smallest of the cottages, badly in need of a new roof from the look of the sag in the present one.

She would not run very fast in her gown, so Wallie announced that he would carry her. He scooped her up and ran, mud splattering below his boots. She weighed very little, less than Katanji.

The door was not locked. She lifted the latch, and he carried her across the threshold, wondering as he did so if that gesture had the same implications in the World as it did on Earth. He set her down and closed the door and looked around.

It was very small and, obviously, very old. One of the walls leaned inward, and the floor was uneven. Probably the present bowed roof was far from the first that these ancient stones had supported. There were two stools and a chair, a table, and a rough dresser. The floor was made of flagstones, with straw on them by the entrance. Cooking would be done on the fire, of course, and there was an oven built into the fireplace. Faint scents of woodsmoke gave the place a homey air. A bucket and two large baskets stood in a corner; a couple of garments hung on pegs; a small and very rough image of the Goddess sat on a shelf with flowers laid before it . . . There was no great comfort, but the room was clean and friendly.

He looked around to speak to Quili, and she had vanished. Quiet creaking of ropes came from the other room. He ducked through the other doorway in time to see her stretching out on the bed.

“Very pretty,” he said harshly, aware of his sudden physical response. Her body was every bit as fine as the tight gown had promised.

She twisted a smile and held out her arms to him, but he could see her hands shaking.

“You’re very pretty, apprentice, but you’re trying to distract me. Now put your gown on again and come out here. I want to talk to you.”

He went and sat on the more solid looking of the two stools. In a moment Quili crept in from the other room, dressed again in her threadbare yellow robe, but barefoot. She lit on the edge of the chair, hands clasped, eyes staring down at the floor, long hair falling to hide her face.

Wallie forced his mind back to business. “Tell me about the murdered swordsmen.”

Again, all the color drained from her face. She stared at him.

“Men do not go to clear land on the wettest day since winter, Quili.”

She slid to her knees. “My lord, they were not at fault! They are good people!”

“I must be the judge of that.”

Quili crouched over and began to weep, covering her face with her hands. That was another approach, and probably the last she had left to try. It might be very effective, though—Wallie was not good at bullying little girls.

He let her sob for a while and then said, “That’s enough! Quili, don’t you see that I’m trying to help? I want to hear this story before Adept Nnanji does. Now tell me the truth—and quickly!”

Nnanji was sworn to uphold the sutras. His reaction to an assassination would be as automatic as blinking. A cover-up made it much, much worse, and there was no other explanation for the men’s absence. Nnanji would snap out a denunciation. He was far too impetuous and idealistic to look for extenuating circumstances first. In fact, to a swordsman, there could be no extenuating circumstances for assassination. Nnanji would be prosecutor and Wallie both judge and executioner. He also was sworn to obey the code of the swordsmen, and if he found against Nnanji, then Nnanji had brought false charges and must pay the penalty. The only penalty in such a case was death.

Once before Wallie had tried to avoid the Draconian responsibilities of a man of honor, and that attempt had merely led to much worse bloodshed. It was another test. He could only hope that the wrong answer the last time would be the right answer now.

“How many swordsmen, Quili?”

“One, my lord.” It was a whisper and it came from somewhere near his feet.

“Who?”

“Kandoru of the Third.”

“Honorable or not?” He got only silence. “Tell me!”

“He was a man of honor.”

“The resident swordsman here, I suppose?”

“Yes. The estate guard, my lord.”

It was like pulling teeth with fingers. “Young? Old?”

“He . . . he said he was about fifty, my lord. But I think be was older than that . . . he had bad rheumatism.” She fell silent, again staring at the floor. “He was very fond of animals . . . Adept Motipodi called him the finest horse doctor . . . ”

“Quili, I am trying to help! I do not want to kill anyone, but I must have the facts.”

She straightened up slowly and looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. “He was my husband.”

“No!”

He had never guessed that she could have had a husband, alive or dead—she seemed too absurdly young. But why would she protect his killer? To save a lover? Then why were the other women aiding her? Why had the men not reported the assassination to the nearest swordsman?

“How long ago?”

“A little over a year, my lord.”

Wallie groaned in horror. “You know what that means? One a week, Quili!” It was utterly barbaric, but that was what the sutras demanded. Of course it would rarely be needed—with that kind of slaughter in the wind, everyone would rush to expose a swordsman killing immediately. That was what the threat was for, to prevent cover-up. But to keep the threat believable, once in a while it must be used.

So Wallie Smith, who had been so reluctant to be a swordsman for the Goddess, was going to be required to prove his bloodthirstiness again? Wholesale, this time.

Slaughter unarmed men? Never! He was not capable.

“Who did it? Someone on the estate, I suppose?”

“No, my lord. They came from Ov.”

That was a relief . . . and a surprise. “Then why not . . . For gods’ sakes, apprentice, tell me!”

She was weeping again, broken by the strain, unable to betray fifty lives. He rose, lifted her by the shoulders, and sat her roughly on the chair. Then he began to pace, his head barely clearing the rafters.

“Now talk! Start with you. How did you meet him?”

She could talk about herself more easily. She had been an orphan, taken in by the temple at Ov. At puberty she had been accepted as a novice in the priesthood. She had expected to progress to Third, for that was normal, and then a decision would have been made for her—whether she should continue her studies in the temple, or be given a job somewhere, in some hamlet that needed a priest.

When she had gained second rank, Quili had been enrolled in the priestess’ choir. One day soon afterward, following a service in which she had taken part, she had been led by her mentor to a meeting with some highrank temple officials. Swordsman Kandoru had been present, and Lady Thondi also.

Swordsman Kandoru had said merely, “Yes, that one.”

Thondi, or her son, had recently hired the retired free sword as estate guard. They had supplied a cottage—and now a wife. The owners wanted a swordsman; the workers and slaves would be happier with a priestess in residence; providing one cottage was better economics than providing two. It had been a very convenient arrangement for everyone . . . except Apprentice Quili. By nightfall her oaths had been transferred to a mentor in Pol and she had been legally installed in a stranger’s bed.

Wallie wondered what Honakura would think of the tale. It revealed a very sleazy picture of the priesthood. Like swordsmen, priests were corruptible . . . and perhaps even the temple itself had benefited from Thondi’s generosity. He wondered briefly if his mission was to clean up a venal local clergy, but that task seemed much too trivial to justify so many miracles. The Goddess had held the Chioxin sword for seven hundred years—surely She would not have returned it to the mortal World for any cause so petty.

“What did your mentor think of this?” he demanded.

Quili sniffed. “I think she disapproved . . . but she didn’t say.”

“And your present mentor?”

For the first time there was fire. “He is a senile old drunk! He should be replaced.”

“Why didn’t they put a slavestripe on you?”

“My lord!”

“They bought and sold you, Quili.”

She hesitated and then quietly said, “Yes, my lord.”

At least he now had her talking.

“All right,” he said. “Tell me the rest—who killed Kandoru?”

Wallie’s approach had been noted, and the cottage door swung open as he arrived. He stepped inside and wiped the rain from his eyes. Nnanji was on his feet, his face aflame with fury. Nona had been forgotten and only two of the locals remained—the two oldest women, both looking terrified. Cowie was dozing in a corner, Jja and Katanji were being quiet and still and apprehensive, crouched on stools. The room seemed larger and much brighter than it had earlier.

Nnanji exploded into speech. “Lord Shonsu: I, Nnanji—”

“Shut up!”

“But there has been an assassination. And a concealment!”

“I know! But you can’t make a denunciation to me, Nnanji. We’re oath brothers. I’m not impartial—how could I find against you?”

Nnanji growled angrily. His lips moved as he worked out the complications; then he did not dispute the point. But a priest could act as judge, also. He swung around to Honakura and met a toothless smirk below a black headband—there was no priest present. Had the old man somehow foreseen this? Was that why he was remaining incognito? No, that was ridiculous . . . but very convenient at the moment.

“How did you find out?” Wallie demanded.

It was Honakura who answered. “I could see that there was something wrong, my lord. I asked Adept Nnanji to tell me the exact words that had passed between him and Apprentice Quili when they met.”

That would have been no problem for Nnanji. Even Quili had been able to recount enough of it.

Wallie snarled. “He was joking, and she was being too literal.”

Nnanji had failed abysmally in his first assignment as a Fourth. Had he questioned Quili properly, then the ferry boat would still be tied to the jetty. He knew that. He came rigidly to attention. “My lord brother—”

“Never mind!” Wallie said. “Do better next time. Meanwhile we have a small problem. Lady Thondi was undoubtedly an accessory to the murder. She is in league with the sorcerers. She has had plenty of time to send word to Ov. Quili knows of no other way out of here than the Ov road.”

This might be another test, or it might be the start of Wallie’s mission. In either case, the danger was obvious—and extreme.

“We’re trapped?”

“Apparently.” Wallie looked over his resources: two swordsmen, two slave women, a boy, a baby, and a beggar. Not much to fight an approaching army of swordsmen killers. He nodded at the woman he thought was called Myi. “Fetch our clothes, please.”

“They’re coming,” Nnanji said snappily. “These two were witnesses to the assassination.”

“In the great hall?” Wallie asked and they nodded dumbly.

“And who killed Swordsman Kandoru?”

“A sorcerer, my lord,” Myi whispered.

“With what weapon?”

“With music, my lord . . . three notes from a silver fife.”

Which was what Quili had stated.

“Well, old man,” Wallie said to the evilly grinning Honakura, “it seems that you and I must both start believing in sorcerers.”

†††††

Swaddled in a blanket and looking like nothing more than a bundle of trash, Honakura was perched on the driver’s bench beside Quili. Wallie had put him there and firmly told him to stop playing stupid games, to bring the girl onto the team. A priest of the Seventh from Hann was the World’s equivalent of a Curial cardinal. Once he revealed his identity, he would be able to convince Quili of anything.

Wallie and the rest sat on wet straw in the back under cloaks and blankets. The rain was getting worse, breeding the rivulets of milky mud that ran down the roadway. Patches of silver light in the fields spoke of standing water, while trees in the distance were washed to a pale blue gray. Unfortunately, the road from Ov would still be passable, or so Quili had said.