The Destiny of the Sword (34 page)

Tivanixi appeared at Wallie’s elbow. “I have spoken to Fien,dori, my liege. Port officers will be escorted in future.” He laughed. “I mink the elders may have some comments to make on the subject.”

“Why?” Wallie asked innocently. “We are performing a service for them.”

The castellan chuckled, then nodded at the procession approaching. “Money is your stroke at the other tryst, my liege. Lord Boariyi cannot afford to feed his men. Perhaps you should invite him to have breakfast?”

‘Too obvious. We’ll give him a few days. Say nothing.” But it was a pleasing thought. He could coerce Boariyi with money.

Boariyi came to a halt and made the salute to an equal, his face expressionless below a blue bandage on which he had marked seven swords with charcoal. Waltie responded to him, then to a salute from Zoariyi, who looked resentful and suspicious. Nnanji was still busy with his sword on the grindstone. Tivanixi saw Wallie’s glance toward him.

“We can proceed with the council meeting at once, my liege, as you wished,” he said. “The others are waiting.” For propriety’s sake, Nnanji should not meet the other Sevenths in public until they had sworn to nun.

Wallie agreed. Tivanixi led the way. They entered the building by the door closest to the street exit and walked into another of die long rooms. One side was all windows, looking out at a litter of kitchen equipment. The other was paneled, much of the wood scuffed and split with age. The ceiling lurked above a mist of cobwebs.

The room was already full of swordsmen, standing or sitting on stools and benches, muttering and laughing. As the seniors entered, they sprang to their feet in a rattle of furniture and boots. Among these middleranks, to Wallie’s surprise, was Katanji.

His white kilt was soiled and rumpled, half his pony tail had escaped from his hairclip, and his eyes were red,rimmed, but he smiled when he saw WUlie, seeming quite relaxed. Still the boy hero, he had apparently been entertaining the company with his stories, yet he looked as if he had not slept all night. What had the little devil been up to this time? He showed no signs of wishing to talk. Reluctant to ask, Wallie merely nodded and smiled as he passed by.

This was an antechamber. A door at the far end led into a smaller, square room, although it was large also. At the far side was a huge stone fireplace, its hearth strewn with old ashes.

Three walls were paneled, the fourth all grimy windows. A filthy gray rug only partly covered a floor of splintered planks; in its center was a circle of seven stools. Along the wall opposite the windows stood a large chest, a single brocade chair—shabby and leaking feathers—and, surprisingly, a bed covered with a greasy fur. A foggy bronze mirror hung beside the door. Evidently this grubby, stale,smelling chamber had several uses.

Three Sevenths rose and made their salutes. Most conspicuous was the elderly Chinarama, shriveled and slightly ridiculous compared to his much younger and more muscular companions. His ponytail was a white wisp and his harness fitted badly, but his eyes were quick and clear. An older man might be a valuable counselor. As Nnanji had said, he wouldn’t hurt. His movements were awkward, hinting perhaps at arthritis, and his face none too friendly. A Boariyi supporter, then.

Then there was Jansilui, who was around thirty, square,jawed and stocky, with one facemark not properly healed. He seemed less hostile, probably caring little who was leader if it could not be himself.

Linumino was older, about fifty, and running to fat. One side of his face was hideously scarred where a sword cut had removed half the eyebrow and cheek and, seemingly, part of the underlying bone as well. The skin there was sunken and a puckered white, like weathered leather. It was a miracle that his eye had survived. He would not have been a contender for the leadership. His salute was perfunctory, so he was another Boariyi supporter at heart. Wallie wondered briefly which of the six he would ask if he were Nnanji trying for promotion; with old Chinarama out of bounds, certainly this portly Linumino, and probably Zoariyi, who was similarly nearing retirement.

Wallie invited them all to be seated. Suspicion hung in the air like a bad smell. In trial by combat the Goddess had declared him innocent, yet mat fight had been as near as possible a draw, and trial by combat was not a normal procedure anyway. They did not completely trust him; they would obey him, but they might obey willingly or—as Tivanixi had done over Nnanji’s promotion— reluctantly, honoring his words while thwarting his purpose.

He mentioned that Nnanji had gained promotion and would be there shortly to receive their homage, but, as a Sixth, would not

be a member of the council. Wallie had some special duties in mind for Nnanji. Then he went on to the subject of money, explaining how the tryst was going to divert the unofficial portion of the harbor dues. They all smiled at that.

“So you have solved the finance problem at one stroke, my liege?” Chinarama asked.

“For the moment,” Wallie said. He turned to more difficult matters. “Lord Boariyi, you have sworn the first oath only. I propose to treat you as a full member of this council, and your vassals as members of the tryst. In return, I ask—“

Nnanji never knocked on doors. He marched in and slammed this one behind him. He was scowling. The Sevenths rose to their feet again, most of them returning his scowl.

He wiped a hand on his new green kilt. He reached for his sword. He gave Lord Boariyi the salute to a superior in impeccable fashion, then glanced cryptically at Wallie and waited.

Who saluted whom? The damnable fourth oath was fouling up all the rituals. Hesitantly Wallie presented Nnanji to Chinarama, and the two exchanged salute and response.

“Now I swear the third oath to you, Honorable Nnanji?” the old man inquired petulantly.

“It distresses me, my lord,” Nnanji said in his soft voice, “to have to accept such an oath from a respected senior such as yourself, but that seems to be what Lord Shonsu’s position...”

Wallie saw a look of horror come over Boariyi’s face, then Tivanixi’s. He followed then, gaze. Nnanji was tugging his left earlobe, he had his right thumb in his belt, his right knee was slightly bent.

Nnanji was making the sign of secret challenge to Chinarama.

What! Had he gone insane? Promotion? Of course not—he would need to secure judges first, and courtesy would demand that he ask before he challenged, and it was illegal anyway...

Nnanji was still babbling on about oaths. Chinarama was paying no attention to the signal. Then he became aware of the tension about him, and his eyes flickered warily around the group.

Wallie flashed out his sword left,handed and laid the point at the old man’s throat. “Put your hands straight up in the air!” he bellowed, pushing Nnanji aside with his injured arm, which hurt. “Say it, Nnanji!”

“I denounce this man as an imposter.”

Chinarama curled his lip in a sneer. “So there are some swordsmen with brains, are there?” Then he burst into a diatribe of obscenities and vituperation, a lifelong hatred of swordsmen spilling out like pus as he ranted about rapists and murderers and thieves, perverts and bullies... It was rank and nauseating, but Wallie let it run on until it died away of itself; he kept the sword,point steady. There would be no need to try this case. The man had confessed.

“Lord Zoariyi,” he said. “Go behind him. The rest of you stand back. Now, remove his harness, if you please. And his kilt.”

“Is this necessary?” Boariyi objected.

“Yes.” Wallie did not move his eyes from the hate,filled eyes of the old man. “His hairclip, too! Let me see your hands!”

The imposter showed them. “Fancy all you husky young swordsmen being scared of one old man,” he sneered.

Wallie ignored the remark. “You may sit to remove your boots,” he said.

It was only when the pathetic figure was stark naked and all his gear was safely out of reach that Wallie relaxed and sheathed his sword. He looked around at the faces filled with horror, fear, shame, and anger. “Later I will show you some of the sorcerer tricks,” he explained, finding that his voice was defensive. It did seem ludicrous to take such precautions against such a weakling. “How did you know, Nnanji?”

Nnanji was staring at Chinarama with disgust and contempt. “Katanji told me, brother.”

“Katanji?Buthow...”

“You remember on Griffon you showed us some of die sorcerer magic, brother? You got your fingers dirty. Yesterday Katanji was with me when I was presented to this... man. He had the same marks on his fingers. I didn’t notice and Katanji didn’t say anything. But he followed him afterward. He went to the house of a merchant and spent a long time there. They have a cage of pigeons in the yard—“

“Pigeons?” Boariyi spluttered.

“We don’t understand, but we are grateful, my liege Nnanji,” Tivanixi said, “to you and your brother. And to you, my liege

Shonsu. We are very much in your debt.” His face was basaltic with rage and humiliation. The others looked much the same.

“What do we do with him?” Zoariyi inquired.

“Let’s get him safely locked up first,” Wallie said, turning and heading for the door. He was staggered by the thought of a spy within the council itself—yet why not? All Chinarama had needed to know had been the salutes and oatiis, which were public. He had not been required to fight. He could always plead an old man’s failing memory when queried on anything. Obviously the younger men had secretly admired him as a tough old boy. They had protected him. He had told Rotanxi of the tryst’s plans and finances, and of the importance of the seventh sword. It was all so infuriatingly obvious now that it was pointed out—and by Katanji, of course! That was why he had been the right one to take along on the Griffon expedition; he brought wisdom. And his eyes missed nothing, not even inkstains on fingers.

Wallie reached for the door handle, heard a board creak behind him, and whirled around, sword in hand. Chinarama crashed to the floor, slammed down by Nnanji like a swatted bug in a splash of blood, his head almost severed from his shoulders. A knife clattered at Wallie’s feet.

They were all too stunned even to swear. For a moment the only sound was the death rattle, the only movement the twitching of the corpse. Boariyi had his sword out, Tivanixi’s hand was on the hilt of his. The other three had their hands raised.

Wallie said, “Thank you, Nnanji,” and his voice quavered.

Nnanji lifted his eyes from the body. He looked at Wallie and then grinned. His new sword was still dripping blood.

Wallie bent to pick up the knife. It was small and looked deadly sharp, but he did not test it with his thumb because the blade had been coated with something, like the knives he had found in Rotanxi’s gown. Standard sorcerer issue?

This grubby room with its dirt,smeared windows, cobwebs on the panels, old ashes in the fireplace—it suddenly all became horribly sharp and clear, made more real by the awareness of death. He had so very nearly died here. They would have laid him on that filthy bed. Probably this had been Shonsu’s room, so perhaps “that was where Doa had lain, waiting for her lover to return from the brothel. He hoped his trembling was not showing,

but it probably was. He had just had a very narrow escape. Only Nnanji’s incredible reflexes had saved him.

“Lord Shonsu!” Boariyi had turned red. “I was wrong, very wrong! I wish now to swear the third oath.”

Nnanji was wiping his sword with Chinarama’s kilt. The others were smiling, then, suspicions forgotten. Honorable Nnanji had unmasked a spy, and the spy had tried to kill Lord Shonsu— there were no doubts about loyalties now.

“Honorable Nnanji,” Boariyi continued, “I have never seen a more masterful piece of swordsmanship. I was a year behind you.” He stepped over the body and held out a hand in admiration. Nnanji sheathed his sword and shook hands, grinning shyly up at the giant.

“I agree with that,” Tivanixi said. “I had hardly started. Magnificent! The knife—was that sorcery?”

“In his boot, I expect,” Nnanji said airily. He had one in his own boot because his mentor had told him to bring it.

“I may swear the third oath now, Lord Shonsu?” Boariyi asked.

“Wait! My lords!” Zoariyi was beaming. “Is this not a clear case for eleven thirty,nine?”

There was a pause as five minds searched the sutras. Then four faces broke into smiles and there was a chorus of agreement.

Nnanji, puzzled and irritated, looked at the smiles and then at Wallie. WaUie did not feel like smiling at all. The Sevenths had found a way out of their stupid status problem at the cost of turning Nnanji into a laughingstock. He struggled to maintain what he hoped was a poker face, but they were all waiting hopefully for him to speak. There was no way that he could deny them, none at all. Once again Nnanji had saved his life.

He must agree.

He turned toward Nnanji, therefore, and raised his sword. Nnanji blinked in surprise.

Wallie paused, then said it: “I am Shonsu, swordsman of the seventh rank, liege lord of the tryst of Casr, and I give thanks to the Most High...”

He was drowned out by Nnanji’s astonished whoop and the others’ laughter.

It was the salute to an equal.