The Death of Nnanji (17 page)

“By the time we get to Plo I’ll be a Fourth and you’ll be saluting me.”

It would be great to have a buddy along, someone near his own age.

“Let’s go, then. We’ll have to run. We gotta pick you out a kilt and boots and a sword… At the double, frog!”

Addis turned to his uncle and thanked him graciously for his hospitality. Then he came running after his mentor.

After the end of the fencing came the postulants, boys and girls joining the craft. Wallie solemnly listened as their mentors swore them in with the words of the code, and then he had to kneel to each one to give each his, or her, sword. Only then could he return to the Sevenths’ box.

The next item on the agenda, by tradition, was a tribute to the fallen. There were always two or three, but no assembly had ever had to mourn more than a half a dozen. This time there were more than eighty. Two heralds took turns calling out the names of the dead and the details of their deaths: the burned brothel in Arbo, the massacre with firearms at Cross Zek, the murdered couriers. The moans and boos grew louder and louder. The last death, the Fourth who had been shot right there in Casr while arresting the poisoners, provoked a roar that might have been heard in Hann.

Listening to this dread toll, Wallie recalled a suggestion that he had made years ago but Nnanji and Katanji had shouted down. Well, they weren’t here to shout him down now, and once he had announced it, they would not be able to unannounce it.

The Herald glanced around; Wallie nodded. It was his turn.

The great theater fell completely silent as his name was called and he then walked forward. Lord Shonsu was a stand-in, the swordsmen felt. The real liege was Lord Nnanji; they wanted to hear the true story behind his absence. Wallie intended to give it to them.

“My lords, your honors, masters…” He could never be as loud as that chief herald, who could have drowned out a factory steam whistle, but Shonsu had bequeathed him a fearsome set of lungs. “We all must mourn so many brave men and women so unfairly struck down. No tears, no revenge, no compensation, can bring them back. Nothing can undo the injury of their deaths, but I am happy to be able to tell you that their families will be cared for by the Tryst.” Applause, starting slowly and building as the implications sank in. “And this will be true in future for any swordsman of the Tryst who dies or is disabled in action.” Katanji, wherever he was, would have a dozen concurrent apoplectic fits.

So Wallie had brought workmen’s compensation to the World. The time was ripe, for he was about to lead the Tryst into real and present danger for the first time. He must motivate men in large numbers to risk their lifeblood. Nothing held the swordsmen but their oaths, and if the task suddenly felt too dangerous and they decided to cut and run, their liege might find himself fighting alone.

He told them about Nnanji. Thana had sent word that she thought he might be a little better today, but Wallie would not raise hopes yet. There were so many complications that might follow such a wound that the patient would not be out of danger for weeks. Then he told about the attempt on his own life, how he had captured the assassin, and how she had then confessed. That merited a huge cheer, as everyone assumed she had been horribly tortured.

He openly accused the sorcerer coven of Kra of breaking the treaty. Although it had never signed on to that agreement, it had attacked the Tryst with firearms, which was either mass murder or an act of war. He promised that the swordsmen would now march on Kra in all their righteous wrath and raze it.

Wild applause.

“As their liege, I will revenge our brothers!”

Wilder.

He announced the leaders he would take with him.

Some thin clapping. In fact he could not take even a tenth of his hopeful listeners. As Joraskinta had suggested, he must enlist as he went, gather strength from loyal garrisons all along the River. He was fairly certain now that he would go to Plo via Soo, but he did not mention Soo.

“Brothers and sisters, may the Goddess bless our swords!”

That prayer normally signaled the end, triggering a final chorus of the anthem, but Wallie had added one additional item. He hoped that the star had arrived safely.

“There are two young men I will certainly take with me to Kra. The first you have watched win his promotion here today, so he is now qualified to accept a protégé. That protégé you may not recognize.”

Wallie stepped back, the herald took his place. “My lords, your honors, masters, adepts, swordsmen, apprentices… pray honor Swordsman Vixini, and
postulant Addis, son of Nnanji the swordsman
…”

Vixini strode out in his new brown kilt, with a third facemark still oozing blood on his forehead, and a grin as wide as the River. He carried a sheathed sword in his hand, while behind him walked a white-kilted youth, whose eyes shone like stars.

Wallie had expected now to give Addis his sword, as he had the other postulants, but evidently Vixini had not yet made his first protégé repeat the code of the craft, and that had to come first. It was doubtful if either of them had a voice capable of being heard throughout the whole extent of the amphitheater, but they didn’t need to, because the code was the first sutra, which everyone present had learned on their own admission day. The audience picked it up and repeated each phrase after Vixini in peals of thunder:

I will be evermore true to

the will of the Goddess,

the sutras of the swordsmen,

and the laws of the People.

I will be mighty against the mighty,

gentle to the weak,

generous to the poor,

and merciless to the rapacious.

I will do nothing of which I may be ashamed,

but avoid no honor.

I will give no less than justice to others,

and seek no more for myself.

I will be valiant in adversity,

and humble in prosperity.

I will live with joy.

I will die bravely.

When the final promise died away, Shonsu walked forward as his stepson drew the sword from its scabbard. He took it and solemnly knelt to offer it to Addis.

“Live by this. Wield it in Her service. Die holding it.”

Well coached, Addis took hold of the hilt and spoke the reply: “It shall be my honor and my pride.”

Of course the Tryst applauded. Nnanji’s son going forth to fight in his father’s stead? This was utterly fitting, even if everyone knew that novices were never allowed anywhere close to real fighting.

That should have been the end of it.

But Addis added a touch of his own. Finding himself holding a sword and being cheered, he turned to face the crowd and made the salute to a company. They loved it. He got the loudest roar of the day. Wallie had not suggested that; neither Vixini or Katanji would ever have thought of it. The boy had flair.

Getting out of the amphitheater turned out to be much harder than getting into it. It seemed as if every man and woman in the Tryst was buddies with Vixini and wanted to congratulate him on his promotion. Perhaps they also wanted to get a look at the Nnanji polliwog, but Firsts were usually ignored, so Addis had nothing to do except stay close to his mentor and try to keep his sword straight on his back. Wearing a kilt felt strange, boots were total weirdness, and his bull-hide harness was already starting to chaff. The scabbard itself was supported by two straps across his back, but the sword was top heavy and the handle kept sliding over to his shoulder, usually his right shoulder, sometimes the other one. He kept his hands away from his facemark, knowing that newly-hatched Firsts were known as “scratchers.” But if his life depended on it, he could not keep his sword hilt behind his ear, ready to grab when danger loomed. It was done with a twitch of the shoulder blades, Vixi said, but Addis’s shoulder blades seemed to be unusually stupid.

Just short of the lodge gates, Vixi said, “In here!” and stepped behind some bushes.

“Now,” he said, counting on his fingers, “you and I have to swear the second oath, so we’re properly mentor and protégé. You
must
learn to control that sword hilt, or I’ll nail it in place for you. Get busy and grow a ponytail, that’s an order. And I have to find a mentor before tomorrow sunset.”

“Not your dad?”

“I’ll ask him, but I think he’s frightened he’ll baby me, so he’ll say he’s too busy. Anything you want to do?”

“I think this sword’s too long for me.”

Vixi told him to draw it and hold the handle as high as he could to see where the point came on his chest. No, if anything it was too short, put it back. Be careful or you’ll cut your ass off. He was amused but not mocking. Vixi never hurt people’s feelings.

“Anything else?”

“I’d really like to go home and see how Dad is.” He was a swordsman now, and under orders. Only kids ran free and did whatever they pleased.

“Good idea. We’ll check on your dad, but it isn’t your home any more, kid.”

Right! Addis chalked up another adjustment. He would sleep wherever his mentor did now, and that would depend on what
his
mentor said.

So they went to the palace that had been his home until an hour ago. Out in the streets, Vixi had to make a formal salute to every higher rank he met, but they all pretended not to see his First. He was stopped by the guards on the palace gate, of course, who pretended not to recognize this new Third. They certainly knew Addis, and gave the pair of them a lot of ribbing, which Vixi handled by being just as amused as they were.

Maternal instincts working as well as always, Mother accosted them before they even reached the staircase. Vixi pulled his sword and made the salute to an equal. Being unarmed, she gave him the civilian response.

“Congratulations, swordsman,” she said. “I don’t think Lord Nnanji was any younger than you when he achieved middle rank.”

Her eyes wandered at last to Addis. No snow fell, but the temperature dropped appreciably.

“Thank you, Aunt,” Vixi said. “And if you want to grab my protégé in a bear hug and give him a huge slobbery kiss, I won’t let him challenge you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Congratulations, son.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“I just hope you don’t regret this.”

“The Tryst cheered him,” Vixi said.

“No,” she said. “If they cheered, they were cheering his father. Nobody gets cheered until they’ve done something worth cheering. But his father will be happy to see him. Let’s go see if he is awake.”

Dad was sort-of awake, not so feverish as he had been two days ago, but still very sick. His head lay on the pillow as if he lacked the strength to move it, and Mom gestured Vixi to go close, into the spot where Dad was looking. He noticed his brown kilt, muttered something complimentary.

Vixi stepped aside and Addis took his place. Dad just stared at him for a while, then blinked a few times. “Makes me feel old, Son,” he whispered. “Proud, too. You… mother… something for you.”

Mom’s lips were clenched so hard they were white, so she obviously didn’t approve, but she held out a hand holding a silver hairclip in the shape of a griffon.

“But that’s Dad’s hairclip!”

“He insists I give it to you. It’s very old, and very valuable.”

“I’ve heard the minstrels sing about it,” Vixi said. “It belonged to the great hero Arganari, who led the Tryst of Xo. A griffon is the symbol of royalty. You can’t wear that, protégé!”

“I’ll keep it safe for you,” Mom said, her fingers closing.

Addis felt a need to be stubborn. He turned around. “Dad? You want me to wear that hairclip?”

The great Nnanji, liege lord of the Tryst, most powerful man in the World, managed a hint of a nod.

Addis held out his hand for it. “It’ll be quite safe on me,” he said, “because nobody will see it in my haystack.” He never bothered having his hair cut until Mom noticed and ordered the slaves to catch him and hold him down long enough to give him a trim. Mostly it curled up so much that nobody could tell how long it was.

“Swordsmen obey their mentor’s orders,” Mom said, “and your mentor just told you not to wear this.”

“But their mentors obey the liege, Aunt,” Vixi said gently. “Put on the hairclip, protégé. As I remember the epic, it came from Plo originally. You can take it back there.”

Addis tucked the clip into his hair. Then he stepped close to Mom so she could hug him and kiss his cheek; she wasn’t too slobbery.

BOOK THREE:

HOW THE SWORDSMEN

PREPARED FOR WAR

Chapter 1

“Three ships?” Novice Addis grumbled. “A hundred men at most? What sort of an army is this supposed to be?” He was leaning on the rail on a very smelly two-masted trading vessel named
Hyacinth
. Beside his spindly arms on the rail rested his mentor’s much thicker arms. They were three days out of Quo, heading for Kra and the war.

A hundred men? Could the sorcerers sleep nights?

“It’s not an army, it’s an egg,” Vixini said. “Two Sevenths, six Sixths, and a whole plague of Fourths and Fifths. Maybe two dozen Thirds altogether, and a handful of low life like you in case food runs short.”