The Death of Nnanji (31 page)

An even larger audience than before had collected behind him to audit the proceedings. Perhaps they were all bored, waiting for the war to start, but Dad wouldn’t have tolerated such slackness. He would have set them all to work—unless, of course, they were to be shown something important, like how to interrogate a spy.

The only ones who mattered were the three Sevenths. It took very little talk before Vixini had worked out that the red-ribbon swordsman was Pollex, reeve of Plo, and the violet was Ozimshello, reeve of the twin city of Fex. The sorcerer must be the grand wizard of Kra. Vixini was undoubtedly prejudiced against Pollex already, but he found something repellent about the man, and every time he opened his mouth he seemed worse. He was well built, but he had coarse features and a contemptuous manner. Ozimshello was older and quiet-spoken. Any love lost between the two of them was unlikely to turn up soon.

Pollex listened with a sneer to Vixini’s third telling of his story.

At the end he said, “You’re a spy. And if you weren’t when you were brought in, you know far too much now to be allowed to leave. Who fancies a little sword practice to start the day?”

“Wait!” said the grand wizard, if that was who the sorcerer Seventh was. “Tell us, spy, what is the name of this protégé you are chasing so diligently?”

Sutra 175 forbade a protégé to discuss his mentor or his mentor’s business, but it did not restrict a mentor’s rights to say anything he liked about his protégé.

“With respect, my lords, that is immaterial. I would do the same whoever he was.”

The sorcerer chuckled. “But I want to know his name.” Obviously he already knew the answer.

“Do your men kidnap many novices without even asking their names?”

“Insolence?” the sorcerer purred. “Defiant to the end? How touching! This boy’s protégé, my lords, is Addis, son of Nnanji, who is currently on his way to Plo as a personal gift from our god to King Arganari.”

Pollex scowled at being this upstaged before an audience. Regardless of crafts, putting three Sevenths together was just asking for trouble. “What would his Majesty want with a novice swordsman?”

“Revenge for his own son’s murder, many years ago. But what matters more at the moment, my lord, is that this boy, his mentor, your prisoner, is Shonsu’s son.”

“What? You sure of that?”

“I am always sure.”

“Then we must send his head back to Soo in a barrel of salt,” Pollex said. “Or should we first torture him for a day or two to see what we can learn from him?”

The silence that followed was poisonous. It was one of Ozimshello’s protégés, Impendoro, who spoke up. “With respect, my lords, Master Malaharo, my protégé who apprehended this man, granted him the status of witness under Sutra 243. It was an error of judgment, but it does concede the prisoner certain rights.”

Vixini didn’t think it was an error of judgment at all. It might have been a minor act of mutiny, but he was comforted to learn that the army of Plo and Fex, while it might have massacred the defenseless civilian population of Soo, had not totally lost its dedication to the ways of honor. He was also starting to suspect that the Fex portion was much less enthusiastic about this war than the Plo contingent.

“See that he is punished,” Pollex snapped. “Shonsu’s son? Now we know how he got three facemarks before his milk teeth fell out. Swordsmen, we are gathered here to slaughter the Tryst of Casr. Who volunteers to begin the butchery by killing this Daddy’s pet?”

Vixini turned to look over the crowd behind him, which comprised many hundred swordsmen, but also many short-haired civilians and a scattering of hooded sorcerers. After a moment a hand went up, and then a dozen or so more: the toadies, the thrill seekers. Vixini could have mentioned that he was bound to the Tryst of Casr by the third oath, which carried an onus of vengeance, so anyone who killed him would be marked for death, but that would have sounded like begging for mercy.

“Adept Morgo!” Pollex announced.

A lanky young Fourth squirmed his way out of the crowd and saluted. A single red tag on each shoulder showed that he was a direct protégé of Pollex and mentor to at least one junior.

“Challenge this man and kill him. If asks for the grace, refuse.”

Morgo smiled. “Aye, my lord! And if he offers the abasement?”

“Refuse, of course. I want his head.”

Some spectators muttered angrily. A man challenged by a higher rank had the right to offer the abasement, which involved horrible things like cutting off his own ponytail, breaking his sword, and publicly eating dirt. Vixini would never consider it a preferable alternative to death.

Morgo smiled again. He turned to Vixini and made the sign of public challenge, so simple even a civilian would guess what it meant: two index fingers crossed like engaged swords. He was probably ten years older than Vixini; Pollex would not have chosen him unless he was a superb fencer.

Vixini mirrored the gesture back to him in acceptance. “I don’t want the grace,” he snapped. Hunger always made him irritable, and if he was going to be challenged to death, then he would much rather it begin now than three days from now. “Who will be my second?”

He was bone weary, dried out, and desperately hungry, but he was not going to try to weasel out of this. He didn’t want to die. Life was one long romp, every day a fresh joy, but his duty to Dad, to himself, and to all his friends, demanded that he stay true to his oaths. He would show these renegades how an honorable swordsman died.

Silence. They all knew that they were about to witness an execution, and to counter the will of one’s liege lord was outright folly.

“Looks like you will have to manage without one,” Pollex said.

Malaharo stepped forward. “I will be Swordsman Vixini’s second.” He handed Vixini his canteen again. It had been refilled.

“You are true to the code, master,” Vixini said loudly, as he pulled out the cork.

“Then I will second Swordsman Morgo,” Reeve Pollex announced, rising.

The duties of seconds were listed in Sutra 517, the most important being that together they could declare a draw or call off the match, but there would be no mercy here today.

Reeve Ozimshello stood also. “You appear to have been wounded, Swordsman.” He was offering Vixini an out, for the grace could not be denied to a wounded man.

“Nothing serious, my lord.” With a flick of his shoulder blade, Vixini flipped his sword hilt over to the left.

“Ambidextrous, like your father? Many times I have enjoyed hearing the famous epic,
How Shonsu of the Seventh fought Boariyi of the Seventh for Leadership of the Tryst of Casr
.”

“I always strive to be like my father, sir, yes.” Dad detested that epic. Doggerel, he called it.

“Good luck,” the reeve said loudly. “See fair play, Master Malaharo.”

The spectators had been busy in the meantime, urged on by the middle ranks. The crowd had been pushed back to clear a larger killing ground, which was being roughly outlined by a border of tables, chairs, pillows, and even spare boots. It seemed the entire army had gathered to watch a swordsman die.

The duelists and their seconds stood in the center. Vixini handed the canteen back to Malaharo and drew his sword. Morgo drew his. He had a narrow, hungry face with a sourly twisted mouth, but his eyes were shining joyfully. Some men enjoyed killing, even craved it, as if it had become an addiction for them, and it was a safe bet that Pollex had chosen Morgo so that there would be no scruples at the end, after Vixini began to bleed. Only very rarely was a single wound enough kill a man in a duel.

Administering the coup de grace even to a horse was bad enough.

The fencers saluted. Normally Vixini would not be overly worried at the prospect of fighting a Fourth. Even sour old Filurz admitted that he was a very good Third. On the ships coming from Casr, he had won at least one point against every Fourth aboard and had been able to beat a few of them consistently. Normally he would rank his chances of drawing first blood against an unknown Fourth at better than even. Normally. The last three days had left him a physical wreck, and first blood would mean nothing in this match.

That didn’t mean he was ready to give up.

Vixini said, “Now!”
Let’s get it over with.

They approached cautiously.

Morgo was right-handed. Vixini’s right arm was throbbing and swollen, his fingers no longer working as they should, but he was just as nimble with his left. Dad had always insisted that he practice equally both ways.

Normally he would play an older man for his endurance, because wind was the first thing to go, but he was so close to collapse himself that he must gain a quick victory if he were to have any chance at all. Fortunately lefties always had a slight advantage against right-handed opponents, because they got more practice fighting cross-wise than the orthodox did. Morgo was bound to be cautious at first, another reason to try for a quick decision.

Morgo lunged, Vixini parried at quarte, but did not riposte. Morgo lunged again, a little more confidently. Vixini parried again, retreated a pace. And again. The next time he parried recklessly at tierce and cut at Morgo’s arm. He felt the contact even before he saw the blood. Morgo jumped back, staring in outrage at the cut. It would not disable him, but it would shake his confidence.

“Yield?” Malaharo called.

“Refused!” Pollex retorted, predictably.

“Oh, take him away and bring me a fighter!” Vixini yelled. “Is this capon the best thing you can find? I’m a rank lower and dead on my feet and he can’t do any better than that? I’ve known grandmothers who could—”

The audience was supposed to think he was rousing Morgo to attack, and in this case Morgo himself was definitely part of the audience. But an instant before he began to move, Vixini lunged
passata-sotto
, full length, using his whole height and reach, trying to breaking his fall by hitting the ground with his right hand. Morgo could not have expected a strike from such a distance, and Vixini’s blade stabbed into his liver. He cried out and crumpled, dropping his sword, hands clutching at his belly as blood jetted from the wound.

Someone started a cheer, and many voices echoed it. Vixini scrambled to his feet, but the World spun around him.

“Yield?” Malaharo called again.

Pollex stared at his fallen champion for a moment before he said, “Refused.”

Morgo was beyond hearing, let alone resuming the fight. Although Vixini was upright, his abused right arm throbbed wildly and was probably bleeding again. He sheathed his sword and went back to Malaharo, holding out a hand for the canteen.

“The fight is not over, swordsman,” Pollex shouted.

“Yes it is.”

“Are you afraid to kill him?”

“I already did. If he asks me for the Return, then I will oblige him.”

But Morgo was unconscious. Four Thirds wearing twin red flashes came forward to carry the dying man away.

Cheering began again. Vixini had the impression that it had been started by Reeve Ozimshello. It certainly was loudest around him, where his violet-tagged supporters were now concentrated. Pollex was scowling and his red-tags weren’t joining in. He raised a hand for silence

“So you aren’t just your Daddy’s pet, Swordsman Vixini! That was impressive fencing.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“We’ll have to try you a little harder. Master Malaharo, this nonsense is your fault, for invoking Sutra 243. Challenge this man and kill him.”

Half the spectators laughed and half booed. The laughs were loud and the boos guarded.

The Fifth lost color. He glanced appealingly to his mentor, who just shrugged. Vixini gave up any hope that he could possibly come out of this alive without somehow managing to kill every man of the counter-tryst, up to and including Pollex himself. The onus of vengeance alone determined that. He was especially reluctant to hurt Malaharo, who had spared him the indignity of being bound, disarmed, and blindfold.

“And who will be my second this time?” He knew who would second his opponent.

“I will.” Reeve Ozimshello walked into the ring.

Vixini saluted, fist on heart. “You honor me, my lord.” Morgo had been one of the Plo crowd but Malaharo was a Fex man. The split in the counter-tryst was becoming clearer every minute.

Pollex had flushed bright red with anger, and that was very interesting. If Ozimshello had sworn the blood oath to Pollex, Pollex could tell him to withdraw his offer to be Vixini’s second. Since he wasn’t doing so, it would seem that there were two counter-trysts, not one. The division between red tags on one side and violet on the other was quite obvious now. The crowd was shrinking as the civilians of the posse made themselves scarce.

“We are ready!” Pollex shouted.

But Vixini wasn’t. He had been lucky against Morgo. At the best of times he would have almost no chance against a Fifth like Malaharo, and these were the worst of times. He could barely stand, let alone fight. In a normal match he would yield right away, or do a snail, but Pollex would merely give his man a direct order to kill him, so snail was out.

For him at least.

He caught Malaharo’s eye and unobtrusively moved one finger in a spiral. Did the swordsmen in this part of the World use the same jargon as the Tryst in Casr did? Would his signal be understood? Malaharo blinked, looked away, then subtly nodded, moving one finger in a spiral.

“We are ready!”
Pollex shouted again.

Had Malaharo really understood what Vixini was suggesting? For a Third to beat a Fifth was not unheard-of, but it was not going to happen today. Not honestly.

“Are you ready, principal?” Ozimshello inquired.

“Ready, my lord.”

“Your principal has not yet challenged, Lord Pollex.”

Malaharo made the sign of challenge.

Vixini responded. He strolled forward, drawing his sword.

Blades clattered. Feet danced forward and back, with Malaharo not pressing Vixini nearly as hard as one of his rank should. Even if he had interpreted Vixini’s cryptic signals correctly, could he trust his life to a man he did not know?