The Destiny of the Sword (8 page)

A greater danger was that he would be denounced, tried, convicted of cowardice, and executed. That was very likely, and his swordsmanship would not save him from that.

Explosions of laughter made him turn to look at the main deck. The center of amusement was a squirming heap of male adolescents. Even Holiyi was in there. Then it broke apart, revealing Nnanji underneath. Matarro had Nnanji’s kilt and ran off waving it, with Nnanji leaping up to race in howling pursuit around the deck, while the spectators jeered and cheered.

Not so very long ago, such treatment from civilians would have provoked Nnanji to mayhem.

Wallie sighed. He ought to be down there, joining in the fun, not skulking up here being such a sourpuss. Sorcerers!

They were the big problem, obviously. Mostly they were fakes and charlatans, their magic almost all sleight of hand, aided by the carefully prepared gowns, loaded with tricks.

Originally they must have been scribes, for then’ feather craftmarks represented quill pens. He had worked out a history for them. He had no evidence, but it all made so much sense that he was certain now that it must be the truth. Whether writing had been a gift of the gods or a mortal invention, it had been assigned to a separate craft, but reading and writing

were such useful skills that the priests had coveted them. The scribes had resisted. Perhaps they had even initiated the violence. The swordsmen had sided with the priests—that was both obvious and inevitable—and driven the sorcerers away. They had taken refuge in mountain strongholds, like Vul, far from the River and the Goddess, claiming magical powers hi self,defense. They had also roamed the World in disguise, preserving their monopoly by assassination. That explained both the present absence of writing and the swordsmen’s implacable hostility.

Literacy made knowledge cumulative, and over the ages the sorcerers had accumulated knowledge, until now their fakery was assisted by primitive chemistry. Certainly they knew of gunpowder, phosphorus, some sort of bleach to remove facemarks, and the acid that had scarred Tomiyano. They might have other dungs, but nothing very terrible. Their guns were crude in the extreme, one,shot gadgets, slow to reload and not very accurate. The sorcerers themselves were only armed civilians. Faced with swordsmen in Ov, they had panicked. They would be little problem out in the open.

The towers were the danger. Wallie knew that the tower doors were booby,trapped and he could guess at cannons, shrapnel bombs, and other horrors. If the swordsmen tried to take a tower, they would be slaughtered. It could be done, of course, but not in the traditional ways of the craft, not going by the surra.

There, it would seem, was where Wallie Smith came in. That was why the Goddess had put the soul of a chemist into Ihe body of a swordsman—so he could take over the tryst, win the leadership by combat, and lead the swordsmen to victory. But why, oh why, had She chosen so fainthearted a mortal as Wallie Smith? There must be no lack of bloody,minded chemists in the universe. He hated bloodshed. He still had nightmares about the battles he had fought, about the jetty on the holy island, about the night the pirates came, about Ov. Why him?

The sky was almost dark, the Dream God gleaming hazily •cross the south. The ends of the rings were concealed in mist,

only the crest of the arc showing. Down on the deck, the party was growing quieter. He must go back and join in.
 
This fog was bad—good pirate weather—and Sapphire was advertising her presence across half a hemisphere. Tomiyano would set double watch this night.

Sorcerers—fakes.

But were they? All the magic he had seen or heard of he could now explain—with one exception. When he had so stupidly gone ashore at Aus and met with sorcerers, they had told him what he had said to Jja before he left Sapphire’s deck. When a sorcerer had come on board at Wal, he had known Brota’s name. In each case, that knowledge smelled like telepathy. Wallie could think of no other explanation. That was the only magic he could not rationalize away, and he had worried over that more than anything

else since Ov.

Sorcery... science. They were incompatible, were they not? Surely he need not fight both at once?

But no one could have heard what he had said to Jja that day.

And Jja had not gone ashore in Aus. He had asked. That had shown him how worried he was—that he could even doubt Jja.

So that was his worst problemi he was not quite certain.

No. That was not fee worst. There was another, hanging over him like the blade of a guillotine: Whose side was he on?

Then cool fingers slid around his ribs and linked up on his chest. A cheek was laid against his shoulder blade.

Jja was concerned about him. He had not tried to explain all his troubles to her, for she could never have understood them properly. She did not resent that, he was sure. She did what she could, offering wordless sympathy for unspoken pain, as now. He cherished it in silence for a moment.

“Thanji? Brotsu? Shota? Nnathansu?”

He twisted around and returned the embrace, pulling her tight and feeling her warmth against him through the thinness of cotton. “What are you babbling about, wench?” he asked gently. “Naming their firstborn, of course!” “Oh, my love,” Wallie whispered. “How I wish that it were

us!”

“Silly man!” she said, but in a tone no slave owner could have

resented. “What does it matter? I am much more married than Thana will ever be.”

And much more beautiful, he thought. Jja was no skinny wraith, no fashion model. She was tall and strong and deep,breasted and the most desirable woman in the World.

He told her so.

She purred.

“I was sent to fetch you, my lord Wallie,” she whispered, “for they are waiting.”

“For me?” he demanded. “Why?”

“For the wedding, of course.”

“What? Now? Tonight? But... what do I have to do?”

“Just say yes,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Yes!” Chuckling, she led him to the steps, and they picked their way down carefully in the dark.

No bridal gown, no bridesmaids, no orange blossoms? Nnanji and Thana were standing together, with Brota positioned behind Thana, and all of them facing Tomiyano. Obviously a ship’s captain could perform a marriage, as a captain could on Earth. Wallie stepped into position behind Nnanji, who had retrieved his kilt and DOW turned to welcome his mentor with a broad leer. The rest of the crew, the family, had gathered around, vague faces smiling and silent in the night.

The ceremony was unbelievably short and even more revolt,ingly one,sided than Wallie had expected in this sexist World.

“Lord Shonsu, do you permit your protege” to marry this woman?

“Yes.”

“Mistress Brota, do you permit your protege to marry this man?”

“Adept Nnanji, swordsman of the fourth rank, do you take Thana, swordsman of the second rank, as your wife, promising to clothe and feed her, to feed her children, to teach them obedience to die gods and claim them as your own, to find them honorable crafts when they reach adulthood?” ; “Yes.” ;
  
“Apprentice Thana, swordsman of the second rank, do you

take this Nnanji, swordsman of the fourth rank, as your husband, offering your person for his pleasure and no other’s, conceiving, bearing, and rearing his children, and obeying his commands?”

“Yes.”

Along with one copper, Wallie thought, Brota was not obtaining much of a commitment from Nnanji, in return for exclusive enjoyment of Thana’s person.

And now, obviously, all that was required to seal the marriage was a kiss. Eyes shining, Nnanji turned and put his arms around Thana. She raised her face.

He bent his head...

He raised it...

He looked wide,eyed at Wallie.

And then Wallie heard it also in the sudden silence, drifting across the water out of the darkness—the sound of clashing swords.

ttt ttt

Yes, there was something there, uncertainly visible through the dark and fog, something pale and glimmering, drifting slowly downstream toward Sapphire’s bow as she lay at anchor.

By the time Wallie had established that fact, Tomiyano had the tarpaulin off the starboard dinghy, and his orders were crackling through the night. The wine fumes had vanished and a well,trained crew was leaping to stations. Swords and boat hooks... the four adult male sailors would row, Tomiyano steer... the two swordsmen...

“No Thana!” the captain snapped.

“Yes, Thana!” Nnanji said firmly. There was a moment’s pause. Then Tomiyano nodded and carried on; she was Nnanji’s wife now, and he would decide. The boat went down with a rush to the water as Wallie vaguely registered Nnanji’s thinking... Thana was as good a swordsman as any, and families were not divided on the River, for the Goddess could be fickle. Had Wallie not been there, Sapphire’s crew would probably not even have gone to investigate. They might have done so, for She would not

penalize an act of mercy, but he wished he had Jja with him.

Then the four men were pulling the dinghy through the inky River with long, sure strokes, rowlocks squeaking, water hissing by hi surges. Thana sat by her brother at the tiller. Wallie and Nnanji crouched in the bow—their amateurish efforts would only hinder if they tried to help with the rowing.

Stroke. Stroke. Silver flecks flew from the oars in the chill air. The Dream God was a road of shining mist through the dark sky, his light blurred and ineffective.

Stroke. Stroke. Metal clanged again in the darkness ahead, less faintly now. A cold cramp of fear knotted Wallie’s gut—he thought he could guess who was out there. He took a deep breath and cupped his hands.

“What vessel?” he bellowed.

No reply. Stroke.

“In the name of the Goddess, lower your blades. I am a Seventh ...”

Then, very faintly: “Help?”

A woman? A child’s voice?

“What vessel?” Wallie yelled once more.

Stroke. Stroke. More clashing of blades, louder now.

“Sunflower!” came a male reply. “Stay clear!”

Stroke.

ft was coming clearly into sight, the fog darkening and congealing into the shape of a small ship, barely more than a fishing boat, with fore,and,aft rigging. Her sails were raised, but there was something wrong with the foresail. She was listing slightly, drifting sideways.

Stroke.

“I am a swordsman of the Seventh! Put down your swords.”

Stroke.

“Lord Shonsu.” Again that high voice. Wallie was certain of it now, an adolescent voice made shrill by stress.

More strokes of the oars, more clattering of blades, and men a male voice, hard and breathless: “Polini, my lord!”

“Stay clear!” shouted another.

Stroke. Silver flew from the oars.

The fear had expanded. It filled Wallie with ice. He clenched liu fists so hard that they hurt. He peered through the cold night

air at that pale blur slowly growing. So slowly! He was going to be too late. The swords were ringing faster, and there was shouting and cursing. The victims would be murdered and dropped overboard before he could arrive. The piranha would dispose of the evidence.

“Polini! Hang on!” he roared. “We’re coming!” He wanted to weep and scream with frustration. He drummed fists on the gunwale.

The fighting had stopped. Oh, Goddess! Help them.,.

Stroke. Stroke. Someone cried out—high, shrill, full of pain. Then the hull loomed suddenly close. Tomiyano swung the tiller and yelled to ship oars, barked a warning not to stand up yet. The dinghy veered and struck hard alongside; rocked. Swords glinted above them, faces showed as lighter blurs. Nnanji caught the rail with a boat hook. Holiyi stood and swung an oar. Wallie ducked under the stroke and caught the rail with his left hand as he drew the seventh sword with his right. Then he was up on the gunwale, parrying a blade. Nnanji was there, also. Metal rang in the night.

But they knew they were too late.

Swordsmen must not weep.

Polini was dead, killed in that last desperate attack. Young Arganari was going to die very soon. He had been run through, and there was nothing that all the healers in the World could do for him now. He lay on the black,stained deck, with Wallie kneeling at one side of him and Nnanji at the other. Fortunately the light was so poor that nothing was very distinct.

Amidships lay Polini’s body, and two others. Three live men were penned at the stern, hemmed in by a line of dragons’ teeth —swords held by Sapphire’s crew, angry and silent and waiting.

The anchor had been dropped and the sails lowered.

“Water... my lord,” Arganari whispered again.

Wallie raised his head and Nnanji gave him another drink.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice quavering. Then he turned his face and vomited a rush of blood, black in the night.

Swordsmen must not weep.