The Reluctant Swordsman (14 page)

Wallie was relieved. “Then there will be more miracles?” “Remember what I said about miracles,” the boy warned, frowning. “The gods do miracles when they choose, rarely upon request, and never on demand. Honakura is a good man—him you may trust. Get him to tell you the anecdote from the seventeenth sutra. It fits your case rather well.” He smiled at some private joke, and Wallie wondered if the sutra had just been changed by a miracle. He was not about to ask.

“Yes, Master.”

The boy frowned again, looking him over. “You still don’t look like a hero, more like one of his victims. The sword came from the Goddess, but here is a present from me.”

He scooped up a fragment of the crystal and tossed it down. Wallie caught it. In his hand glittered a silver hairclip bearing another giant sapphire, a twin to the jewel on the sword, blue light flickering and flaming within it. He could bear those knives being sharpened behind his back again, but he thanked the god, scooped up his hair, and clipped it.

“Better!” the boy said. “You did not approve of the World when we walked through the town. What do you think of it now?”

“I know better now, Master,” Wallie said, hastily but sincerely. “There was poverty like that on Earth, and I did nothing about it there. It is not so long since thieves were put to death there also, or prisoners tortured. They still are, in many places. I shall not presume any more to tell the Goddess how to run Her world.”

The boy nodded. “You seem to be improving. And you do look more like a swordsman. Now—expenses.” He pulled off another leaf. Nothing at all happened, so far as Wallie could see. The demigod gave Wallie a long stare. “The beast on the hilt of that sword is a griffon: the body of a lion and the head of an eagle. Appropriate, would you say?”

“The body, certainly,” Wallie said. “I shall try to think like an eagle.” The god did not smile. “Eagles can see farther than lions,” he said. “The griffon is a symbol much affected by the petty kings. To the People it means Power wisely used. Remember that, Shonsu, and you will not fail!” Wallie shivered at the implications.

The boy rose. “And now it is time for time itself to start again. Less than one heartbeat has passed since you came in here. The priests are still waiting by the pool.” He pointed down to the icy blue mountains of glass below. “Go and do your duty, Lord Shonsu. Jump!”

Wallie glanced down at that dark and jagged chaos far below him. He turned to stare in horror at the little boy. He received a mocking smile—another test of courage and faith, obviously. He drew the sword and made the salute to a god.
 
Then he sheathed the sword, stepped to the edge of the rock, took a couple of deep breaths, and closed his eyes.

And jumped.

†††††

There was no question of swimming—he was whirled around like a berry in a blender, dragged down in darkness until he thought his head would burst, flung up again into foam and lifesaving air. His journey down the canyon was much faster than the journey up. Then the current slackened, and he had reached the temple pool.

The harness was no impediment. Using a butterfly stroke, making all the speed he could, he headed straight for the mighty facade of the temple, marveling at the power he could summon from his new shoulders.

When he dropped his feet, they reminded him that they were still badly battered, but he limped up out of the water onto hot shingle beneath the glare of the tropical sun, hardly aware of his nakedness, feeling like Columbus wading ashore in a new world. He was a swordsman! No more jails and maltreatment for him! Yet Hardduju was still a threat and must be the first order of business, before clothes or food or anything else. All his new swordsman knowledge was bright and sharp in his mind. He could tell what was needed as easily as he could have pulled a book from a shelf, back in his previous life. As the god had told him, he need only challenge. No swordsman could refuse a formal challenge. But a duelist ought to have a second—not essential, but advisable. Even before his feet had left the water, therefore, Wallie was scanning the group waiting on the beach.

A dozen or so people there were staring at him in amazement. For a man to return from the Judgment unharmed was rare enough and to return bearing a sword must certainly be unique. The watchers did not know whether to cheer or run. Most were elderly priests and priestesses, but there were a couple of healers—and one swordsman.

Wallie had hoped for a Third or higher, and this swordsman was merely a lanky and bony adolescent of the Second, but he would have to do. He had a light skin and unusually red hair, almost copper. He looked as startled as the rest of the bystanders, but while they were retreating he was standing his ground, which was a good sign. Wallie hobbled over the shingle to him and stood, panting.
 
The kid gulped, looked at those Shonsu facemarks. The apparition from the River might be wearing nothing but a sword and a sapphire, but the facemarks were what counted. He drew. With eyes wide, and in a soft tenor voice, he made the salute to a superior: “I am Nnanji, swordsman of the second rank, and it is my deepest and most humble wish that the Goddess Herself will see fit to grant you long life and happiness and to induce you to accept my modest and willing service in any way in which I may advance any of your noble purposes.” His sword was a travesty of a weapon, pig iron, not fit to stop a charging rabbit, but he had wielded it surely. Wallie drew his miracle blade in reply.
 
“I am Shonsu, swordsman of the seventh rank, and am honored to accept your gracious service.”

The swords were sheathed, and the priests were coming forward, beaming, with hands raised to start their greetings.

Wallie made the sign of challenge to a Second.

The boy flinched and paled as much as one of his skin color could pale. Mortal challenge from a Seventh to a Second would be an execution, not a fight. Hastily he made the sign of obeisance.

None of this was apparent to the happily smiling onlookers—only a swordsman of second or higher rank would have understood the signals. Thus might challenge be given and averted without loss of face. The senior priest was attempting to catch Wallie’s eye so that he could start his own salutes. Ignoring him, Wallie continued to face the young swordsman.

“The first oath,” he said.

The youth’s eyes flickered again to Wallie’s sword hilt. Reluctantly he drew his own again. “I, Nnanji, swordsman of the Second, do swear to obey your commands and to be faithful, saving only mine honor. In the name of the Goddess.” The onlookers fell silent; something was not right.
 
Now Wallie realized that the first oath was too frail for his needs; it was used mainly to impress civilians, as when a small-town mayor might hire a mercenary to clean up a nest of brigands. In this context it was little more than a public acknowledgment of Wallie’s higher rank. It reserved the oath-taker’s honor, and that could mean anything.

“And the second oath also.”

That was much more serious, the oath of tutelage. Young Nnanji’s eyes bulged, then seemed to count the intruder’s facemarks once more. Slowly he sank to his knees, offering his sword in both hands. He lowered it with a worried frown.
 
“I am already sworn, my lord.”

Of course he was, and for Wallie to demand his oath was mortal insult to Nnanji’s present mentor, whatever his rank, and that must lead to bloodshed. For Nnanji to swear to another mentor, moreover, was technically betrayal, although few would have argued the point with a Seventh.
 
Wallie put what he hoped was a stem expression on Shonsu’s face—uneasily aware that it was probably a terrifying grimace. “What rank is your mentor?” “A Fourth, my lord.”

Wallie drew his sword, and a loud rattle of shingle announced that the priests and healers were leaving.

“He can’t even avenge you. Swear!”

The lad started to proffer his sword again, then again he lowered it. He stared up at Wallie with tortured eyes. His sword was junk, his yellow kilt had been washed to a threadbare beige, and he had patches on his boots, but he set his jaw in hopeless defiance.

Wallie was baffled. All he needed was a junior to second him in a duel and here he had run into a death-before-dishonor idealist. A mere Second talking back to a Seventh? The rank stupidity of such obstinacy suddenly infuriated him. He felt a blaze of anger. He heard an angry snarl . . . his arm moved . . .
 
He stopped it just in time—his sword an inch from Nnanji’s neck. Nnanji had closed his eyes, waiting for it.

Wallie was horrified. What had happened there? He had very nearly—very nearly—lopped off the kid’s head. Just for displaying courage? He moved the blade away, to a safe distance. Nnanji, evidently discovering that he was still alive, opened his eyes again warily.

But it was still a stand-off. Even that narrow escape had not wiped the sullen obstinacy off the lad’s face, and Lord Shonsu of the Seventh obviously could not withdraw his demand. Being a highrank swordsman was not quite as simple as the demigod had made out. Hastily Wallie began to rummage through his new knowledge of the swordsmen’s craft and he found an escape.
 
“Very well!” He gave the command for battle: “Blood needs be shed—declare your allegiance.”

The kid’s eyes bulged. “The third oath, my lord?”

“Do you know the words?”

Nnanji nodded vigorously. He did not ask for details, although in theory he could have done so. It was a lifesaving solution to his scruples. “Yes, my lord,” he said eagerly. Laying his sword at Wallie’s feet, he prostrated himself totally on the shingle.

“I, Nnanji, do swear by my immortal soul and with no reservation to be true in all things to you, Shonsu, my liege lord, to serve your cause, to obey your commands, to shed my blood at your word, to die at your side, to bear all pain, and to be faithful to you alone for ever, in the names of all the gods.” Then he kissed Wallie’s foot.

If that wasn’t slavery, Wallie thought, then what was? The god had spoken true when he said that the swordsmen were addicted to fearsome oaths. He gave the reply: “I take you, Nnanji, as my vassal and liegeman in the names of all the gods.”

Nnanji uttered a loud gasp of relief and scrambled to his knees. He picked up his sword in both hands and looked up expectantly. “Now you can order me to swear the second oath, my lord!”

Wallie almost laughed. Here he was trying to start a mortal combat, and this kid was tying him up in Jesuitic quibbling. Still, there had better be no ambiguous loyalties. “Vassal,” he said solemnly, “swear to me the second oath.” Keeping pale eyes firmly fixed upon Wallie’s, the lad swore: “I, Nnanji, swordsman of the Second, do take you, Shonsu, swordsman of the Seventh, as my master and mentor and do swear to be faithful, obedient, and humble, to live upon your word, to learn by your example, and to be mindful of your honor, in the name of the Goddess.”

Wallie touched the sword and gave the formal reply: “I, Shonsu, swordsman of the Seventh, do accept you, Nnanji, swordsman of the Second, as my protégé and pupil, to cherish, protect, and guide in the ways of honor and the mysteries of our craft, in the name of the Goddess.

“Well done,” he added cheerfully and helped him rise. Now he had a protégé as well as a sword. With a few clothes, he could even start to look the part.
 
All the onlookers had gone, except for two brawny slaves who were watching the scene with carefully impassive faces. Slaves, being property, would never be in personal danger.

“Thank you, my lor . . . my liege.” Nnanji looked like a man who had jumped out of bed and found himself knee-deep in snakes. He slipped his pathetic sword into its scabbard, blinked, and straightened his shoulders. Obviously he was making some mental adjustments. He had just changed mentors, which was no small matter in itself, and he had also just become a vassal—a dramatic event for a swordsman of any rank. The third oath was very rare, given only on the eve of battle and hence never required of a Second. A mere apprentice would not be expected to fight in such things. Perhaps it had never been sworn within the temple grounds before.

He stared at Wallie doubtfully. He had gone from dull routine to the brink of death—or so he must believe—and then into high adventure. And this highly dangerous opponent was now, if his facemarks were true, a formidable protector.
 
“My liege,” he repeated, tasting the unfamiliar word.
 
Wallie gave him a moment to collect himself, then said, “Right! Now, Nnanji, there is going to be bloodshed. You will second me. Under no circumstances will you draw your sword. If you are attacked you will make obeisance instead. I waive onus of vengeance.” There would be no point in having both of them die if things did not go according to the book. “You know the duties of a second?” Nnanji beamed, excited. “Yes, my liege!”

That was lucky—they came from a sutra much higher in the list than the minimum required for second rank.

“You will make no offers, nor accept any.”

Nnanji’s eyes grew wide at that, but he said yes again.

Wallie nodded, satisfied. “Now, where is the reeve?”

“My liege, I think he is in the temple. He was watching the Time of Judgment.” Of course! He would. Wallie raised his eyes to look across the heat-blurred courtyard to the great steps. The top was crowded with multicolored spectators watching this unexpected drama. Somewhere in there Hardduju must be thinking hard.

He paused to plan his challenge.

“What ranks would you expect to be with him, apprentice?” Nnanji wrinkled his snub nose. “I saw him earlier, my liege, with Honorable Tarru and two Fifths.”