The Reluctant Swordsman (16 page)

“Draw?” called Tarru’s second. A nice try, but he could not have much hope.
 
By the rules, Wallie should not speak and he dared not move his eyes from his opponent, but he made a quick nod.

There was a pause. Nnanji had been given fatally explicit instructions. For mortal challenge not to lead to blood was almost unthinkable. Would the lad understand?

“Draw accepted!” Nnanji’s voice was squeaky with excitement.
 
Wallie sighed with relief, flashed his second a smile of approval, and sheathed his sword. For a moment Tarru was too winded to move, then he came forward for the ritual embrace.

He made no apology, offered no congratulations, and hid any shame he might—and should—be feeling in the formalities of introducing his second.
 
“May I have the honor of presenting to the valiant Lord Shonsu my protégé, Master Trasingji of the Fifth?”

Wallie accepted his salute and said innocently, “I believe you may have already met my second, Honorable Tarru? Apprentice Nnanji of the Second, my liegeman.” Tarru glowered, and Trasingji choked. A Second bound by the blood oath? Nnanji swelled visibly and saluted.

They could probably spend all day on this sun-blasted griddle, mouthing meaningless formalities like a convention of Chinese mandarins, but Wallie was exhausted and finding these rituals absurd. “You will see that the remains of the noble Hardduju are attended with all due respect?” he asked, and Tarru bowed. “I am somewhat in need of the attentions of a healer myself. Could it please you to direct me to some place where I may rest?” Tarru bowed again, still panting. “The barracks of our temple guard provide but the most humble quarters for a so distinguished warrior, but if your lordship could graciously deign to accept our poor hospitality, we should be most honored.”

Wallie retrieved the sutra “On Hospitality” from his new mental databank and saw that the lions’ den might indeed be the safest place to be. “You are most kind.
 
I must summarily attend upon the Goddess and then I shall come at once.” Tarru gestured. Wallie became aware for the first time that the crowd was composed entirely of swordsmen. There were at least thirty of them. He sighed.
 
There would have to be more formalities.

Tarru presented another protégé. Then that protégé and Trasingji presented theirs in a sort of iron-age chain letter. Two other Fifths appeared and had to be presented and present their juniors. Wallie went through the gestures on automatic, the names sliding past him in a blur. He was vaguely aware that he was a celebrity. If Hardduju had ever inspired loyalty, it had now dissolved in professional admiration. They were genuinely respectful.
 
And of course they all assumed that he was about to become the new reeve. He had not thought to deny it. Should he do so or wait until later? He was too weary to solve such convoluted problems.

Then his wanderings were interrupted, the routine broken. The Fourth standing in front of him was not admiring—he was terrified, his sword visibly trembling.
 
Wallie forced his eyes to focus. The man’s face was familiar. He was one of the three who had beaten him up before he was taken to the jail. He searched back a few moments for the name . . . Meliu.

Revenge!

A third time he felt sudden rage. Red fringes flickered in his vision.
 
Meliu was beefy, about Shonsu’s age, and did not look too smart, although it was hard to tell in his present condition. What would Shonsu have done? Answer:

Shonsu would never have allowed himself to get into the sort of mess that Wallie had. Yet Shonsu’s reaction had expressed itself in that now-familiar blaze of anger—challenge and kill this hoodlum for having had the temerity to strike a Seventh. Wallie Smith’s inclination was to forgive, for the man had been acting under orders, and he who had given the orders had now paid the penalty. But to act like Wallie Smith was to risk trouble. He must stay in character. A sheep in wolf’s clothing should not bleat within the pack.
 
Compromise, then. Forcing down his fury, he ignored the salute and turned to the Fifth who had made the introduction.

“Who’s next?”

It was a crushing insult. The crowd waited to see what Meliu would do. He had the option of suicide—he could challenge. Instead he turned and fled. Believing Shonsu to be the next reeve, he would probably be gone from the temple before dark. Satisfactory!

Eventually they reached the end, the last stammering Third. All those Seconds and Firsts at the rear, thank the Goddess, did not count.
 
Tarru bowed slightly. “If I might make so bold, my lord, as to ask what dispositions you wish to make for the temple guard?” This was it, then. He decided to procrastinate, some uneasy instinct telling him that he should not explain their mistake.

“Until the priests see fit to appoint a replacement reeve, I am sure that you will do whatever is best, Honorable Tarru.”

“Lord Shonsu is most gracious . . . and Apprentice Nnanji of the Second? He is, er, detached from duty with the guard?”

Wallie turned to look at young Nnanji, who was attempting to stand at attention, but could not help sending Wallie an agonized plea out of the corners of his eyes.

“I shall retain Apprentice Nnanji in my personal service for the time being.”

Apprentice Nnanji relaxed.

Tarru bowed again. Wallie was feeling more tired by the minute and was frightened his fatigue might make him start to tremble. He made a curt farewell.
 
Forty swords flashed out in salute as he started toward the steps, his liegeman strutting proudly beside him.

†††††††

As soon as Lord Shonsu’s destination became clear, a tornado of activity developed within the multitude at the top of the great staircase. Wallie climbed slowly, being gentle to his throbbing feet, and halfway up he stopped altogether so that the priests could complete whatever they were organizing. He turned to admire the view. The Judgment looked much better from a distance than it did close to.

The guard had been formed up and was being marched away, arms swinging and heads high to impress the newcomer. A dust of pigeons was settling on the great courtyard behind them. Two slaves scrubbed the flags where the reeve had died.
 
Life was sweet—on any world. Wallie felt satisfied. The unpleasant matter of Hardduju he had disposed of easily, and even the knowledge that he was now a killer distressed him little. He was safe under the aegis of the swordsmen’s ways of honor. The only wrinkle in his comfort blanket was the memory of those sudden flashes of rage that had surged up every time his prickly Seventh’s status had been invoked—by Nnanji’s defiance, by Tarru’s impudent challenge, and by the chance to level scores with Meliu. That fury had not come from Wallie Smith, and he suspected that Shonsu, had he been there in his place, would have left four bleeding corpses behind, not one. Anger was fueled by adrenaline.
 
Adrenaline came from somewhere near the kidneys. He had not been given Shonsu’s personality, but he did have his glands, and he must take care in future that his Wallie Smith mind stayed in firm control of his Shonsu body.
 
He would be a swordsman, not a butcher.

Then he glanced at Nnanji and encountered a glazed smile of high-octane hero worship that annoyed him at once.

“Well done, vassal,” he said. “You were a great second.”

Nnanji at once blushed scarlet with pleasure.

“You did very well to interpret my signal about the draw,” Wallie added. “I should have given you more careful instructions beforehand.” “You were up his left armpit, my liege!”

Wallie discovered his memory transplant included swordsman slang, but he could have worked that one out—a left armpit was an impossible target in a right-handed opponent. There was a suggestion in Nnanji’s manner, though, that Wallie should have gone for a kill. Bloodthirsty young devil!
 
The hero worship grew more irritating the longer Wallie thought about it. The honor for a superbly trained body and virtuoso skill belonged to the late Lord Shonsu, not to him. But that distinction he could hardly hope to explain. This youngster obviously had the instant adhesive loyalty of a puppy, and Wallie would have to find some gentle method of detaching him.
 
He glanced up at the arches. The pilgrims had been herded into two wedges at the sides, leaving the center free for his entrance. “I think we’ve given them enough time to fix their hair,” he said. “Let’s go.” Let’s go . . . he had acquired that phrase from the demigod.
 
The guards at the center arch were now two of the Fifths he had just met, still puffing slightly from their run to get there before him. They saluted as he stepped into the cool shadow of the arch, receiving an acknowledgment from Wallie and an impudent smirk from Nnanji.

So Lord Shonsu entered the great nave for the third time, Wallie Smith for the second. Its cool vastness was still overpowering, the blaze of lights from the windows still resplendent. There was no priest there to conduct him, and he strode straight forward as well as he could on his blood-soaked sandals. Halfway along the nave he came to the beginning of the priesthood, a double line stretching from there all the way to the altar. Priests on one side, priestesses on the other, Firsts in their white at the front, yellow Seconds after them.
 
As he passed, each one knelt down, making him feel like a storm blowing through a forest—it was embarrassing and horrible to him. He felt unworthy and phony. He wanted to shout at them to stop it, but all he could do was hurry on as fast as he could and not watch.

Nnanji gulped when the kneeling started and whispered, “Should I wait, my liege?” in an urgent tone.

“You stick to me like rust!” Wallie commanded in the same sort of whisper, and the two of them made the royal procession along the nave together, liege in a slave’s dirty rag and liegeman in a threadbare yellow kilt. Only Wallie’s sword and hairclip were in the right company.

Then, several hundred priests and priestesses later, they reached the end, and their way was blocked by a group of incredibly ancient women in blue, toothless and wrinkled in the extreme, some of them in carrying chairs. They, too, began to kneel.

“The Holy Mothers!” Nnanji said in an awed voice.
 
“Do not kneel to me, ladies,” Wallie protested. “I am but a simple swordsman come to do homage to the Goddess.”

They knelt anyway.

Red-faced and angry, Wallie stepped through a small gap in the middle of the line and over to the edge of the dais. And there stood the minute figure of Lord Honakura, smiling proudly at him. Wallie gave him a quick nod. Then in silence he dropped to his knees and made his obeisance to the Goddess. All the proper swordsman prayers and ritual were there in his head—he begged forgiveness, he pledged his sword to Her service, he vowed obedience. He waited, but there was no reply, and he had not expected one. His real dedication had been done elsewhere; this performance was not for the Goddess, it was for the spectators, and perhaps for him. Frightened that he might go to sleep on the floor, he scrambled up, followed again by Nnanji.

He took a farewell glance at the wealth of centuries glittering on the dais.
 
Nothing he saw there would compare with his sword, yet what had once seemed to him a shameful jackdaws’ hoard of extortion now struck him as a magnificent tribute. Worshipers for thousands of years had brought their most beautiful possessions, their greatest treasures, to lay before their beloved Goddess. Who was he to question their purpose? Strange how what one saw depended on how one looked.

He turned to Honakura. Him you may trust, the god had said, implying that others might not be trustworthy. Before Wallie could speak, however, the priest beat him to it.

“The council is prepared to induct you as reeve at once, my lord,” he said, beaming, “although we should prefer to arrange something more formal for tomorrow, or the day after.” He glanced sympathetically at Wallie’s feet and the bloodstains they had left on the floor where he had knelt.
 
There was no one else within earshot. “I shall not be accepting the office of reeve,” Wallie replied quietly.

That was a shock, and for a moment the tiny old man was at a loss for words.

Then he blurted out, “But, my lord, we talked of this . . . ” Wallie fought down a devilish temptation to say, “You made that deal with Shonsu, and I am Wallie Smith.” He resisted it, but only just. “My regrets, holy one.”

Honakura was looking astonished, worried, and even betrayed. Wallie recalled the god’s snide remark about temple politics.

“I have been forbidden to accept,” he said simply.

“Forbidden?”

A swordsman of the Seventh? Then understanding dawned, and the old man’s eyes went to the sword hilt.

Wallie nodded. “Today I talked with a god,” he explained gently. “He gave me this sword and told me to kill Hardduju. But he also forbade me to remain in the temple. I have been given a task to perform for the Goddess, a matter of greater importance to Her, and I must go hence.”

There was certainly no appealing that authority. Honakura bowed. “That is the greatest honor that could be given a mortal, my lord. I count myself fortunate even to have met you.” It was flowery politeness, but there might be some sincerity in it.

“I shall go to the barracks now,” Wallie said. My feet are killing me! “Perhaps we may talk tomorrow, holy one?”

“Of course, my lord.” The old man dropped his voice to a whisper. “Beware of treachery, Lord Shonsu!”