The Reluctant Swordsman (23 page)

Vixini was heading out the door again. Wallie strode over, scooped him up, and on the way back started to tickle him. Vixini shrieked with glee and sent a warm wet sensation down Wallie’s chest. His first thought was that he was in the middle of one of those priceless silk rugs. He scrambled to catch the flow with his spare hand and get over the woodwork. By the time he had done so and could hold the baby safely away from him, Vixini had done a fine job on him. Jja gave a gasp of horror and Wallie roared with laughter. Vixini grinned as toothlessly as Honakura.

Jja was staring at Wallie in dismay, and for some reason he found that funny also and laughed harder. She looked around for a rag or a towel and, not seeing any, grabbed up her dress and started to wipe his chest.
 
It was at that moment that Nnanji and Coningu came in. Wallie tried to explain, pointing to the baby he still held and the dark stain on his kilt, but the expression on Nnanji’s face was too much for him. He could not get the words out. Coningu would never be surprised by anything and was much too respectful to laugh at a Seventh, but he did turn away to straighten the wall hangings.
 
Nnanji had also brought a matronly female servant, Janu, housekeeper of the women’s quarters, and Wallie was surprised to learn that there would be no problem in having Vixini cared for. “You have children here, too?” “Oh yes, my lord,” Coningu said. “The women say it is the swordsmen’s fault, but I never heard of a swordsman having a baby. I shall ring for a fresh garment for you and some water, my lord.”

“Janu,” Wallie said. “I sent out to buy a slave and find I have two. As you can see, they are both naked at the moment. Jja’s dress was not worth the purpose to which she has just put it. I want her fitted out in suitable style. What would you recommend?” He hoped his credit was good.

“She is for night duty, my lord?” Janu asked, inspecting the naked Jja as a cook might inspect a piece of meat, but not waiting for an answer. She scowled at Jja’s feet and looked closely at her hands. “For the baby, a blanket, back sling, and a hood for rainy days. For the woman, two day dresses, sandals, boots for wet weather, and a cloak. I presume at least one gown for evening wear and suitable shoes? We can’t do much with her hair until it grows longer, and her finger and toe nails . . . I’ll see what we can manage. A few scents and body oils and cosmetics, nothing too elaborate. “ Wallie looked at Jja. “Anything else you want? Will that do to start with?” She nodded, her eyes wide. “Very well,” he said. “I am sure that Janu will advise you and dress you in proper style for my station. I shall settle the purchases later.”

He gave Jja what he hoped was an encouraging smile. She went off wrapped in a bedsheet, looking overwhelmed.

Wallie was feeling the same way. He had a nagging suspicion that he also had just been given a present, and his conscience would allow him no peace for even thinking like that.

By the time Wallie had repaired the effects of Vixini’s performance, Nnanji was seeing the funny side. Such courage, he said slyly—to do that all over a Seventh!

Wallie agreed. “This is turning out to be quite a day,” he said. “And the jewel was acceptable to the formidable Kikarani?”

Nnanji laughed. “I never saw anything vanish faster, my liege.” He had passed the test, for Nnanji attempting to lie would have red warning lights all over his face. Wallie was not going to tell him about it, though. He said, “By the way, the armorer confirms your opinion of my sword—the seventh sword of Chioxin.”

Nnanji beamed. “I wish I had heard that part of the ballad, then, my liege.” “Apparently there isn’t any more. Chioxin gave it to the Goddess, and no more was heard of it.”

Unlike Tarru, Nnanji was willing to believe in miracles. He laughed excitedly.

“And now the Goddess has given it to Shonsu!”

“Certainly, although I perversely refused to say so. But I am curious. It was three years ago that you heard that ballad?”

A shy smile slid into Nnanji’s eyes. “A little longer, my liege.”

Wallie stared at him, then seated himself on the floor and laid down his sword.
 
Nnanji immediately sat in front of him and put his sword across the first. It was the traditional position for the reciting of sutras.
 
“How far have you got?”

Coincidence? “Lucky me! Let’s hear a few. Eighty-four, ‘On Footwear.’ ” They chanted in alternation back and forth. The sutras were a revelation to Wallie. He had them all in his memory, but he had never learned them, and each came out fresh, as if he was hearing it for the first time. They were a mixed bag, from crude jingles to lengthy lists. Some short, some long, they covered a myriad of topics: technique, ritual, strategy, professional ethics, tactics, anatomy, first aid, logistics—even personal hygiene. Many were dull and trite, but a few had the barbaric grandeur found in the best of preliterate narrative everywhere. Some were banal, others as obscure as Zen koans. Most contained a law, an anecdote, and a proverb. As Honakura had said, the stories helped the memory, but frequently the association of ideas was subtle and thought-provoking.

Nnanji was word-perfect in every one they tried, so Wallie chanted five eighteen, ‘On Hostages.’ Nnanji chanted it right back. Surprised, Wallie gave him two more and then had him go back to ‘Hostages.’ He made no errors. Wallie knew that preliterates could often perform astonishing feats of memory, but Nnanji seemed phenomenal. Honakura had been correct: this was the hand of the Goddess.

His protégé was looking understandably smug. “All right, smarty,” Wallie said.
 
“Here’s five eighty-two, ‘On the Feeding of Horses.’ ” That was the longest, dullest, and least associative of them all. He stumbled a couple of times himself before he got it right. Nnanji sat and watched his lips. Then he recited it back—without the stumbles.

Wallie Smith had been taught to read and write. He was thus, by Nnanji’s standards, a mental cripple. “You win!” he said, and Nnanji grinned. “If I went through all eleven hundred and forty-four of them, just once at one sitting, would you remember them all?”

Nnanji attempted to look humble. “I don’t think so, my liege.” Wallie laughed. “Don’t lie to me, vassal! You do think so, and I think you may be right, but I’m not man enough to try it. Let’s go see about your sword.”

The armory was located far from the temple, near the gate, where the noise would not disturb holy matters. Athinalani, free of his formal robe and wearing a leather apron, was banging away at an anvil while a sweating slave worked the bellows on the furnace. The armorer broke off at once and led his visitors into an inner room, where hundreds of swords and foils hung on racks—far more than the guard could ever break or lose. The economics puzzled Wallie, but perhaps one of the blessings of the World was that it had no economists. Yet there was a commercial air about the place that he found comforting and familiar.
 
Athinalani knew what sword he would be asked to buy. The respect he paid to its owner was clearly a novel and flattering experience for Nnanji. There would be no market for such a thing on this side of the River, said the armorer, but he was willing to offer three hundred golds for it if the valiant apprentice wished to make a quick sale. Nnanji just gasped and said, “Done!” That suited Wallie—one valuable sword was quite enough to worry about. He produced a sapphire and asked the armorer’s advice on how to liquidate that asset. Athinalani welcomed any chance to be of service to the bearer of the seventh sword of Chioxin and agreed to sell the gem in the town for him.
 
Selecting a new sword took time, with discussion of length and weight and flexibility and edge and bevel and damask. Nnanji listened wide-eyed, soaking up information. Wallie was fascinated by all the knowledge he was unearthing that had not been in his mind two days before—obviously Shonsu had known his theory as well as his practice. Athinalani was overjoyed at having a customer with such interest and expertise.

Then Wallie began to stray. Steel was not his specialty, but a chemical engineer must know something of the behavior of iron and carbon in crystalline matrices, so he started to discuss quenching and forging. The armorer grew suspicious, and his face darkened—a swordsman was trespassing on the sutras and secrets of another craft. So Wallie backed away quickly and conviviality returned.
 
At last all three were satisfied with a new sword for Nnanji—and Nnanji would not part with his old one. Wallie pointed out its faults at some length. Nnanji admitted them and finally confessed that he had a younger brother, whom he planned to enroll in the guard as soon as he himself had achieved third rank and could accept a protégé. That would never happen if Tarru had any say in the matter, and Nnanji was not going to be here anyway, but it was not Wallie’s problem, so he let it rest. Then there was the matter of foils. A swordsman needed a dummy weapon with the same feel as his own sword. Athinalani had foreseen the problem for the Chioxin and was already at work. His memory for length and weight was astonishingly accurate. He promised that the foil would be ready by sundown. As unofficial banker for the guard, he advanced both his customers some coins from the leather bag that served as his till. Wallie purchased a whetstone.

It had been as much fun as a tourist shopping trip—which, in a sense, it was for Wallie. He promised himself that he would come back for more chats with the armorer. The swordsmen stopped at the door while Athinalani went off to burnish Nnanji’s new sword—nothing below perfection would be allowed out of his shop.
 
Wallie established that lunch was eaten in the same place as breakfast.
 
“Right,” he said. “I’m slower than you, so I’ll leave now. Eat with your friends, and we’ll meet afterward. I need a word with Honorable Tarru.”

††††††

With his old sword on his back and his new sword and foil in a carrying sheath under his arm, Nnanji went striding back toward the barracks, chewing over a problem.

A new sword must be given—whom should he ask? It was an important tradition, although the sutras did not specifically demand it except in the case of a scratcher. As Briu had explained to him years ago, the purpose of that sutra was to make sure that it took at least two swordsmen to induct a boy into the craft: one to be his mentor, another to give him his first sword. But the swordsmen had extended the practice to any sword, even one that a man had bought for himself or won with a kill; before he wore it a friend must give it to him. A friend.
 
Not his mentor. Who?

Of course he could ask one of the other Seconds, like Darakaji or Fonddiniji, and normally he would not hesitate, but they had all been sending him black looks at breakfast. Briu had withdrawn his charges, but the bad taste would remain, and they were all jealous of him with his wonderful new mentor. If he asked Darakaji—or Fonddiniji—he might refuse. If one did, then they all would .
 
. . What then?

Still mulling, Nnanji reached one of the back doors of the barracks just as Adept Briu and Swordsman Landinoro came out and down the steps. There was the answer—at least Briu was the only man in the guard who could not now call him a coward in public. It would be a peace offering. Nnanji intercepted them and saluted.

“Adept,” Nnanji began, and it was strange not to call Briu “mentor.” “I would ask a favor of you.”

Briu looked at him coldly, glanced at the sword under his arm, and then turned to Landinoro. “He isn’t short of cheek, is he?” he said.
 
The Third shook his head, frowning.

Briu held out a hand, and Nnanji hopefully passed him the sword. The middleranks looked it over. “Nice bit of metal,” Briu said. “What do you think, Lan’o?
 
Should I give Rusty his sword or should I push it down his throat till the guard cracks his teeth?”

Landinoro chuckled. “After this morning’s affair, you best have a fast horse saddled if you plan to do that . . . might be worth it, though.” “Your boss buy this for you?” Briu demanded, testing the balance.

“H-he gave me Lord Hardduju’s sword, adept,” Nnanji stuttered. “And I sold it.”

Maybe this had not been a good idea.

The older men exchanged glances.

Briu looked hard at Nnanji. “That’s a strange mentor you picked up. Brought you a lot of luck, hasn’t he, apprentice?”

“Yes, adept.”

“’Yes, adept,”’ the Fourth echoed. “He hasn’t brought me any, though.” He was still looking over the sword, thinking. “He has guts, I’ll grant you. I never saw a man walk to the Judgment after the fat man had done his feet. And he jumped head first—did you know that?”

“Head first?” Nnanji said. “From the Place of Mercy?” That was incredible—but Shonsu was all incredible.

“I’ve never seen that, either,” Briu admitted. “Spread his arms out—thought he was going to fly away like a motherin’ bird. We stayed to watch, saw him walk out of the water. Okay—we were pleased about that, although we all thought the fat man would move on him quick. Then we got back here, and the place was all unstrapped—the fat man dead and the thin man wanting my head in a basket, accusing me of giving the prisoner a sword, saying he couldn’t have gone to the Judgment at all.” He gave Nnanji a hard look. “Do you know where he got that unspeakable sword?”

A protégé shall not discuss his mentor . . . Nnanji stood at attention and sweated.

Getting no reply, Briu said, “There’s odd stories going round about that sword.