The Reluctant Swordsman (3 page)

Which was, of course, the whole idea.

Even a day like that one must end. As the sun god began to grow tired of his glory and dip toward his exit, the venerable Lord Honakura sought rest and peace in a small room high in one of the minor wings of the temple. He had not visited those parts for years. They were even more labyrinthine than the rest of the complex, but ideal for his purpose. Trouble, he knew, was seeking him out—it might as well be given as long a search as possible.
 
The room was a small, bare chamber, higher than it was wide, with walls of sandstone blocks and a scarred floor of planks bearing one small, threadbare rug. There were two doors, for which even giants need not have stooped, and a single window of diamond panes, whorled and dusty, blurring the light to green and blue blotches. The window frame had warped so that it would not open, making the room stuffy, smelling of dust. The only furniture was a pair of oaken settles. Honakura was perched on one of those, dangling his feet, trying to catch his breath, wondering if there was any small detail he might have overlooked.

Knuckles tapped, a familiar face peered in and blinked at him. He sighed and rose as his nephew Dinartura entered, closed the door, and advanced to make the salute to a superior.

“I am Dinartura,” right hand to heart, “healer of the third rank,” left hand to forehead, “and it is my deepest and most humble wish,” palms together at the waist, “that the Goddess Herself,” ripple motion with right hand, “will see fit to grant you long life and happiness,” eyes up, hands at the sides, “and to induce you to accept my modest and willing service,” eyes down, “in any way in which I may advance any of your noble purposes,” hands over face, bow.
 
Honakura responded with the equally flowery acknowledgment, then waved him to the other settle.

“How is your dear mother?” he asked.

Dinartura was a stooped young man with thinning light-brown hair and the start of a potbelly. He had lately abandoned the kilt of youth for the sleeveless gown of middle age, a cotton robe in the brown color of his rank, and he tended now to hold things very close to his nose when he wanted to see them. He was the youngest of Honakura’s sister’s children and, in Honakura’s opinion, an inexcusably prosaic dullard, boringly reliable.
 
After the formalities had been given a respectable hearing, Honakura said, “And how is the patient?” He smiled, but he waited anxiously for the reply.
 
“Still out cold when I left.” Dinartura was presuming on his nephewship to be informal. “He has a bump on his head this big, but there are no morbid signs.
 
Eyes and ears are fine. I expect he will awaken in time, and be as good as new in a day or two.”

Honakura sighed with relief, so the healer added hastily, “If She wills, of course. Head injuries are not predictable. If I did not know you, my lord uncle, I would be more cautious.”

“We must be patient, then. You think two days?” “Three might be safer,” the healer said. “If you have any strenuous exercise in mind for him,” he added, being uncharacteristically perceptive. “When you need to tie him down would be about right, I think.” After a pause he said, “And may I inquire what all this is about? There are many rumors, not one of which seems credible.”

Honakura chuckled, slavering slightly. “Find the least credible and you will be closest to the truth. Under the nightingale, then?” “Of course, my lord.”

Honakura smiled to himself at the memory. “Your patient is one of five young men injured in the temple today.”

“Five!” Dinartura peered closer to see if his uncle was serious.
 
For a moment Honakura wondered how much power he had expended during the day. He had very few IOUs left to call now; he had amassed debts. “Very sad, you will agree? All lying prone, covered by sheets, and not speaking or moving. All have been rushed to safe places—in litters, in sedan chairs, in carriages. In some case the litters were borne by priests, too! At least twenty-two healers have been running around, and a few dozen other people. A couple of the victims were taken right out of the temple grounds, into the town, but others went from room to room, in one door and out the other . . . There are eight or nine sickrooms like this”—he gestured toward the other great oaken door—“presently being guarded.”

That door led out into another corridor, but he saw no reason to mention the fact.

“Guarded by priests,” the younger man said. “Then you do not trust the swordsmen? Of course I saw my patient. Do swordsmen really act as you obviously fear?”

The priest nodded sadly. “In this case, nephew, perhaps.” The temple had a guard to maintain order, to protect the pilgrims, and to punish crime . . . but who watched the watchers?

“I have heard stories,” Dinartura muttered, “of pilgrims molested on the trail, especially. Are you saying that the swordsmen do this?” “Ah, well!” Honakura replied cautiously. “Not directly. The gang or gangs on the trail are not swordsmen—but they are not tracked down as they should be, so there is bribery.”

“But surely most are men of honor?” protested his nephew. “Are there none you can trust?”

The old man sighed. “Run down to the courtyard, then,” he suggested. “Pick out a swordsman—a Third, say, or a Fourth—and ask him if he is a man of honor. If he says—” The healer paled and made the sign of the Goddess. “I had rather not, my lord!” His uncle chuckled. “You are sure?”

“Quite sure, thank you, my lord!”

Pity! Honakura found the thought entertaining. “You are right, in a way, nephew.
 
Most, I am sure, are honorable, but every one is sworn to a mentor, who in turn is sworn to his own mentor or, ultimately, to the reeve himself. He alone has given an oath to the temple. Now, if he does not order a patrol on the trail, who is to suggest it to him? The rest obey orders—and say nothing. Indeed, they must guard their tongues even more carefully than the rest of us. Their danger is greater.”

Then he noticed the look he was being given and knew exactly what thought accompanied it: The old boy is wonderful for his age . . . He found that very irritating and patronizing. He was still better at almost anything than this ninny would ever be.

“So what are you doing about it, my lord uncle?” Typically stupid question, Honakura thought. “Praying, of course! Today She answered our prayers by sending a Seventh. She summoned a demon to drive him here.”

“Are your exorcisms always so violent?” Dinartura asked and flinched at the frown he received.

“Exorcisms are rare, but the sutras warn that there may be extreme reaction.”

Honakura fell silent, and there was a pause.

The settle creaked as Dinartura leaned back and regarded his uncle with some curiosity. “This Seventh?” he asked. “Why insult him with those quarters, with a single slave instead of a flock of attendants?” Honakura recovered his good spirits and chuckled.
 
“It was the most unlikely place I could think to put him—a lowly pilgrim cottage. It opens directly onto a busy road, and he has no clothes, so he isn’t going anywhere if he wakes up. But tell me,” he added with interest. “The slave?
 
Kikarani promised a pretty one. How did she look?” His nephew frowned, thinking. “Just a slave girl,” he said. “I told her to wash him. She was tall . . . and large. Yes, quite pretty, I suppose.” He thought some more and added, “A certain animal sensuality, if a man wanted that.” That was typical! At least Honakura still noticed pretty girls. He knew very well what duties Priestess Kikarani assigned to her slaves. She fought fang and claw to keep her position as hospitaler, so he could guess what sort of girls she had. “Nephew! Did you not notice?”

The younger man’s face turned pink. “I think that she will suffice, uncle, if the swordsman wakes up and wants something to do . . . and finds that he has no clothes.”

The old priest cackled. He would have said more, but at that moment the door flew open, and loud voices could be heard shouting in the anteroom. Then the reeve marched in. Honakura scrambled to his feet and scurried over to the other exit. He turned his back on the door and the blandest expression he could manage on the newcomer.

Hardduju of the Seventh was a large man, although not the size of Shonsu. He was around forty, starting to run to fat. His beefiness bulged over the top of a kilt of blue brocade shot through with gold thread; it bulged also between the tooled leather straps of his harness. He had no neck. The sword hilt behind his right ear glittered and flashed with many small rubies set in gold filigree. The hairclip holding his thinning ponytail shone in matching gold and ruby fires, as did the gold and ruby band on one fleshy arm. His boots were of kidskin beaded with garnets. His heavy face was inflamed and furious.
 
“Hah!” he said on seeing Honakura. For a moment the two stood in silent confrontation—neither the priests’ craft nor the swordsmen’s could ever admit that the other had higher status. But Hardduju was obviously the younger, and the visitor. Moreover, he was impatient, so he yielded precedence, whipping out his sword. The healer flinched, but it was merely the start of the swordsmen’s version of the greeting to an equal. “I am Hardduju, swordsman of the seventh rank . . . ”

When it was finished, Honakura gave his most impeccable response in his thin, slurred voice, waving his twisted old hands in the gestures.
 
Behind the reeve appeared a muscular young swordsman of the Fourth in an orange kilt, and a weedy slave in the usual black loincloth. The slave carried a large bundle wrapped in a cloak. He was ignored, but after a hesitation, Hardduju proceeded to present Adept Gorramini.

Honakura in turn offered Healer Dinartura.

Then the swordsman stepped very close, folded his thick arms, and glared down at the little priest. “You have a swordsman of the Seventh?” he barked, without waiting for further niceties.

“You refer to the formidable Lord Shonsu, I presume?” Honakura said, as though there might be some doubt. “I did have the honor of being of assistance to the dread lord this morning, yes.” He studied Hardduju’s harness with interest, it being at eye level for him.

“An exorcism, I understand?” The swordsman was having trouble keeping his voice within polite limits, the priest noted—and made a vow to irritate him much more before he was done. He raised an invisible eyebrow at the harness and mumbled some nonsense about professional ethics.

“It would have been proper for the valiant lord to have paid his respects to me upon arrival,” Hardduju snarled, “but then I understand that he was not suitably dressed. I have come, therefore, to wait upon him and wish him a speedy recovery.”

“You are most gracious, my lord.” Honakura beamed.

“I shall certainly see that your good offices are reported to him.”

The swordsman scowled. “I have brought a sword and other trappings for him.” That was unexpected good fortune. Honakura wondered how reliable the sword might be. “Your kindness is beyond belief! If you would be so good as to have your slave leave them here, then I shall see that he gets them and is informed of your benevolence.”

A low growl escaped from the beefy chest. “I beg leave to pay him my respects in person. Now!”

The old man shook his head sadly. “He is resting, and indeed is in the care of the resourceful healer.”

Hardduju turned to regard Dinartura like something scraped off the sole of his boot. “A Third, to care for a Seventh? I shall bring a more cunning and a better.”

“The knowledgeable healer is a nephew of mine,” Honakura remarked brightly.
 
“Aha!” Hardduju bared teeth in satisfaction. “So I have found the real one at last! Well, I shall not disturb the doughty lord unduly. But I shall pay my respects.” He reached to open the door, and Honakura spread his arms to block him. He was not seriously worried about overt violence, for priests were sacrosanct, but he knew that he might be laying himself open to dark deeds in the future. Hopefully Shonsu would take care of that possibility for him in a day or two.

For a moment the two faced off. The reeve started to raise his sword hand.
 
“Go ahead, my lord,” Honakura baited. Even the gorilla of the Fourth was looking startled at the move.

But the reeve was not quite rash enough to draw on a priest of the Seventh.
 
Instead he just picked him up like a child and set him aside. Then he flung open the door and marched through it.

The younger swordsman grinned triumphantly at the priest and moved to follow. He was almost knocked over as Hardduju came storming back into the room.
 
Honakura winked at his nephew.

Then he turned politely back to the reeve. “You will have to be patient, my lord, as I said.” He paused and then added very deliberately, “But the implacable lord has assured me that he will call upon you in the near future.” The swordsman glared furiously . . . apprehensively? Then he barked at the slave to lay down the bundle and led Gorramini away. The slave closed the door silently. Honakura looked at his nephew and chuckled, rubbing his hands.

He tottered off wearily then toward his own quarters, thinking he had earned a warm soak and a good repast. By the time he arrived, however, he had reluctantly concluded that his normally lackluster nephew had made an astute observation for once. No lord of the seventh rank would be pleased to awaken in a sleazy pilgrim hut. An important ally must not be alienated. He issued more orders.
 
Shortly thereafter, no less than six sedan chairs began to circulate around the temple grounds, all with curtains drawn. One by one they eventually passed out through the gate into the town and circulated some more. They dropped passengers and then picked up others . . .