The Reluctant Swordsman (38 page)

There was no evidence of brigands, but they would not advertise, and he could not relax. Certainly the road could have been designed for them; it wound and twisted and rolled. At every bend he half expected to see a line of armed men standing in his path.

He sweated unendingly in his pillows and a fog of flies. His canteen was soon empty. Apparently the stirrup had not yet been invented in the World, and the saddles were a sadistic torment, rubbing folds of wet clothing against his flesh to raise blisters, then rubbing them away again. Heat prostration was becoming a real hazard for him now, and he finally decided that he had better conserve what was left of his fighting strength. He slipped off his mount and stripped back down to his kilt and harness. The relief was unspeakable. Out of his padding came his boots. He put them on, tucked the skinner’s dagger in his belt, and ran to catch up with the train.

First he reached Cowie, who looked pitifully confused and miserable. He tried speaking to her, but she merely blinked slowly and did not reply. “Won’t be long!” he assured her and could not resist patting her lovely thigh. In a few days Nnanji would likely be honored to lend . . . He suppressed that lustful thought firmly.

He stepped out again to catch up with Honakura and was shocked by his haggard appearance.

“Are you all right, holy one?”

For a moment there was no reply. Then Honakura peered at him and said, “No. What are you going to do about it?” and closed his eyes once more.
 
Katanji did not have a grin as huge as his brother’s, but he was doing the best he could, obviously enjoying himself greatly. If this was a swordsman’s life, then he was obviously in favor, not knowing that he had already found more excitement than he should normally encounter in years.
 
Wallie called to Nnanji, who jumped off and came back to walk on the other side.
 
He noticed the dagger at once and scowled at it. Katanji was now looking down on a swordsman escort; he seemed to find that more fun than ever.
 
“Can I have my sword back now?” Not having appeared unarmed in public since he reached adolescence, Nnanji must be feeling horribly naked and vulnerable without his beloved sword.

“Not yet!” Wallie said. “I only stripped because I was cooking like meat in a pie. You saw Tarru go by—I think he’ll stay at the jetty, but he might return.
 
There may well be messengers going to and fro. So we won’t show our swords yet.

If we hear hooves, then it’s the bushes for me. Now, tell me about the dock.” Nnanji said, “I was only there once, when I was a First.” The grieved expression faded as he stalked along beside the mule, looking blankly ahead, retrieving from his infallible databank.

Wallie could feel very sorry for Nnanji. Only that morning his world had come together just as he might have planned it. He had made his first challenge, proved his courage against a real sword, and made his first kill—all those things would matter greatly to him. He had achieved middlerank, so that he could accept his brother’s oath and buy that dream slave. How he must have been relishing the thought of displaying her in the saloon that evening!
 
Then the world had all come apart again, much worse than before. His hero had proved to have not merely feet of clay, but devils’ hooves. Midnight had chimed.
 
Cinderella’s coach had turned into a lemon.

“The road ends suddenly,” Nnanji said, “in a clearing by the water’s edge—about a hundred paces both ways—and there is a paddock in it and only one building, the guardhouse. That’s about twenty paces square, I should think. You can only get to the jetty by going through the guardhouse—the road runs right through.
 
Big arch one end and another at the other. Horse stalls on one side, and rooms on the other—a kitchen and dormitory and such. It was messy and not much used when I saw it. Nothing upstairs but a loft-hay and so on. No windows on the horses’ side. That’s . . . downstream.”

“Very well done!” Wallie said. “Good report, adept.” Nnanji’s smile died stillborn. For a while they walked along beside the mule in silence, flapping hands at flies.

Wallie said, “I’m going to slip away before we reach it, then. As soon as I go, you can put on your sword.”

He glanced up at Katanji. “You listen to this, too. I ask you, Nnanji, to get the others safely to Hann. Don’t argue! That’s the best thing you can do for me, for then I have only myself to worry about. I shall try to get on the boat as it leaves, but don’t hold it for me—just go. Wait for me in Hann. We need a rendezvous. You must have heard of some inns in Hann?” Another recall. “There’s The Seven Swords.”

“No, I don’t want one where swordsmen might stay.” Nnanji looked surprised and thought some more. “The Gold Bell, but the food is bad.”

Incredible memory! That must have come from some chance remark, perhaps heard years ago. Wallie was going to miss Nnanji.

“Right! If I’m not on the boat, then please put Jja and Vixi and the old man in The Gold Bell and pay their board for ten days. If there’s no word from me by then, I give you Jja. The old man you can trust, but he doesn’t look as though he’ll live to the jetty, let alone Hann.”

“Tarru won’t let me through,” Nnanji said angrily.
 
“I think he may, Nnanji, and I’m only asking you to look after Jja, not telling you.” Wallie took a deep breath. “I’m going to release you from your oaths.” “NO!” Nnanji shouted, staring in horror across the mule at him. “You must not, my liege!”

“I’m going to. I’d do it now, but I don’t want you putting on your sword.” “But . . . ” Probably Nnanji had thought that things could not get worse, and now they had.

“But you will have to denounce me,” Wallie said, completing the thought. “You have seen abominations. It is your duty to denounce me to a higher rank or stronger force. Tarru’s is a stronger force. Go ahead! He’ll love it. He’ll be so happy that he’ll let you go free.”

“The second oath can’t be annulled unless I agree, too!” Nnanji said triumphantly.

“Then I order you to agree!” Wallie replied, amused at the backward logic of the conversation. “As my vassal you must obey, right?” It really wasn’t fair to tie up Nnanji in such mental knots. He had no answer, his face a wasteland of despair. Now he was torn between his ideals and his duty on one hand and—clearly—personal loyalty on the other. Wallie was touched, but determined.

“You don’t trust me!” Nnanji muttered.

There was truth in that. His loyalty was unquestionable, but his subconscious might be resurrecting the killer earthworm.

“I trust your honor and your courage totally, Nnanji, but I think that this is leading to a showdown between me and Tarru. I want Jja taken care of—you will do that for me? For friendship alone?”

“But Tarru committed abominations first,” Nnanji said angrily. “How can I denounce you to him?”

That was Wallie’s defense, of course. “Did you see those? Do you have any evidence, except what the slaves said? A slave’s testimony is not admissible, Nnanji.”

Nnanji had no answer.

“He probably doesn’t know you know of his misdeeds,” Wallie said. “Anyway, I’m going to release you and I’m going to leave you. Now, please, Nnanji my friend, will you look after Jja and Vixini for me, and the old man if he lives?” Angrily, not looking at him, Nnanji nodded.

“But it is possible that Tarru will detain you and let the rest go,” Wallie said, wondering if Tarru would know that Honakura was a fugitive from his jail.
 
“If so, then you, novice, will then have to do what I just told Nnanji. The old man is a Nameless One. Neither he nor the slaves can carry money. If Nnanji is stopped, you are in charge.”

The light died from Katanji’s youthful face. Wallie rehearsed him, made sure he understood, and gave him money. When he had done, both brothers looked equally worried and unhappy.

“Now cheer up!” Wallie said. “The Goddess is with us, and I’m sure She will see us safely through this. Anyway one last thing—if the worst happens, don’t sell Vixini away from Jja! Good luck.”

He trotted forward to talk with Jja for a while. She smiled bravely at him, but she was worried about Vixini, who was exhausted and hungry. Wallie could say little to cheer her up. Then he returned to his own mule, the mule that carried the most valuable piece of movable property in the World. He sat and brooded some more.

It was a strategy of desperation. If, by a miracle, Tarru was not at the jetty, then Nnanji and the others might very easily get through unquestioned. If that happened, Wallie was going to swim out to their boat, or another. If Tarru was there, then he might let Nnanji go—unlikely! Or he might detain Nnanji and let the others through—not much more likely. But at least they would distract him while Wallie improvised something. He was not fighting the whole guard, now maybe ten or a dozen, and half of those would be trash. The odds were getting better.

At long last the trees thinned, the trail reached a cliff edge, and he had his first view of the River. He was astonished at the size of it. He could barely see the far bank, although he was atop a scarp that was almost as high as the wall of the temple valley. In the far distance the evening sun gleamed on roofs and spires, probably temples in Hann, but otherwise only a faint line divided blue sky from a vastness of twinkling water, decorated here and there with sails of various colors and shapes. For the first time he could appreciate how this great navigable flood so dominated the culture of the People that they would worship it as their Goddess.

He prayed that he might win through to sail on it. He wondered where it might take him.

The trail wavered in and out of the woods, giving glimpses of the bank ahead and then a brief view of the port. He saw the solitary wooden building on the water’s edge and a jetty of red stonework running out a long way over the pale blue water. At the end of it a boat was unloading and loading passengers—the River must be very shallow there to need so long a pier. Then it all vanished behind more trees.

His next concern was where to leave the mule train. He got his answer when the trail abruptly plunged back into jungle and started to descend a thickly wooded gully. Soon the trail was almost as dark as night and completely concealed. He could relax and wait until they were almost there. A mule train came by, bringing in another contingent of pilgrims.

Then the slope leveled off. The road ahead began to brighten. He shouted to the skinner to halt, dismounted, and went up to him.
 
“How far now, skinner?”

“Next bend, my lord,” the rat-faced man replied nervously.
 
“You have done us proudly,” Wallie said. “Enjoy your reward when you get back. I need a minute, here.”

As he walked back to the apprehensive Nnanji, the mules started to bray angrily, smelling the water ahead.

“No! Please, my liege! Don’t!” Nnanji was in torment.
 
Wallie smiled and shook his head. “Nnanji of the Fourth, I release you from your oaths.” He did not offer to shake hands, not as a man without honor. “Please don’t watch where I go,” he said. “The Goddess be with you, friend. You were a great vassal!”

Then he shouted to the skinner to go ahead, pulled the seventh sword from its place on the mule, and stepped into the trees.

†††††

Tarru might have set watchers in the woods, but that was unlikely if the situation was as Nnanji had described it. The man was holding a very strong tactical position and he need not divide his forces. He was facing an open meadow and he had horses. He held the only road. Wallie must come to him. He had the numbers.

The jungle canopy was so dense that there was almost no ground cover. Wallie pounded along between the pillars, through the hot green gloom, until he reached a wall of undergrowth flourishing in the sunlight at the edge of the clearing.
 
He could catch glimpses of the guardhouse now, but he turned upstream and ran around, heading for the water, his feet thumping squishily in rotting leaves.
 
The downstream side had no windows, Nnanji had said, so there was more likely to be a sentry there.

Then he was at the bank and he stopped to catch his breath, gasping in the sultry heat. Two or three billion insects discovered him at once and brought their friends. Ignoring them, he peered out through the leaves.
 
The meadow was, as Nnanji had said, flat, grassy, and open. It ran down very gently to the River, ending in a bank as low as a doorstep. It contained no cover, just a ramshackle corral at the end of the trail. The colors were all as brilliant as a child’s painting—grass and jungle in vibrant greens, the water an improbable sparkling blue.

Only the guardhouse was drab, its planks shabby, silvered by weather, and showing many layers of patchings. Larger than he had expected, it straddled the water’s edge and the start of the crumbling red stone jetty. The jetty was deserted at the moment, but another boat was coming in. His friends had dismounted and were slowly making their way over the meadow to the building.
 
There were no guards in sight, no one but his party and the skinner. Trap?
 
Nnanji and his brother were wearing their swords again. They were supporting Honakura between them, making slow progress. Vixini was wailing loudly in his sling on Jja’s back. Cowie was following Nnanji in a seductive hip-swinging saunter.

Wallie waited until they had entered the building, in case they saw him and gave him away to watchers. He counted time to the moment of maximum distraction. They would enter an empty shed, walk forward . . . when the last one was inside, the trap would be sprung behind them. Tarru would accost them. After a moment or two Nnanji would tell them he was no longer Shonsu’s vassal . . . surprise and reevaluation . . .