The Reluctant Swordsman (4 page)

Having changed sedan chairs twice, and being satisfied that he had sufficiently confused any possible followers, Honakura ordered his bearers to proceed out of town. There was only one road, and it angled steeply up the valley wall. A few centuries earlier some enterprising builder had constructed a line of cottages along the side of this road, and these were available for pilgrims—not the wealthy, but not the poorest either, for the poor slept under trees.
 
He had not come this way for many years and he peered with almost childish excitement through a gap in the curtain at the tangle of roofs and treetops below him. Beyond the town, of course, towered the massive pile of the temple itself, its golden spires gleaming in the warm rays of the sun god, who was now nearing the horizon by the pillar of spray that stood always above the Judgment.
 
The worst part of old age, Honakura decided then, was boredom. He had not enjoyed a day so much for longer than he could recall.
 
The chair stopped, and he clambered out as nimbly as he could, dodging then through the bead curtain that hung over the cottage door before him.
 
The place was even smaller and more dingy than he had expected, merely four walls of greasy stone blocks and a low thatch ceiling that stank abominably after a day of tropic sun. He noted the one window and a bed whose sag and tilt were obvious even from the doorway; uneven stone flags on the floor; two ramshackle wood chairs and a rough table; a small bronze mirror fastened to the wall. After a couple of breaths he could smell the acrid traces of urine and bodies under the stink of the thatch. The fleas and bedbugs could be taken for granted.

Evening sunlight streamed through the window onto the wall beside the bed, where the swordsman lay flat on his back. He looked even larger than Honakura remembered, wearing nothing but a cloth laid over his loins, sleeping as babies should but so seldom do.

A girl was sitting on one of the chairs at his side, patiently waving a fly whisk. She slid swiftly to her knees when she saw the rank of her visitor.
 
Honakura waved at her to rise, then turned as his bearers followed him in with a large hamper and the bundle contributed by the nefarious Hardduju. Quietly he ordered them to return in an hour.

The swordsman was obviously alive, but not conscious, and hence no immediate problem. Because he had teased his nephew on the subject, the old man took the time to study the girl’s appearance more carefully than he might otherwise have done. She wore only a brief black wrap, of course, and her hair was roughly hacked short, but she was clearly of good peasant stock—tall and strongly built.
 
her features broad but attractive, marred by the black slave line that ran down the middle of her face from hairline to mouth. Yet her skin was free of pockmarks, her breasts were splendidly rounded under the wrap, her limbs well formed. The wide, full lips looked enticing. Honakura was impressed. She was probably worth five or six golds on the open market. He wondered how much Kikarani made off her in a week and how many more like her the old witch ran in her stable. Yes, had the swordsman required entertainment, he would certainly have found this one adequate.

“Has he awakened at all?”

She shook her head, nervous at his high rank. “No, my lord.” She had a pleasantly tuneful contralto voice. “I thought he was going to, my lord, for he was groaning. Then he quieted. He seems to be just sleeping a normal sort of sleep now, my lord.”

That seemed a reasonable guess, and it was a perceptive comment from a slave.
 
Obviously she had obeyed Dinartura’s instructions and washed the swordsman. He looked quite respectable. She had even combed out his long black hair.
 
Honakura hesitated, but if there was truly danger, as he feared, then every visit he made would increase that danger. The potential victim must be warned.
 
“Waken him!” he ordered.

The girl cringed. Probably she had never met a Seventh before and now she was alone with two of them. “Go on,” he said, more gently. “I won’t let him eat you.”

Gingerly she reached down and gave the sleeper’s shoulder a gentle shake.

The swordsman sat up.

The movement was so sudden that the girl leaped back with a gasp, and even Honakura retreated a pace from the foot of the bed. The man glared wildly around, heavy black eyebrows lowered in a scowl. He took in Honakura and the woman and the room in one lightning scrutiny. Then he seemed to relax a fraction. He looked them all over once more, sitting upright and not saying a word. He lingered his gaze appreciatively over the girl and finally brought it back to the man facing him.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

Honakura recoiled another pace at this unexpected vulgarity. Then he recalled that they had not observed the proprieties of formal salutes at their earlier meeting and so, although he was the elder, he proceeded with the greeting to an equal: “I am Honakura, priest of the seventh rank, Third Deputy Chairman of the Council of Venerables, and I give thanks to the Most High for granting me this opportunity to assure your beneficence that your prosperity and happiness will always be my desire and the subject of my prayers.” The swordsman raised an eyebrow incredulously at the recital and the elaborate gestures. He glanced at the girl to see her reaction. There was a long pause.
 
Then he nodded solemnly to Honakura and said, “Likewise, I’m sure. My name is Wallie Smith.”

†††

Jja leaped forward and assisted the old man to a chair. His face had turned gray and he was gasping for breath. She had been surprised to hear his name, for her mistress Kikarani had returned from a summons to the temple that morning in a storm of alternating terror and fury, breathing plagues and disaster against this same holy Honakura—Jja had envisioned an enormous, dreadful ogre, not a quiet and kindly old man. She hovered over him for a moment, worrying: should she run for a healer? But that would be for the swordsman to decide. She heard a creak from the bed and turned to see that he had pulled himself back so that he could lean against the wall. He was modestly adjusting the cloth over himself.
 
She was going to kneel beside the priest, but the swordsman smiled at her and pointed to the chair at his side. He had a very kindly smile.
 
“And what is your name?” he asked, as she obediently went over.

“Jja, my lord.”

“Jja?” he echoed, sounding it. “Jja! How do you . . . ” He frowned and tried again: “How do you . . . Damn!” he muttered. He tried once more: “How do you make-marks-to-see for that?”

She did not understand. He was looking puzzled himself.
 
The old man had recovered some of his breath. “My Lord,” he said faintly. “This morning you told me that your name was Shonsu.” The big man stared at him menacingly for a moment. “I don’t remember that.” He frowned, looking puzzled again. “In fact I don’t remember anything for . . .
 
well, it feels like quite a long time.”

“You said,” the priest repeated, “that your name was Shonsu and you were being haunted by a demon named Walliesmith. Now you say that you are Walliesmith . . .

”

“Demon?” The swordsman uttered a deep, rumbling chuckle. “Demon? Shonsu?” He thought for a moment and repeated, “Shonsu?” as though the name had a vague familiarity. “Well, Wallie Smith is my name, but I’m no demon.” He grinned an astonishingly friendly grin at Jja and whispered: “Honest!” “Certainly it is not the name of any of the known demons,” the old man muttered.
 
“There is a demon of the seventh circle named Shaasu, but I’m sure that wasn’t what you said.”

The swordsman looked questioningly at Jja, as though asking her if the old man often raved like this. Then he slapped at a mosquito on his leg.
 
He stared at the leg. He peered at his arm, turning it over. He raised a hand to his face. Now it was he who went pale.

Again he moved with incredible speed. He jumped off the bed, holding the cloth about himself, and took two fast strides across the room to the mirror—and recoiled from what he saw there. “Oh, God!” He stooped once more to peer at his face, stroked his chin, rubbed a finger over his facemarks, tugged a strand of his long black hair. He found the lump on the back of his head and fingered that.

Time passed. A party of young women returning from the fields went by on the road. The hot little cottage was full of their giggling and the baiting calls of the boys following, jesting and shouting at the girls and one another. Both groups faded away down the hill toward the town, and still the swordsman stood by the mirror, looking himself over, even peering under his wrap. Finally he turned and came back, very slowly, with his face tightly closed. He sat on the edge of the bed and seemed to sag.

“Shonsu, you said?” he asked.

The old man nodded. “You got a bump on the head, my lord. Sometimes that can cause confusion . . . with all respect, my lord.” “Tell me the whole thing—from the beginning!”

Honakura looked at Jja. “Leave us,” he said.

The swordsman did not appear to have moved, but his hand was on Jja’s arm.

“Stay,” he said without looking at her.

It was a large and a strong hand, and a tremor ran through her at his touch. He felt it. She blushed as his eyes swiveled to study her. Then he smiled gently and took his hand away. “Sorry,” he murmured. A Seventh apologizing to a slave?
 
She was astounded and confused. She hardly heard the start of the priest’s story.

Yet when he described the demon she was horrified. “Hair on its face and its belly? It must have looked like an ape.”

“I came,” Honakura said, his voice still shaky, “to explain why a noble lord like yourself had been put in such obnoxious quarters with inadequate ministration . . . ”

The swordsman glanced at Jja and winked, then said, “I have no complaint about the ministration.” Her heart turned over.

“You are gracious, my lord,” the priest continued, not paying much attention.
 
“But the fact remains that your life may be in danger. Not that I doubt your prowess, my lord,” he added quickly. “I am sure that in a matter of honor you will dispose of Hardduju without the least problem. He is the only Seventh in the valley. He gives you fifteen years and is seasoned in debauchery. It is the thought of treachery that haunts me.”

The swordsman was shaking his head gently and frowning, as though he could not believe any of this.

“No, I do not fear swordsmen coming themselves,” Honakura explained. His color was returning, his voice stronger. “Rather the brigands who depend on the corruption of the guard for their protection. But no one will look for you here, my lord.”

Jja drew a breath and then fell silent, hoping that they had not noticed; but evidently little escaped the swordsman, for his fearsome deep eyes were on her again. “You were going to say?” he asked.

She gulped. “About noontime, my lord . . . ”

“Yes?” He nodded encouragingly.

“I stepped outside, my lord . . . just for a moment, my lord. But I had to relieve myself. I was only gone a moment.”

“That’s fine.” He was terrifyingly attentive and patient. “What did you see?” So she told how she had seen a priestess of the Fifth, a round, middle-aged woman, coming up the road and looking in all the cottages. It was a sight she had never seen before, and she had remembered how her mistress Kikarani had stressed that no one was to know that the noble lord was there.
 
Honakura hissed. “As I feared, the subornation has penetrated even the priesthood! You are discovered, my lord!”

“Wait a minute, though,” the swordsman rumbled, still watching Jja and smiling slightly once more. “Did she get in and see me?” Jja felt her face flame. “No, my lord.”

“But the fact that she was not admitted will tell them what they want to know,” the priest said angrily.

The swordsman ignored him. “What did you do, Jja?” She bent her head and whispered how she had removed her dress and concealed him with her body, pretending that they were making joy together. The woman had not come in and could not have seen him properly.

Then there was a silence until she tremulously looked up and saw that he was smiling—no, grinning—at her, a cheeky, little-boy grin, very surprising on so strong a face.

“I wish I had been here”’ he said. He turned to the priest. “I repeat that I have no complaint about the service.”

Honakura was beaming. “It is the handiwork of the Goddess! Truly I was right to believe that She guided you here! Not one slave in a million would have had the wit to protect you in such fashion, my lord, or have wanted to.” “Slave?” She had thought his smiles frightening and had given no thought to what his anger might be. “Is that what that line on your face means, that you are a slave?” She nodded timidly and the rage was whirled round toward the priest.
 
“And who owns this slave?”

“The temple, I suppose, or Priestess Kikarani.” The priest was not cowed, merely puzzled. “Why, my lord?”

The swordsman did not answer. He scowled blankly across the room for a moment and muttered, “What cesspool did I drag that from?” Then he shrugged and spoke to the priest again.

“So I am supposed to kill this . . . Hardduju . . . person, am I? What about his friends?”

The old man seemed surprised. “If you mean the swordsmen, my lord, then they will respect the outcome of a formal challenge. Most of them, I am sure, are men of honor. Then, when you have been invested as reeve, you can punish the recreants, provide proper protection for the pilgrims, and hunt down the brigands.”