The Reluctant Swordsman (17 page)

Wallie nodded again and turned to find his vassal. Nnanji was in position, immediately behind his left shoulder. And staring at him.
 
Nnanji had heard it all.

Apprentice Nnanji was in grave danger of having his eyeballs fall right out of their sockets.

Wallie hobbled, barely able to keep up as his stork-legged vassal stalked ahead of him, leading the way through a serpentine rear exit. The glances Nnanji was sneaking back toward his liege now were so full of wonder and admiration that they almost burned.

Wallie’s exhausted mind could easily visualize a comic-strip balloon coming out of Nnanji’s head. It read something like, “First Hardduju then Tarru, then the Holy Mothers, and he talks with gods! Zounds! What a boss!” Hopefully there would be no more dueling, so Wallie no longer needed him; but how did one dispose of such a follower without insult and hurt?
 
They trailed along corridors, down staircases, through more passages, and eventually emerged into the glare at the back of the temple. There were several great houses there, with slaves pandering flower beds, polishing velvet lawns with scythes, and dragging watercarts. They reached the edge of a place that Wallie knew—the parade ground he had crossed and recrossed that morning.
 
“Hold it!” he croaked. He limped over to a low wall around the last of the flowery gardens. He flopped down on the wall under a shade tree and let himself melt. Heavy blossoms sent him a murmur of bees and a soporific scent. He must have been on his feet for hours, for the sun was already stooping and the shadows starting to stretch. He put his head in his hands for a while.
 
Exhaustion, lack of food, emotional reaction . . .
 
In a little while he looked up and saw a deathly worried expression on his vassal’s face.

“I’m all right,” Wallie said. “I’ve had a busy day.” He got an uncertain nod. “I said I talked with gods, dammit, not that I am one!” That produced a very weak smile. “Sit down, Nnanji. Tell me why no one is mourning Hardduju.” Nnanji folded his stringy form down on the wall beside his liege. Caution and contempt chased each other over his face until contempt won. “He was despicable, my liege, untrue to his oaths. He took bribes.” Wallie nodded. No mention of sadism?

Then Nnanji plunged ahead. “My liege? Why would the priests have ever appointed such a man to be reeve? He was a disgrace to our noble craft!” “Perhaps he was a good man when they appointed him?”

Nnanji looked blank. “My liege?”

“Power corrupts, Nnanji!” It was a problem much on his mind that day, but obviously a new idea to Nnanji, so Wallie explained, telling how he had been jeered by the crowd.

“Thank you, my liege,” said his vassal solemnly. “I shall remember that when I attain high rank.” Nnanji was, of course, an idealist, and hence a romantic.
 
Wallie said hopefully, “Nnanji, the trouble seems to be over. Do you want me to release you from your oaths?”

Nnanji’s expression indicated that he would rather be ground up in a corn mill or fed to vampire moths. “No, my liege!”

“Not even the third? That’s a pretty horrible oath, apprentice. I can order you to do anything at all—crimes, perversions, even abominations.” Nnanji just grinned—his hero would do no such a thing. “I am honored to be bound by it, my liege.” He was probably happier than he had ever been in his life, shining in his own eyes by reflected glory.

“All right,” Wallie said reluctantly. “But any time you want to be released from that oath, you just ask! The sutra says that it must be annulled when the immediate need is past.”

Nnanji opened his mouth, closed it, looked at Wallie, then at his feet; then decided to risk it.

“You have a task for the Goddess, my liege,” he said quietly. He had not made it a question, but he was obviously tortured by curiosity.
 
So Nnanji thought he was in on that, did he? Wallie sighed. He would have to find a few good swordsmen to guard his back and the fortune he bore on it, but the last thing he would choose on a quest would be to have a lubberly adolescent underfoot. A mere apprentice would be no protection, more nuisance than use.
 
Again his fatigue brought on absurdity: Nnanji, just run up to the cave and ask the dragon to step outside? Nnanji, trot over to the castle and warn them to start boiling the oil . . .

Then he remembered that there might be treachery afoot. How would he find swordsmen whom he could trust, who would truly guard his back and not stick a knife in it? He would have to find loyalty, and there it was, glowing at him.
 
Moreover, Nnanji could advise him on who else in the guard would be safe to recruit. He heard his own voice, Shonsu’s voice, quoting: “It’s a poor road that doesn’t run two ways.”

Nnanji produced his enormous grin. “Second sutra,” he said. “’On Protégés.’” Wallie stared at him for a moment—shabby dress; lanky and ungainly, but a good reach, red hair, snub nose, invisible eyelashes, and every bone showing; inexperienced as a newlaid egg, but as willing as it was possible to be. Already he had shown courage to the point of insanity, talking back to a naked sword.
 
Nnanji was indeed entitled to consider himself in on the god’s task, for Wallie also had sworn an oath that day, to cherish, protect, and guide. In a preliterate world, he had signed a contract. He could hardly just vanish and abandon the lad to the vengeance of Hardduju’s friends. Like it or not, he was stuck with this Nnanji.

“You are familiar with the sutra ‘On Secrecy’?” he asked carefully.
 
Nnanji beamed. “Yes, my liege.” And before Wallie could stop him, he gabbled it off at high speed.

#175 ON SECRECY

The Epitome

A protégé shall not discuss his mentor, his mentor’s business, his mentor’s orders, his mentor’s allies, nor any report that he himself may have made to his mentor.

When Fandarrasu was put to the torment he did not speak, but his breath smelled of garlic. Thus Kungi learned that supplies had reached the besieged city.

The tongue is mightier than the sword, for a single word may destroy a whole army.

“Right,” Wallie said, amused at his eagerness—if nothing else, this Nnanji was going to provide entertainment! “Everyone is assuming that I’m going to be reeve—let’s leave it at that for the moment. As to the task, I know nothing about it. All the god told me was that . . . a certain very great swordsman . .
 
. had tried and failed, and I’m next. It is important to the Goddess . . . ”

Nnanji was silently nodding, looking awed.

“I was told to go out in the World and be an honorable and valorous swordsman.
 
The task will be revealed to me. It will mean leaving here and traveling. I suppose danger. Possibly honor.”

He paused then, relishing the sight of Nnanji’s wide eyes and open mouth. “I don’t suppose . . . would you like to come along as my protégé?” Obviously it was a silly question. Protégé to a Seventh? On a mission for the gods? It was an offer Nnanji could not have equaled in his wildest fantasies.
 
His reply was blurted out in more of the barracks slang: “And keep my baubles, too?”

Wallie laughed, feeling better for his rest. “I hope so,” he said. “I certainly plan to keep mine! But listen, vassal, I know that I’m a good swordsman, and some strange things have been happening to me. I shall try to be a good mentor to you, but I’m not a superman. I’m not one of those heroes you find in epics.” “No, my liege,” Nnanji replied politely.

That was the only thing Wallie could have said that he would not believe.

†

The barracks was a massive marble block with balconies and arched windows, somewhat like a medieval Moorish palace. Tarru had sent word, and the visitor was greeted by a deputation of the staff, ancient or crippled swordsmen who had put away their swords. The commissary had all his limbs, but he was old and so bowed that his gray head stuck out like a turtle’s, and his hand gestures were hidden beneath him when he presented himself as Coningu of the Fifth. He appraised Wallie’s condition with a practiced eye, terminated any further formalities, and asked what his lordship required.
 
“Hot bath, bandages, food, bed?”

Coningu nodded to a subordinate, then led the way up a marble staircase wide enough to have carried a two-lane highway. Apparently everything associated with the temple was built on the same titanic scale, and the ceilings were all so high that it took three flights for the staircase to mount each story. Wallie dared not look back in case he was leaving bloody marks on every step for slaves to clean. At last they reached the top floor and went along a passage of matching dimensions until Coningu opened a door and stepped aside.
 
Wallie was impressed. The room was huge and airy—floor of glassy wood with gaudy rugs on it, cool marble walls hung with bright tapestries, and an incredibly high plaster ceiling with faded frescoes that might have come from the Sistine Chapel. There were four beds and numerous other pieces of furniture, but the room was so big that they did not crowd it in the least. Then he saw that Coningu was advancing to another door—this was merely the antechamber.
 
The main guest room was three times as big, with a bed as large as a swimming pool. Shaded windows at both ends led to balconies and allowed a cool breeze to float across. The rugs and hangings were works of art, the woodwork everywhere blazed with polish. From the expression on Nnanji’s face, he had never seen this part of the barracks and was overwhelmed.

“What do you think?” Wallie muttered, hoping that Coningu could not hear. “Will this do, or should we look for a better place down the road?” Nnanji stared at him in bewilderment. Coningu did hear, and smiled a sideways glance that said nothing.

“It’s magnificent,” Wallie assured him hurriedly. “Fit for a king.”

“It’s probably seen many of those, my lord,” replied the commissary, mollified.
 
Wallie could not resist teasing him. “How about jailbirds? You know where I slept last night?”

Coningu flashed a cynical smile. “Those, too, my lord, I expect. The temple court has been overruled before.”

Sore feet momentarily forgotten, Wallie browsed around. He found the bellrope and a weighty keg-sized bronze receptacle embellished with nymphs and flowers in bas relief. He decided that it must be the chamber pot. The ornate wall lamps seemed to be real gold. A massive carved chest was full of foils, fencing masks, and barbells—everything a vacationing swordsman could want. He paced off some of the rugs and decided that they were silk, as were the wall hangings. Seeing thick iron bolts on the inside of the door, he confirmed that the outer door was similarly fitted, and then limped out on a balcony to inspect the security there.

The shadowing overhang was wide and the flanking walls smooth. Any burglar trying to enter would need wings. Below him stretched the picturebook park, and beyond that the high wall, the tenements and slums of the town, then the valley wall with its steep road and the row of pilgrim cottages . . . and finally the indigo tropic sky. The other balcony probably faced the jail. Wallie frowned at the town, recalling the squalor and how he had reacted to it two days earlier.
 
He could hear the messages he was being given: The Goddess rewards Her servants well. Do not question the justice of the gods.

He found a full-length silver mirror. There again was the Shonsu illusion he had seen in his delirium, except that the vision had been naked, not wrapped in slaves’ sackcloth, and now the face and body were bruised and scraped and swollen all over, eyes puffed and purple, the black hair half in a pony tail and half loose. He grimaced at himself, and the overall effect was terrifying. How could Nnanji have balked at an order from such a horror?
 
Voices and clatter announced the arrival of slaves with a huge copper bathtub and steaming buckets. A one-legged swordsman snapped orders. Another of the cripples led in more slaves, with towels and boxes. The room began to fill up.
 
Now Wallie realized that he was expected to perform his toilet in public, like Louis XIV, but he was too weary to argue. Nnanji unbuckled Wallie’s harness and took his sword and scabbard, evidently one of the duties of a protégé. Slaves poured water and ran for more. Wallie sighed a sigh for a whirlpool tub with some good soap, then accepted the royal treatment.
 
The slaves slaved, Wallie soaked sensuously in the tub, and the old swordsmen quietly clustered around Nnanji. There were half a dozen of them there, for Wallie was perhaps the most exciting thing to happen for a century or two. Any excuse was good enough to attend and enjoy the drama.
 
“May I draw it, my liege?” Nnanji asked.

It was the sword that was attracting the swordsmen—they were gathered about it like boys around a foreign sports car.

“Sure,” Wallie said sleepily. He heard the murmurs of wonder as the group admired the blade itself. Then Nnanji suddenly declaimed, in a curious chant:

“A griffon crouched upon the hilt

In silver white and sapphire blue,

With ruby eye and talons gilt

And blade of steel of starlight hue.

The seventh sword he wrought at last,

And all the others it surpassed.”

“What in the World is that?” asked Wallie, waking up suddenly and hurling bathwater over slaves and floor.