The Reluctant Swordsman (18 page)

“A minstrel jingle, my liege.” Nnanji was staring at him, nervous at the reaction. “About the seven swords of Chioxin. I can tell you all about the first six, if you wish, but it is rather a long poem.” “Chioxin! Chioxin?” A picture floated into Wallie’s mind—a piece of a sword blade fastened to a wall, a blade old and damaged, broken at both ends, yet inscribed with figures of men and monsters. He reached for more, and there was nothing. It was a Shonsu memory, a fragment on the border between the professional memories he had been given and the personal memories denied him.
 
The sensation made him uneasy. Where or what was Chioxin?
 
“It sounds like that sword, doesn’t it?” he said. “Griffon and sapphire? What else do you know about it?”

Nnanji looked suddenly embarrassed. “I never heard the rest, my liege. It was my first night in the barracks, when I was a scratcher.” He grinned at the memory of his younger self. “Looking back now, I don’t think he was a very good minstrel, but then I thought he was marvelous. He sang the ballad about the seven swords of Chioxin, and I wanted to hear all of it. But he just got to the last part, about the seventh sword, and then . . . then I had to leave, my liege.”

“Wild Ani, I bet,” said one of the others. They all shrieked and cackled with laughter, and Nnanji turned a furious red.

Coningu, hovering on the edge of the group like a wind-bent cypress on a beach, was staring at the sword. He sensed Wallie’s eye, glanced at him, and then turned quickly away. Coningu had heard that ballad, all of it, and he knew what it had told of the seventh sword. Old cynic that he was, he looked impressed by something.

Wallie hauled himself out of the tub to provide a diversion. Soon he was dried and being offered a choice of blue kilts from some barracks store. He chose the plainest, although even that was of finest lawn. Nnanji buckled on his harness for him—and then stripped and plopped into his mentor’s discarded bathwater. A protégé’s privilege, obviously.

Two healers, a Sixth and a Third, bowed before Wallie and nodded approvingly at a patient so spectacularly battered, but still basically healthy. Reluctantly he allowed them to smear salve on his scrapes. Then they prepared to bandage his feet.

“Stop!” he barked. “What are those?”

“These are bandages, my lord,” the Sixth said, surprised. “They are very good bandages. They were blessed for me in the temple many years ago and have healed a great many patients.”

They looked like a pile of old garage rags.

“What happened to the last two patients?” Wallie demanded, and his answer was a look of discomfiture. “Get some new ones, healer. You have worn out the blessings those. For now you may use towels.”

The healer started to protest.

Wallie was too tired to argue. “Vassal?” he said, and Nnanji, who had just finished dressing, smiled and drew his sword.

Wallie’s feet were bundled in towels, like a terminal case of gout.
 
A table of food had been laid out, and that was all he needed. He thanked them and ordered them away—commissary, slaves, swordsmen, healers, and bathtub—refusing offers of table service or musicians or female company . . .
 
Nnanji looked a little disappointed at that. Then he slid the bolts on the door to the corridor. Peace!

Nnanji lifted the silver covers off the food. Wallie’s mouth watered so hard that it hurt. Soups, baked fish, roast fowl and a savory meat pie, something curried, vegetables, desserts, hot breads, cheeses, six flasks of wine, cakes, and fruits. No, not the fruit, thank you.

“There seems to be enough here for twenty men,” Wallie said, sitting down. “So I may be able to spare you a little, vassal. What do you fancy to start?” “After you, my liege.” Nnanji’s eyes were bright, but he was expecting to wait.
 
Wallie ordered him to a seat and for some time they gorged in silence. Wallie was astounded at how much he ate, but he was a big man now and had starved for days. Nnanji, as the model adolescent, matched him bite for bite; there were advantages to being vassal to a Seventh. By the time they slowed down and started up a conversation, there was not much left.
 
“That’s a little better than the jail.”

“And a lot better than the juniors’ mess!”

They laughed together, and Wallie rose.

“I am going to sleep until morning,” he announced, “but whether tomorrow morning or the day after, I am not sure. At least one of those doors must stay bolted, because my little god might be a bit annoyed if I let his sword get stolen. If you like, I can let you out now, and you can go and prowl somewhere, then sleep in the outer room. Please yourself.”

It was early yet for sleep, but Nnanji could not bring himself to leave. Perhaps he was frightened Wallie would disappear like a dream.
 
Wallie laid his sword on the bed, piled up some pillows, and lay back, sinking into the mattress.

“Feather bed! Softer than the jail floor!” Then, because he wanted his companion to do the talking, he said, “Tell me about Wild Ani?” Nnanji blushed again. “One of the barracks women, my liege. A slave. She’s huge and ugly and tough as an old ox. Boobs like meal sacks, one eye gone. She makes bets that no man can rape her, no holds barred, and claims a perfect record.” He giggled. “They say that some men lost more than they thought they were betting .

. . ”

“The girl of my dreams,” Wallie said sleepily. “And the scratchers?” “It’s a tradition. We . . . the Seconds tell them that they have to prove their manhood. Every scratcher spends his first night with Wild Ani.” He giggled again. “That was why I didn’t hear the rest of the ballad.” “You don’t need to tell me.”

“It’s all right,” Nnanji said unashamedly. “She’s a great woman, really. You want a she-dragon, she’ll be a she-dragon, rough as you like. But with a scratcher she’s patient and sympathetic . . . and helpful. Well, I mean, I didn’t know where to . . . I mean, what to . . . ” He grinned as the memories came back. Then he saw that his liege lord was already asleep.

††

On one side of the sword seven swordsmen fought with seven mythical beasts; on the other the same beasts were being fed, ridden, or comforted by seven maidens.
 
No pose was repeated exactly, and even the expressions on the faces were distinct. Wallie could not guess how lines of such delicacy and artistry could have been inscribed in so hard a material.

The barracks was silent yet, and dawn was still drawing breath in the east, preparing to proclaim the day with fanfares of light. An anonymous blanket bundle lying across the doorway showed how a certain vassal’s romantic ideas of duty had outweighed the attractions of a bed. A hank of red hair protruded at one end.

Wallie was lying in the vast feather bed, examining the god’s sword at leisure and periodically wriggling luxuriously. His bruises had faded to the sort of pleasurable ache that can come from too much exercise; the throbbing in his feet was a mere whisper of what it had been. The World was his to enjoy as the demigod had told him. A few days to complete his healing and enlist a couple of good middlerank protégés, then he could be on his way to explore that World, to be valorous and honorable, and to await the revelation of his task. Yesterday he had awakened on slimy stone, facing sentence of death; today he floated in luxury and reveled in power and freedom.

Not a care in the World?

He turned then to the harness he had been given. The leather was embossed with scenes taken from the sword itself, although the artistry could hardly be so impressive. The left pocket was empty. Traditionally that held a whetstone, so there was another message: the sword came from the gods, but he must see to its sharpness. In the right pocket he discovered a treasure of sparkling blue gems.
 
Then he understood the god’s remark about expenses—he was not merely powerful, he was rich.

His eyes wandered to the distant ceiling. The frescoes above the bed were explicitly erotic. This was a very lusty body he had been given—he would need more than swordsman companionship. He turned his head and looked through the far window, to the tiny line of pilgrim cottages along the hillside road. He had another debt to repay, but that was a different matter altogether. If she chose . . . but it must be a free decision. To own a concubine, a slave, would be rape by Wallie Smith’s standards. He was not going to compromise on that. Honorable and valorous, and especially honorable.

A distant bugle sounded. The mummy by the door exploded in a whirl of blanket and long limbs, and there was Nnanji, sitting cross-legged, bright-eyed, and wearing nothing but his incredible ear-swallowing grin, ready to go anywhere and do anything.

“Good morning, vassal.”

“The Goddess be with you, my liege.”

“And you,” Wallie replied. “I trust they serve breakfast in this inn? I’m so hungry again I could eat a horse.”

“They usually do serve horse at breakfast,” Nnanji said happily, looking as though he meant it.

Wallie placed his bundled feet carefully on the floor and winced. “Today I plan to do almost nothing,” he said. “Is there anything that you want to do?” “Learn to fight like you,” Nnanji said shyly.

“Oh!” Wallie pondered. “That might take more than one day. But we’ll try a lesson or two.”

Nnanji grinned ecstatically.

They performed the morning dedication together and prepared to leave. Nnanji picked up Hardduju’s sword and regarded it doubtfully.
 
“You really mean me to have this, my liege?” he asked, looking unbelievingly at the gold and rubies. When Wallie agreed, he seemed even more puzzled. “I shall have to sell it?”

It took Wallie a moment to understand, and then the thought was so bloodcurdling that he passed it off quickly with a joke. “Or else I shall have to avenge you, of course—every time.”

Nnanji smiled obediently.

“Let’s have a look at it,” Wallie said, and soon showed Nnanji the poor balance and unnecessary weight. Then he let Nnanji try the god’s sword, and there was no comparison. Hardduju’s was for show, not for fighting. It would buy a first class blade with enough left over for a dozen more, but for a junior it would be a death sentence.

Nnanji looked relieved, although still surprised by a Seventh who would stoop to joking with a Second and so lightly give him a fortune. “Thank you, my liege,” he said. He left the sword under Wallie’s bed and bore his own to breakfast.
 
Their way led back to ground level and through to the working part of the barracks, which was still on a monumental scale, but in sandstone instead of marble. The mess was as large as the guest room and even loftier, its windows set high, and the lower parts of the walls hung with banners. Wallie appraised these skeptically and decided they were the product of an interior designer’s imagination and not genuine battle relics.

The big room was half full of swordsmen, sitting at long plank tables, eating from bowls, and chattering, but they fell quiet as he paused in the doorway, and for a few moments the only sound was the snuffling of fat dogs as they scavenged busily in the litter on the floor. Wallie glanced around the available spaces and then strode over to his choice without thinking.
 
“No, you first,” he said to Nnanji, and they both sat down. Swordsmen sat on stools of course, leaving room for scabbards.

“Why, my liege?” Nnanji asked, puzzled.

“Why what?”

“Why did you come across to this seat and why have me sit first?” Wallie dug into Shonsu’s memories. “Backs to the wall where we can see the door, best sword arm on the right,” he said.

“Thank you, my liege,” Nnanji said solemnly.

“You’re welcome,” Wallie replied. “That was lesson one.” For both of them.
 
Conversation had picked up cautiously, but the newcomers were being studied with many sidelong glances, which Wallie ignored. A peg-legged waiter delivered two bowls of stew, two black loaves of steaming rye bread, and two tankards of ale.
 
If the stew was horse, it smelled delicious, making Shonsu’s mouth water, and there was enough ale to douse a three-alarm fire. He soon found that the ale was necessary, for the stew was fiery with spice in the usual tropical treatment of yesterday’s meat; but it was good.

Wallie’s feet were throbbing again in their bandages. He put them up on a stool in front of him, aware that they looked absurd, not especially caring. He had complained to the demigod that he did not know the table manners of the World, but if Nnanji were to be his example, the main requirements seemed to be enthusiasm and speed. For a few moments they spooned and drank in silence. Men were coming and going freely, both entering and leaving, and also picking up their food and moving to other tables. As he studied the activity, he noticed that the end of a meal was marked by laying the bowl down for the dogs to lick.
 
He started eating less and watching more.

His first impression of the swordsmen, when the demigod had led him to the temple gate, had been that they were a scruffy lot. Looking round the mess hall, he saw few there to change that opinion. A Seventh would be expected to dress his protégés in good style, but the donation of Hardduju’s sword would take care of that expense, and Nnanji was at least clean and well combed. Many of the other juniors were not. Which of these swordsmen should he try to enlist as his bodyguard?

Then he saw a Fourth openly staring at him—a man of around thirty, well built, and conspicuously neater and cleaner-looking than most. He knew that man.
 
“Vassal?” he asked quietly. “Who is that Fourth over there, sitting with a Third? He was in charge of the Death Squad yesterday.” Nnanji glanced over and then away quickly.