The Reluctant Swordsman (20 page)

“Good,” Wallie said, with what he hoped was menace.
 
Tarru was probably younger than he looked, he decided—prematurely gray, and weathered rather than wrinkled—and possibly about as trustworthy as a starving leopard with rabies. During the ensuing polite exchange of pleasantries, inquiries about healing and other trivia, his eyes wandered frequently to the hilt of Wallie’s sword.

Nnanji waved for a second bowl of stew. Tarru accepted a tankard of ale and Wallie refused one, although it was small beer and relatively harmless. Wallie suspected that as soon as the conversational froth had settled. Tarru would start inquiring about his guest’s plans, so he forestalled him with some business of his own.

“There is a small matter that concerns me,” he said. “The priests’ attempt at exorcism three days ago left me unconscious. I awoke in a sort of hut, up on the canyon road.”

“Pilgrim huts,” Tarru said. “They are run by a dragon of a priestess.”

“I saw no dragon. But the slave girl who looked after me . . . her name was Jja.

I took a fancy to her.”

Tarru was contemptuous. “Faugh! Nothing but sluts, my lord. They clean floors by day and clean out pilgrims by night, for Kikarani’s benefit, of course—horse traders, pot throwers, and common sailors. Now, we have a very fine stable of wenches here in the barracks . . . ”

Wallie heard a strange noise and was astonished to realize that he was grinding his teeth. His fists were clenched, and his heart was pounding in fury. Tarru had paled and stopped in midsentence.

“A slut could be bought at a reasonable price?” Wallie whispered. He reached two fingers into his money pouch and dropped a glittering blue stone on the table.
 
“That would be enough for a slut, I expect?”

Tarru gasped audibly. “My lord! That would buy all of Kikarani’s slaves and the dragon herself!”

“I happen to be out of change,” Wallie said. He knew he was being unreasonable and he didn’t give a damn. “Nnanji, do you know this Kikarani?” “Yes, my liege,” Nnanji said, his eyes wide.

“Then go directly to her now. Offer her this stone in return for outright ownership of the slave Jja. Bring the girl back here, with whatever belongings she may have. Any questions?”

“She will assume that the stone is stolen, my liege.” Wallie gave him a glare that caused him to grab up the jewel and turn quickly toward the door. But after a few steps he wheeled round and headed instead for the far exit. It let him walk the whole length of the room, head high, enjoying the eyes that followed him.

“His father is a rugmaker,” Tarru said with infinite contempt. “You may never see either gem or girl, my lord.”

“I would rather lose a gem than trust my back to a thief.” Wallie’s blood pressure was still high.

“True,” said Tarru diplomatically—but he could not leave well alone. “A smaller temptation might have been more prudent. I would wager at least that the stone is turned into cash before Kikarani ever sees it, and you will get no change.” The thought of Nnanji being dishonest was utterly ludicrous. “Done!” Another sapphire dropped on the table, and Tarru’s eyes widened. “I assume that the temple guard has a few inconspicuous agents? Follow my liegeman. If he cashes the gem or flees with it, then you win this.”

He had known of Tarru’s greed. The man was hypnotized by the blue star on the table. His hands reached for it and then stopped. “I have nothing of equal value to set against your wager, my lord.”

Wallie pondered for a moment. “If I win I shall require a small favor only, nothing that impairs your honor. Here, you hold the stakes.” Tarru picked up the gem and stared at it. He was suspicious, but the blue fire was burning his palm.
 
He rose and hurried from the room.

Wallie downed some more ale and waited for his fury to subside. This time Shonsu’s glands had won. In a relaxed social context, with swordsmanship not evident, he had let down his guard, and that lightning temper had slashed through before he knew it was coming. It had made him appear as an irresponsible spendthrift and gambler, caused him to throw away his expense money on personal whims when he did not even know the purpose for which the gems had been given him—an inauspicious beginning to his quest. Then he realized that he might also have signed his vassal’s death warrant. He half rose and then sank back. It was too late now to stop the bet or recall the gem. Miserably he told himself that Tarru, as the only witness, could not order the jewel stolen without incriminating himself.

So he hoped, but his early-morning joke about avenging Nnanji no longer seemed funny at all.

Then Tarru was back, now accompanied by a tall and heavily built Seventh whose facemarks were swords, but inverted. The man’s azure robe was spotless, and his thin white hair neatly combed, yet his hands were horny and blackened, and even the ruddy skin of his face seemed to be ingrained with tiny black specks. He was older than Shonsu, but not a swordsman, so it was he who was presented and made the salute—Athinalani, armorer of the Seventh.

He hardly gave Wallie time to respond and he had no small talk. “It must be!” he said. “The seventh sword of Chioxin! My lord, I beg of you to let me see.” Wallie laid the sword on the table. Athinalani peered at it closely, every tiny line and mark. Tarru and Wallie drank while the examination continued.
 
Athinalani turned the sword over and eagerly scanned the other side in the same detail. When he had finished, he looked deeply moved.
 
“It is the sapphire sword of Chioxin,” he said. “There can be no doubt. The griffon forming the guard . . . the figures on the blade . . . the quality. No one else but Chioxin! When I heard the rumors I was sure it would be a forgery, but seeing it, I am convinced. My lord, may I pick it up?” His big hands gripped it lovingly, testing the stiffness and the weight and the balance. Here, clearly, was an expert. Then he laid it down and looked inquiringly at its owner.

Wallie shrugged. “Tell me.”

Athinalani was tactfully astonished at his ignorance. “Chioxin,” he said, “was the greatest swordmaker of all time. Many of his weapons are still in use, after seven hundred years, and greatly prized. His skill was equaled only by his art.
 
His swords were not only the best, they were the most beautiful. The lines of these figures . . . see here, and here?

“Now, tradition tells us that he made seven great masterpiece swords when he was very old. The minstrels claim that he bought seven more years of life from the Goddess on the promise of making these weapons. Perhaps so. But each sword had a different heraldic beast forming the guard and each had a great jewel on the hilt . . . pearl, beryl, agate, topaz, ruby, emerald, and sapphire. Each sword has its own history. I am no minstrel, my lord, so I shall not attempt to sing for you, but the emerald sword, for example, was wielded by the great hero Xinimi when he slew the monster of Vinhanugoo, and then it came into the possession of Darijuki, who won the battle of Haur with it—or so they say. The minstrels can go on all night about them.”

At last he noticed the tankard waiting for him and took a long draft. Tarru was looking skeptical. Wallie was waiting to hear of some dreadful curse or other.
 
Such stories usually had a curse or two in them. The dining room was emptying as the guard went about its business, the attendants retrieving the bowls the dogs had cleaned.

The armorer wiped froth and plunged ahead with his lecture. “And I have seen the pearl sword! Or part of it, anyway. The hilt and a fragment of the blade are owned by the King of Kalna, and he showed me it when I was a young apprentice.
 
It is said that the city of Dis Marin owns the beryl, and there is a piece of another blade in the lodge at Casr. The hilt has been lost, but is thought to have been the ruby.”

Again the whisper of memory: Casr? “And the sapphire sword?” Wallie asked.
 
“Ah! There is no history of the sapphire. Only the six are known. According to the minstrels, Chioxin gave the seventh to the Goddess Herself.” There was a significant pause. That explained the expression on old Coningu’s face last night. The unasked question hung in the air, but one did not ask such questions of a Seventh.

“No curses?” Wallie inquired. “No magic powers?” “Oh, the minstrels . . . they will tell you that a man wielding one of these blades could never be beaten. But I am a craftsman. I know no recipe for putting magic into a sword.”

“This one has so far recorded two wins and one draw,” Wallie said blandly.
 
Tarru managed to blush. “It is in remarkable condition for a weapon of that age.”

“The Goddess would have taken good care of it, I suppose,” Wallie said, playing with them. He smiled at Tarru. “You saw me come out of the water. I assume that you have questioned the swordsmen who saw me go in?” “Yes, my lord,” Tarru said grimly. “Very closely.” Like his former superior, he was not a man to believe in miracles.

“My lord,” Athinalani said. “Would you graciously consent to let me have an artist draw this? I should be eternally in your debt.” “Of course. I presume that you have swords for sale? My liegeman will be coming to see you to sell one of some value. He will also wish to purchase a more serviceable, everyday sort of sword.”

It was shortly after this that the bent old commissary, Coningu, came shuffling in. He hovered politely at them until Tarru raised an eyebrow.
 
“A messenger from the temple, my lords. To see Lord Shonsu.” Then he added, “A green.” And rolled his eyes to see Tarru’s reaction—a Sixth as messenger? Tarru scowled.

The conversation broke up, although Athinalani would obviously have been willing to sit all day and just stare at the seventh sword of Chioxin. As they made their way to the door Tarru asked in a low voice, “Did you give Lord Hardduju’s sword to Apprentice Nnanji, my lord?”

“Yes,” Wallie said, and Tarru flashed teeth like a shark. “Is that funny?” “Nnanji is but the son of a tradesman. There were several recruits at about the same time who came from such artisan families, although I know that there were many candidates more suitable, swordsmen’s sons. It was about that time that Lord Hardduju acquired that sword.”

Tarru might or might not have been a partner in more serious crimes, but that petty graft would have been for the reeve’s personal benefit only. Which perhaps explained Tarru’s obvious dislike of Nnanji.

“You think that Nnanji’s family paid for it?”

Tarru sneered as he held the door for his guest. “Only a small part, I am sure, my lord. It would buy several rug shops. But, as I say, there were others. I find it ironic that the sword has done him so little good, and that now it should belong to one of those apprentices.”

He smiled in satisfaction. Tarru was not a kindly man.

Nor, if he had failed to act upon his suspicions, an honorable swordsman.

††††

“Pray honor me with your distinguished opinion on this humble wine, my lord,” the old priest bleated in his quavering toothless voice.
 
“It is a memorable vintage, reverend one,” the swordsman rumbled, several octaves lower.

Honakura was packaged in a great wicker chair shaped like a sousaphone, smiling his gums and playing host and talking trivial nonsense while his sharp eyes missed nothing. Wallie sat opposite on a stool. The table between them bore rich cakes and wine and crystal goblets; and everything was enveloped in a steamy green shade below trees whose trunks even Shonsu’s arms could not have spanned.
 
Planted to decorate the courtyard, the three giants had colonized it, filled it, and roofed it. The crumbling old paving stones rose to lap around their massive roots and dipped away into the triangular space between them, where the men sat.
 
In a way that nothing else had yet done, the trees’ sheer immensity emphasized to Wallie the antiquity of the temple, and thus of the culture that had built it.

It was a private place, this jungle courtyard. The walls were cushioned in vivid moss and hung with showy bougainvillea. Behind them the River giggled and clattered, covering conversation as effectively as the canopy of branches shut out the overpowering sun or any unwanted eyes. Insects hurried around on business, but otherwise the two men sat undisturbed in the humid shadows. The wine was certainly memorable—harsh and metallic, the worst Wallie could ever remember tasting.

At last Honakura ended the pleasantries. “That was a meritorious deed of arms you performed yesterday, my lord, a fealty to the Goddess. Although you had no formal contract with the council, I have been authorized to offer you recompense; either the office of reeve,” he smiled . . . “or a suitable emolument.”

Blood money? Wallie found himself frowning, although he was also curious to know how much a Seventh charged for a sword job. All he said was, “It was my pleasure, holy one. As I told you, I cannot accept the office, and I have no need of your fee. My master is generous.”

Honakura’s invisible eyebrows rose. He lowered his voice and said, “I think I hear a nightingale.”

The only birds Wallie could hear were drowsy pigeons in the distance.
 
The old man chuckled at his blank expression. “An old tradition, my lord. It is said that long ago two rulers met in a forest to discuss some important matter, and a nightingale was singing so beautifully in the tree above them that each man listened only to the birdsong. So neither was able to report what had been said, because he hadn’t heard any of it.”

Wallie smiled. “It is melodious, that nightingale.”