The Reluctant Swordsman (32 page)

Now that the sword had been “mislaid,” as Wallie put it, he need no longer fear assassination by dagger or poison, and some evenings he ate in private with his slave in the royal suite. On other nights they displayed her gowns in the saloon.

On one such occasion there was entertainment from a wandering minstrel, who sang an epic about the massacre of seven brigands by three valorous free swords. The swordsmen listened more or less politely. At the end they applauded and awarded the minstrel two barracks girls for the night—three was regarded as top dollar.
 
A tale such as this fell in the shadowy borderlands of Wallie’s dual memories.
 
As Shonsu he could regard it as something of interest, not to be taken too seriously, swordsman sports news. As Wallie he found it a worrisome piece of job description, wondering if one day he, also, would find a Homer to record whatever feat he was expected to accomplish for the Goddess.
 
He had assumed that the event was recent, but next day Nnanji informed him that the same story had come around two years before, and that the first version had been much better told. He demonstrated by reciting verbatim about a hundred lines of the earlier work. To avoid argument, Wallie agreed with this assessment; he could not have quoted one couplet of the poem he had heard the previous night.

So the days went, but the deeper conflict remained unresolved. Sooner or later Wallie must move and he could not see how. Swordsmen’s Day was approaching, with Wallie scheduled to play a major part in the observance. How could he do that without the celebrated sword?

Nnanji seemed to have caught up with himself in fencing. He was still progressing, but at a more normal rate.

The Shonsu part of Wallie was feeling guilty about Nnanji, for now he was a sleeper, a man with ability above his rank. Sleepers were regarded with disfavor, and to create one was a sneaky trick.
 
Nnanji agreed. He would be happy to make his try for promotion. “I am a Fourth, now, my liege?”

“You’re a Fourth by my standards,” Wallie said. “And that means a Fifth by the guard’s. Honorable Tarru could peel and core you, but anyone else I’ve seen, you could serve up as cat food.”

Nnanji, of course, grinned. “Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow,” Wallie agreed.

Tomorrow . . .

†††††

Wallie wore his boots for the first time in public the next morning, in honor of the expected promotion. Yet, as he sat at breakfast with his back to the wall as usual, he looked around the hall uneasily. He had watched almost all the Fifths fence at one time or another, and not one of them was any better than Nnanji was now. Tarru was going to receive a considerable shock when he realized that he was opposing not only the best swordsman in the valley, but also possibly the third best. That realization might spur him to some dangerous rashness. Wallie was having second thoughts about pulling the covers off his sleeper.
 
Then the issue was forced anyway.

“I am Janghiuki, swordsman of the third rank . . . ” said the caller across the table. He was a young Third, a contemporary of Nnanji’s, short and skinny and eager, but nervous at introducing himself to a Seventh.
 
“I am Shonsu, swordsman . . . ” The formalities were a nuisance in that Wallie never seemed to be able to stay seated for very long in public, but the guard did not use them among themselves, so they were also an important reminder that he was a guest, and hence sacrosanct.

“May I have the honor . . . ” Janghiuki said, and presented his companion, a First by the official name of Ephorinzu. Wallie had noticed him before. Nnanji referred to him as Ears, for two obvious reasons, and so, probably, did everyone else. He was a large, resentful looking man, absurdly old to be a First, probably older than Shonsu, and certainly older than his fresh-faced mentor.
 
“And may I have the honor . . . ” Now Wallie had to present Nnanji to Janghiuki, who had known him for years.

“My Lord,” the Third said, getting down to business, “my protégé is a candidate for promotion to the rank of Second and he has expressed a wish that Apprentice Nnanji might consent to be one of those who examine him in swordsmanship.” Wallie had already guessed. The swordsmen talked fencing like bankers talk money, and Nnanji’s secret progress must be a great source of curiosity to them.
 
He knew that Nnanji got asked, and made noncommittal replies, but Nnanji’s face was as transparent as air.

“Sit down a moment, Swordsman Janghiuki,” he said, and seated himself. “Now, I have some advice. If you are truly anxious to see your protégé promoted, then ask elsewhere. It so happens that Apprentice Nnanji is planning to seek advancement himself this morning. If, on the other hand, you have been instructed to seek this match so that his abilities can be assessed by certain other people, then I am sure that he will be happy to oblige Novice Ephorinzu.
 
But I warn you, Nnanji will shred him.”

The unfortunate Janghiuki turned crimson and squirmed and did not know what to say. “My protégé is well above average in fencing for his rank, my lord,” he managed at last.

If Wallie had still had any doubts that most of the guard was now bound by the third oath, then this incident would have removed them. The kid had his orders.
 
He was being forced to sacrifice his protégé’s best interests and he was unhappy about the implications for his own honor.

So Wallie agreed that he would instruct his vassal to meet with the novice after breakfast and sadly watched the two men depart. He turned to the amused Nnanji, who was busy again with his stewed horsemeat and black bread.
 
“Novice Ears has trouble remembering sutras?”

“On bad days he can’t remember his name, either,” Nnanji said scornfully, chewing. “He’s about a Third with metal, though.” He frowned. “This is his ninth attempt, I think, but his last one was on Fletchers’ Day last year, so he’s not due to try again yet.” The famous memory at work.
 
“No, this is a put-up,” Wallie said. “Tarru will be watching, never fear. You’ve got him worried, vassal!”

Nnanji was flattered. “Shall I play cripple, then, my liege?” he asked.
 
Wallie shook his head. “You wouldn’t fool Tarru. Better to be as quick as you can and not give him time to judge you; a fast win can always be mere luck. But we were going to promote you, too, so it doesn’t matter now anyway. Who do you fancy in the duckpond?”

“Them!” Nnanji said firmly, nodding at Gorramini and Ghaniri across the room.
 
“I don’t think you can have them, I’m afraid,” Wallie said. “They have no mentors—I should have to ask them personally and I’m damned if I will. They would only refuse. And as a guest you can’t challenge another guest. Sorry, Nnanji, but you’ll have to pick two other victims.” Grumpily Nnanji suggested two Fourths, then admitted that they were probably the best two of their rank. Most candidates naturally chose easy marks.
 
“Let’s leave it for the moment,” Wallie said, having had an idea. “Box Ears as fast as you can, then maybe I can talk Tarru into something for you.” Nnanji was not the only one with a score to settle.

Promotions were matters of great interest, and all the swordsmen not on duty had gathered in the fencing area. Mostly they stood in a circle around the match, but some were on the platform, and a couple of Firsts had climbed onto the whipping post. At the far side of the parade ground the morning sacrifices were emerging from the jail, and Wallie hastily turned his back on that activity. The new roof was completed and resplendent, and the victims no longer need be dragged out screaming, crippled by complete immobility, but he still hated the thought of that jail and the primitive culture it represented.
 
In the center of the ring of swordsmen stood Ears and a very young and worried Second, presumably the worst fencer of his rank. It was almost an insult to be asked to examine, which was why requests were made to mentors whenever possible.
 
This one’s ordeal did not last long. Ears won the best of three in two very fast points. The junior slunk away, scalded by hisses from the crowd.
 
Wallie stayed back, watching easily over the circle of onlookers. Tarru and Trasingji were the judges and now they called for the second examiner. A slim, tall Second stepped forward, foil in hand, a red ponytail waving behind his mask. Tarru’s eyes sought out Wallie briefly and then looked away.
 
“Fence!” said Tarru.

Nnanji lunged. “Hit!” he called.

The judges agreed in surprise.

“Fence!”

“Hit!” Nnanji said again, and turned on his heel. Wallie could not have won faster himself.

Roaring in fury, Ears flung his foil to the ground—another year to wait before he could try again, and he had lost in the fencing, which he must have expected to win, not in the sutra tests that he found difficult.
 
There were no cheers, no boos. The swordsmen knew how Nnanji of the Second had fenced two weeks ago. They turned to stare at the Seventh who had worked this miracle. Wallie stalked forward, enjoying the sensation he had caused.
 
“While we are here, Honorable Tarru,” he said, “I have a protégé, Apprentice Nnanji, who would also like to try for promotion. He has expressed a choice, but I need an interpretation from you.”

Tarru frowned. The onlookers registered surprise, for there was nothing ambiguous about the rules for promotion.

“I defer to your rank on interpretations, my lord,” Tarru said cautiously.
 
“But you are host,” Wallie said innocently, “and this concerns a matter between guests.” All eyes swung to Ghaniri and Gorramini, standing nearby. “Would you take it as a breach of the rules of hospitality if he were to make the minor challenge to other guests?”

Suspicion floated around Tarru like a swarm of gnats. “Promotions do not need challenges, my lord!”

Wallie smiled disarmingly—he had been practicing with Shonsu’s face before a mirror. “No, but he will be jumping two ranks, which is unusual, and he is reluctant to ask the men in question. There is wood on the hearth, you understand.”

Tarru understood very well. He seemed to look for a trap and not find one. If he had set up Ears in order to evaluate Nnanji, then here was the opportunity he wanted. He shrugged. “As the minor challenge allows the choice of foils, I do not think that it violates hospitality,” he agreed. A jubilant Nnanji marched over to Ghaniri, who happened to be closest.

Gnaniri’s bruiser face darkened with anger—a Second challenging a Fourth was asking for as much trouble as the Fourth could deliver. Tarru and Trasingji graciously consented to be judges again.

The two men faced off, then took each other’s foils cautiously upon the signal.
 
They lunged and parried a couple of times. Then Ghaniri tried a cut to the head, Nnanji parried, and landed a superb riposte on his opponent’s ribs.
 
“Hit!” he said. The judges agreed.

Now even Tarru sent Wallie a glance that conceded the swordsmanship. Nnanji was making Ghaniri look as easy as Ears.

The second point took much longer, but Wallie saw right away that Nnanji was holding back. Tarru could possibly tell, although he did not know Nnanji’s style, but most of the other onlookers were probably deceived. Nnanji, having satisfied himself that he was the better man, was perhaps worried that he might somehow be cheated out of his second victim if he beat the first too easily. Or perhaps he was just enjoying himself. Then, after a few minutes of stamping and clashing metal and sweating and panting, he moved in again.
 
“Hit!” he said triumphantly, lowering his foil.

“No hit!” Tarru snapped.

It was a flagrant miscall; Ghaniri’s fingers were already rubbing the point of impact. Nnanji’s face was invisible behind the mask, but he directed it rigidly toward Tarru as though sending him a fierce glare.
 
“No hit!” Trasingji agreed reluctantly.

“Fence!” Tarru called.

Nnanji streaked. His foil struck the metal rim of Ghaniri’s mask with a loud crack. “Hit this time?” he shouted, and even Tarru could not deny that crack.
 
The spectators broke into loud whoops of applause, which Wallie suspected would be a unique experience for Nnanji and might make him overconfident. He pulled off his mask to wipe his forehead and turned to grin at his mentor.
 
“You’re keeping your guard too high!” Wallie snapped. Nnanji was forgetting that other swordsmen were not as tall as his mentor. He acknowledged the error with a nod and accepted a beaker of water from a considerate First.
 
But the short break had allowed Tarru to beckon Gorramini over and whisper to him. Wallie noticed and felt a twinge of unease. Then a chant spread around the circle: “Next! Next”’ This was a swordsmen gala day.
 
Grinning happily, Nnanji waved his foil in acceptance and strode over to challenge Gorramini. Gorramini was a tall, well-built, and athletic man, with an arrogant air that suggested he was aware of his appearance and expected admiration for it. He folded his arms and stared contemptuously back at Nnanji for a moment. Then he said: “Swords!”

So many of the spectators drew breath simultaneously that the sound came out as a collective hiss.

“Hold it!” Wallie boomed. He turned to Tarru. “I don’t think swords should be allowed between guests, your honor.”

“Ah!” Tarru said. Shark! “That is a problem, isn’t it? But you must remember, my lord, that juniors are always looking for good practice. The minor challenge allows the choice of blades for just that reason. You yourself, as the best swordsman in the valley, would constantly be receiving the minor challenge if you did not have that protection.”