The Destiny of the Sword (13 page)

“My name will suffice, my lord herald.” The herald bowed and led the way through a daik tunnel mat emerged into a courtyard. The lodge, it seemed, was a shoe box, a hollow rectangle whose outside walls were bare and whose interior was lined with balconies, layer upon layer of them overlooking the open space in the center. WaUie found himself at the top of a short flight of steps, surveying what in normal times was probably a charming and peaceful place. But these were not normal times, and now it was not charming and certainly not peaceful.

The courtyard was huge. At each end stood venerable and gnarled oak trees, bate now of leaves, symbols of strength and endurance. Between these a central rectangle was marked off by stone benches and plinths bearing statues of marble or bronze, weathered and corroded by age to travesties of the warriors they had once represented. Probably this smaller central area was intended for fencing. It was larger than all of Sapphire.

Far from peaceful! The court seemed with noisy swordsmen, busy as a fairground. The center space had been divided into four sections by wooden hurdles, and each of these smaller spaces contained a fencing match. Around the outside, and in many of the lower balconies, crowds of spectators heckled and cheered as their favorites performed. Seniors with entourages were pushing through, around, and over the tops of cross,legged sutra sessions. Discussions and arguments were being shouted everywhere in total disregard for everything else. At least two minstrels were trying to sing above the noise of hawkers shouting their wares. Swordsmen were sharpening swords on treadle grindstones, eating, arguing, playing dice, cooking food on braziers, and even wrestling. A line of colored flags hung like washing across the center of the court, dropping almost to head height in the middle. Real washing or bedding being aired hung from half the balconies.

Nor were there only swordsmen. Wallie saw slaves and cooks and dozens of other civilians he could not identify at a distance. Many of them were women. Fairground! He disapproved, and he thought Shonsu’s instincts did, also.

The herald was not the only one to have been alerted, for a Seventh and some Sixths were waiting at the base of the steps,

and as Wallie came through the archway a blaring fanfare exploded from a balcony directly above his head. It raised a cloud of pigeons from the roof, reverberated off the walls, drowned the racket completely, and then was itself swallowed by a roll of drums that left his ears ringing. The dueling stopped. A last chanted sutra faded into a respectful and merciful silence. At least a thousand eyes turned to examine die long,awaited seventh Seventh and bis companions.

The Seventh at the bottom of the steps had to be the castellan, Tivanixi. He was little older than Shonsu—probably about thirty —slim and poised and handsome. His ponytail was longer man most, wavy, and the same golden,brown shade as his skin. His kilt and harness were an unusual cobalt blue, his boots the same, and everything he wore looked expensive and elegant—except bis sword hilt, which was starkly plain. That was obviously a calculated effect and quite impressive—in fact he was an impressive sight altogether.

Even before the herald spoke, while the trumpets were still screaming, the smile of welcome faded from his face. Speed was more valuable man strength to swordsmen. Big men were rare. Giant, black,haired Sevenths were... unique. This could only be his predecessor, and Tivanixi would not be human were be not men wondering whether Shonsu had returned to reclaim his job. Shonsu, who collected dead men’s swords? Shonsu, rumored to be a tool of the sorcerers? Then his eyes switched to Nnanji, stepping into place on Wallie’s left, and surprise showed, also. A red,haired Fourth? That mysterious hero from the battle of Ov must have been the subject of much discussion, and here was such a man at the side of Shonsu. The Sixths behind him were still smiling. Tivanixi, Wallie concluded, was a fast thinker.

The human bullfrog took a leisurely breath and then raised the birds again, outdoing the trumpets in volume. “My lords... in the name of the Goddess... and in the ways and traditions of your honorable and ancient craft... give welcome to the valiant Lord... SHONSU... swordsman of the seventh rank.”

Shock!

Disgust!

Incredulity!

Superstitious creepy feelings?

For a moment Wallie stood and enjoyed the drama, then he drew his sword and made the salute to a company. A buzz of conversation like a plague of bees began and grew steadily louder. All smiles had vanished except one—Tivanixi’s was now back in place.

Wallie walked down the steps and silence fell once more, as if the onlookers had not believed their ears and wanted to hear that name spoken again. And again Wallie drew, to make the salute to an equal.

The castellan responded, confirming his identity, maintaining a wary smile of greeting and displaying a confident and easy grace in his sword movements. To an experienced eye like Shonsu’s, even those were revealing, “I am Tivanixi, swordsman of the seventh rank, castellan of the lodge in Casr; I am honored by your courtesy and do most humbly extend the same felicitations to your noble setf,and,welcome,to,the,lodge,and,to,the,tryst,my,lord.”

That very fast addition had perhaps made him host, therefore immune to challenge. It was debatable, for the visitor had not requested hospitality.

The Sixths were edging gently backward. They did not wish to be presented. The crowd was silent, intent, frowning. “I did not come to join the tryst.”

More shock from the onlookers, increased wariness from the castellan. “It is a holy cause to which the Goddess has summoned Her swordsman, my lord.”

Wallie bowed his head slightly. “Certainly! I stop here only in passing, though. I have two items of business to attend to.”

That might be a threat? “What other business is more important than a tryst?” Tivanixi demanded. The onlookers at UK limit of hearing were shushing those farther away, but most of the swordsmen present were listening intently. “An oath.”

For a moment Wallie thought that Tivanixi was going to point out that a quick visit to the temple could dispose of an inconvenient oath... but discretion prevailed.

“In what way may we be of assistance, then?” Wallie raised his voice until the echoes rolled. “A sad duty and a pleasant one. Sadly I bring news of two honorable and

valorous swordsmen slain by pirates on their way here. I performed justice upon the guilty.”

The news was digested in silence.

“The happier task is to seek promotion for two swordsmen. Lord castellan, may I have the honor...” Wallie presented Nnanji of the Fourth, prote’gg and oath brother. Thana he omitted for the time being.

Tivanixi, sheathing his sword after the response, could not restrain his curiosity. “We have heard of a red,haired Fourth who led a battle against the ungodly in Ov, adept.”

Nnanji looked boyish and ungainly compared to the suave Tivanixi, but he smiled triumphantly and said, almost shouting, “That battle was led by Lord Shonsu, my lord. I helped, but the honor is his.”

More surprise and whispers. Tivanixi beamed. “That is good news, my lord! We must summon minstrels and have that noble encounter recorded. The facts may have not been correctly reported here.”

Wallie released a trace of a smile to show that he knew what had been reported.

“Before that, let us honor the fallen, my lord,” he said. “I believe that there are swordsmen here from the Kingdom of Plo and Fex?”

“Let us honor the greater dead first,” replied the castellan with a curious expression on his face now. “Newcomers are shown our memorial, the cause that led to the calling of this tryst.” He half turned, pointed to the row of limp flags hanging across the center of the court, and then studied Lord Shonsu’s expression.

Flags? Curious flags! Brown at the ends, then orange, red, a couple of greens, and a solitary blue in the middle? Not flags. Kilts! Some were torn, some burned, and the stains could only be blood. Wallie was sure his face had turned pale, which must be providing the onlookers with satisfaction.

“Explain?” he stuttered.

“They were returned to Casr by a sailor, acting on a request from a certain Lord Rotanxi, who calls himself wizard of Sen.” Tivanixi’s voice was grim. “The next day I called this tryst— which the Holiest has blessed.”

So these were the remains of Shonsu’s ill,fated attack on Vul?

w.

To return the clothes and trappings of the fallen was a swordsmen courtesy. To send the kilts alone had probably been intended as an insult. Tivanixi had cleverly turned the insult into a challenge, shame into glory. Wallie had hardly taken in that thought, when he was struck by another—the sorcerers had deliberately provoked the tryst, or something like it. Did Tivanixi realize that he might be swallowing dangerous bait?

And the blue kilt must have belonged to Shonsu. It did look marginally larger than those hanging nearby. Wallie would cheerfully have given his hairclip to be certain, but he would have to assume that there had been no other Sevenths on that ill,fated venture. Surely it would have been out of character for Shonsu to share command?

The swordsmen were waiting for him. The ritual was clean He was expected to go forward and make the salute to the dead —to his own kilt? He nodded to Nnanji, who had turned vaguely green, and then he started to march, the crowd parting for him. He passed between two stone benches, then through a gap in the first row of hurdles. He could hear Nnanji’s boots behind him and he signed to him to stop.

The line of kilts hung over the second row of hurdles. The blue kilt was the lowest, hi the middle. Without breaking stride, Wallie jumped up on the bar, drew his sword, swung it overhead, leaped backward before he lost his balance, and had the blade sheathed as he reached the ground again. Not a bad feat of swordsman gymnastics at all! The blue kilt flopped down to the ground. He turned and retraced his steps to a proper distance, where Nnanji was waiting for him, wide,eyed but approving.

They made the salute together, then headed back to Tivanixi and the silent circle of onlookers.

‘That one was a forgery, my lord,” Wallie said. “The rest need be avenged, but not that.” He had no idea what had happened to Shonsu—he might even have escaped without his kilt, for he had been a Nameless One when he had arrived at Harm. No one else seemed to know either, perhaps not even the sorcerers.

Tivanixi’s suspicion had not decreased—what sort of a leader is the only survivor?

“I have minstrels here, Lord Shonsu. Will you list for us the names of the fallen, so that they may be revered?’

How to handle that one? This was like fencing in the dark. Worse! Yet forty,nine names after half a year—even in this pre,titerate culture, that would be asking much.

“No, my lord. Neither names nor ranks. Let them be equal in glory.”

‘Then recount to us their heroism and the abomination of sorcery that slew them.”

Wallie was sweating now, and hoping it did not show too much. He had been so worried over his own blunders that he had forgotten he would be blamed for Shonsu’s also. “Nor that, either.”

Hostility burned in silence around him. A general loses an army and then refuses to discuss the matter?

No one argued with a swordsman of the Seventh, except possibly another. Tivanixi seemed to be on the point of doing so, but he was bound by the ways of honor—he could not call on assistance from the troops standing beside him. He could accept this refusal, or he could challenge.

Or he could call for a denunciation.

The castellan’s face was granite hard. “And you will not join the tryst and seek vengeance, my lord?”

“But the Goddess brought you here?” Perhaps Tivanixi and the others were wondering to which god that oath had been sworn.

“She did,” Wallie said, and saw the suspicion relax a trifle, the bewilderment increase. “But about Plo?” he insisted. ‘”Call up your heralds, Lord Tivanixi.”

A voice said, “I am from Plo, my lords.” A nervous,looking Third pushed his way to the front. He saluted the castellan and then Walh’e. His harness was studded with topazes.

Wallie turned to Tivanixi. “The minstrels?”

The castellan waved a hand at a group of civilians jostling for access. The swordsmen reluctantly opened to let a dozen or so press through, then closed to shut out the rest. Minstrels came in all shapes and sexes. Wallie noted a fat, elderly woman of the •Fourth, and two bony men in yellow loincloths, and a very tall .youth at the back, peering over everyone. Minstrels wore their

hair long and they all carried lutes on their backs. Lutes were their facemarks, also.

Taking the bundle of kilts and harnesses from Jja, and the two swords from Katanji, Wallie began the story. He did not mention his advice to Polini, but he stressed the man’s lonely day,long stand and he thought he told it rather well. Then he asked Nnanji if he had anything to add, and Nnanji gave the final, pathetic conversation, word for word.

The swordsmen had forgotten any other business they might have had. This Shonsu was the day’s event, and they had all clustered around to listen. As Nnanji was speaking, Wallie noticed more of them streaming in the gate. None were leaving. At the end of the tale the minstrels asked a couple of questions, then bowed and withdrew to compose the official version. Minstrels necessarily had Nnanji,type memories, of course, as well as good voices. They took with them—for background information, Wallie supposed—the Third from Plo, who was clutching the bundle and the swords, and not even trying to hold back his sobs.