Wearing a trim new ultramarine kilt that Jja had made for him, Wallie led his army down the gangplank. His sword hilt flashed in the sunlight, and his blood pumped eagerly at the prospect of action at last.
Next came Nnanji of the Fourth, his grin firmly anchored to his ears and his head in the stars. Nnanji of the Fifth? He was having trouble not marching straight up his mentor's back in his impatience to reach the lodge. He also wore his best, but his hairclip was the usual orange stone. Arganari's silver griffon had neither appeared nor been mentioned, which was unusual tact for Nnanji.
And after him was Thana, defiantly dressed in riverfolk breechclout and bra sash of buttercup yellow, her only concession to land life being a pair of shoes. Wallie had been hesitant when she had appeared with her sword on, announcing that she also was a candidate for promotion. The tryst would be quite antagonistic enough toward him without a female water rat at his side. True, she could handle the fencing for third rank with her eyes closed, and she had repeatedly astonished him in the sutra sessions, but he was sure that she had only just developed this feverish desire to learn sutras. There must be many that she had never even heard. Then Nnanji had put on his ill-treated-spaniel expression. Thinking that she would be company for Jja, Wallie had consented.
Behind Thana came Novice Katanji, attempting to maintain a man-of-the-World cynicism about this swordsman childishness, but not succeeding very well in hiding his excitement at the prospect of seeing the lodge and of being brother to a Fifth. Tucked under his cast, steadied by his good hand, he carried two sheathed swords.
Finally came Jja, bearing a bundle—a swordsman might carry nothing except a foil or a spare sword, because that would diminish his honor. She wore sandals and the usual slave's black wrap, but it had been skillfully tailored by herself from the finest linen her owner had been able to purchase and have appropriately dyed.
They had barely started across the wind-whipped, eye-watering plaza, the sailors' good wishes had scarcely died away behind them, when they were spotted by some juniors, whose reaction was obvious. Here was the expected seventh Seventh! The juniors turned and headed for the lodge. Other swordsmen, including the press-gangs, saw the activity and gave chase.
Nnanji was calling directions, but soon Wallie did not need them, for an increasing crowd of swordsmen was preceding him, gathering newcomers like a snowball, and all he had to do was follow. The citizens noticed the excitement, also, pausing in their business to stare. Several times Wallie thought he saw recognition, or heard his name being spoken. Shonsu was returning from the dead.
Their way led toward the center of town, then through a narrow alley and out into an open space too irregular ever to be called a square. Most of the flanking buildings seemed to be deserted ruins. At the far side was a huge block, set at an odd angle, and the mob of swordsmen was pouring into it through a single arched doorway. All that showed from the outside was a blank stone wall like the side of a cube, with the archway and a single balcony high above it. A bronze sword hung on the wall above that. There were no windows. As Wallie and his followers approached, the tail end of his unofficial vanguard was streaming in to be present when he arrived.
By the time he had crossed the court, the crowd had vanished inside. Two guards of the third rank flashed their swords in salute and a solitary figure came marching out to greet him. He was a Seventh, but no swordsman. He was built like a blue bullfrog, a bald head perching on the shoulders of his robe without intervention of neck. Wallie eyed the unfamiliar facemarks doubtfully—they looked like mouths—and waited for the salute.
He was a herald, and he reacted to Wallie's name with obvious shock.
"Lord Shonsu!" he repeated, and then recovered himself. "By what titles does your lordship wish to be proclaimed?" He had a voice like falling rocks.
"My name will suffice, my lord herald."
The herald bowed and led the way through a dark tunnel that 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. Wallie 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, bare 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 seethed 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 the long-awaited seventh Seventh and his 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 than 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 his 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 than 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 he not then 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 self-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 the 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, protégé 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? 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 clear: 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, in 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 Hann. 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 preliterate 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?"
Wallie shook his head. "I have an oath to fulfill, 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 Wallie. 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.
Tivanixi looked angry and puzzled. Lord Shonsu could apparently behave in a proper swordsman fashion when he chose to, but why honor two and not forty-nine?
"Now your promotions, my lord," he said, "and then we shall call more minstrels to hear of the events at Ov."
Wallie nodded.
Tivanixi glanced at Thana's sailor costume and smiled knowingly. "Adept Nnanji, we have a wide selection of opponents to offer you, but space has become a problem. Promotions have been going through here like sheep pellets. We have been forced to limit fencing to these small areas, but if you wish to go outside in the plaza, we could arrange that."
Nnanji grinned and said that he would try to do his best in the cramped conditions. Apparently this routine affair was going to receive the castellan's personal attention, which suited Wallie. He was aware of the murderous suspicion and resentment around him. He felt like a mouse in a snakepit and he knew that only the ways of honor were protecting him. Tivanixi doubtless wanted to keep an eye on Shonsu. Shonsu was happy to stay close to Tivanixi.
There had to be more formalities, of course. A reluctant Sixth was selected as the second judge and presented. Wallie made sure that Jja was safely positioned between Thana and Katanji, behind one of the stone benches. Then he followed Nnanji and the judges into the fencing area. The crowd spread along the hurdles that formed one side, and along the roped benches and statues that made the other three.
Tivanixi glanced over the spectators and carefully selected a Fifth, who was naturally several years older than Nnanji, and who made a joke about infanticide, which raised a laugh. Nnanji smiled tolerantly and said nothing. There was no need to review the rules—promotions required two matches, best of three. Tivanixi called for the fencing to begin.
Lunge!
"One!" Nnanji called.
"Agreed!" said the judges, somewhat startled. "Continue!"
Lunge! Parry! Riposte!
"Two!" Nnanji said. "Next one please."
The Fifth departed in shocked humiliation. The crowd was stunned to silence, but it seemed to ripple, and suddenly Fifths were as rare as dinosaurs in the courtyard. Tivanixi sent Wallie a broad and quite genuine-looking smile. It suited him. For the moment, suspicions could be forgotten in the pleasure of good swordsmanship and the shared superiority of high rank.
"Strange!" he said. "There were some here a moment ago." He sprang lightly up on a bench, glanced over the heads, and called a name. The crowd parted to admit a heavyset, swarthy Fifth, younger than the first, but obviously reluctant and angry at not having escaped in time.
The second match lasted no longer. The courtyard erupted in cheers. When Nnanji's grin emerged from the mask, Wallie matched it and shook his hand.
Now came the sutra test, which was dull, and the crowd indulged itself in discussion and muttering. The lodge standards were high. The judges called for sutra after sutra. Nnanji spouted them all at top speed, without a moment's hesitation. They shifted to tricky ones, and he never broke stride.
Tivanixi threw up his hands and rose. "I had heard that Lord Shonsu was a great teacher," he said. "Master Nnanji, I congratulate you on the most impressive promotion I have ever seen."
Nnanji beamed. "Thank you, my lord."
The castellan glanced at Wallie and then back to the new Fifth. "You would not care to try for Sixth?"
Nnanji gave his mentor a reproachful look. "Unfortunately I do not know all the sutras required for that rank, my lord."
Tivanixi looked surprised, but he nodded sympathetically. "Many good swordsmen find them the hard part."
"Very true," Wallie said sadly—and Nnanji glared at him furiously.
"And now my wife?" Nnanji demanded.
Tivanixi pulled a face and studied Wallie thoughtfully, perhaps wondering if this was some sort of trap to justify a challenge. He evidently decided it was not, and smiled once more. "I never heard of a female swordsman having the audacity even to approach a lodge, let alone seek promotion there. However, Master Nnanji, in your case I will allow an exception. Present her."
The onlookers muttered, but Thana was presented and Tivanixi found himself being charmed against his will.
"Two Thirds, I assume, apprentice?" he said, smiling.
"Fourths!" Thana said.
Wallie choked back an objection. Certainly Thana could make a good try at the fencing, for this confined space, would suit her water-rat style admirably and confound her opponents, but he was almost certain that she did not know enough sutras even for Third. . . . He turned to question Nnanji and got a big grin. Nnanji must have been giving her more lessons than they had revealed. Wallie shrugged and the chance to intervene had passed. Then he decided that there had been something very strange about that grin of Nnanji's . . .
Tivanixi rolled his eyes at some of the watching Sixths. He started a hunt for opponents. The first two Fourths he asked turned him down at once. He gave Wallie a what-do-you-expect look, but on the third attempt he found one. Word that the good-looking female was going to fence provoked much grumbling and talk of heresy. Nevertheless the crowd congealed once more around the site, and some juniors clambered into trees for a better view.
Thana started with a big advantage; her opponent had surely never fought a woman before. He also badly underestimated her, then got rattled when he lost the first pass. She won the second point also. By now bets were being placed at the back of the crowd and the old arguments about the legality of female swordsmen were being rehashed.
It should have been hard to find another Fourth willing to risk his reputation, but Thana was accustomed to having her own way. She picked out a tall young man and smiled at him bewitchingly. He was about to refuse, but his companions pushed him forward, laughing. Wallie guessed at once, and his guess was very soon confirmed. Thana had stumbled on a sleeper—he was at least a good Fifth, and would likely have given even a Sixth a fair match. He was as good as Nnanji! Certainly he could have wiped Thana off the court as easily as Nnanji had disposed of his opponents, but he chose instead to toy with her. The crowd understood, and the laughter began. Thana leaped and lunged and cut, and the Fourth hardly shifted his feet, as if he could do this all day. He never let her foil come close to him . . . a wildcat fighting a rainbow.
Nnanji turned blood-red with fury, growling about sleepers. Even the judges were grinning. Thana was young and fit, but she began to flag at last.
By then calls for a draw had begun at the back of the crowd. They grew louder and more numerous. The candidate had demonstrated her swordsmanship, and an outright win was not required. The judges at last agreed. The mood had changed. Prejudice had been overcome by professional admiration—and some sympathy. Male enjoyment of watching a nubile female body in motion was probably not without influence, either.
After a pause for the candidate to recover her breath—and for Wallie to persuade Nnanji that he need not challenge the smirking Fourth—it was time for the sutra test. The two judges sat opposite Thana, three swords crossed on the ground between them. The crowd lost interest and some wandered away. Tivanixi began six thirty-five, "On the Design of a Fortress," and Wallie groaned, for it was long, dull, hard, and not one he had ever heard her try. Thana smiled back at Wallie and chanted the words slowly and carefully. She stumbled twice, recovered, and reached the end safely. The Sixth began another, and she got that right, too. Wallie was bewildered—how did she do that? He turned to Nnanji beside him and received a triumphant super-grin. Yet there was something wrong with that grin, also. It did not seem to be conveying quite the right message.
Nnanji went back to studying the examination—six thirteen, "On Long-distance Marching," smiling encouragingly. Wallie stared at him, then looked around, then back at Thana.
Sudden understanding hit him like an earthquake.
Thana was using sorcery.