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5

The party began at once

Of course Wallie gave his permission, choking down misgivings over the romantic, idealistic Nnanji being bound to that mercenary minx. Ignorant of the marriage customs of the People, he was carefully coached and then prompted by his sniggering protégé as he formally negotiated with Thana's mentor for the betrothal tendering one copper as bride price. Brota accepted, but he suspected that she doubted the wisdom of the match as much as he did.

Even Wallie thought Thana worth more than one copper, but apparently it was that or serious bargaining—and then Brota would have taken everything both swordsmen possessed.

There was much hugging and kissing and laughter as the family acquiesced. The ship was at anchor, and the sun god would set in a couple of hours—of course the party must begin at once. Tomiyano produced some vials of the sorcerers' ensorceled wine, whose effects could be heard and seen almost immediately. Oligarro's mandolin and Holiyi's pan pipes and young Sinboro on his drums . . . there was dancing and singing. Children screamed with excitement as ancient Lina brought forth delicacies from some secret store—crystallized fruits and knots of preserved ginger and yet-stranger sweetmeats that Wallie could not identify.

He wondered how long engagements lasted in the World and what elaborate ritual the marriage itself would require. For him to say good morning to another Seventh required forty words and six gestures. On that scale a wedding service could take hours. And what gift would a highrank swordsman give his protégé? Not a microwave oven, certainly.

He danced with all the women and all the girls. He joined in some of the more raucous River shanties. He laughed at the bawdy bantering and Nnanji's boastful ripostes. He grew steadily more miserable.

The calm persisted, the sun god faded down into luminous mist, and the putrid sulfur stink from the volcanoes dissipated, leaving only the pungent aroma of the ox hides in the hold. The sky began to darken. Eventually Wallie slipped away and climbed alone to the fo'c'sle, where he could lean against the rail beyond the capstan and gaze out over still waters. He listened to the music and laughter and sometimes, when they momentarily waned, to the playful slap of wavelets against the bow. The mist grew cool and damp against his skin.

A free man could not marry a slave.

He brooded over this injustice and at last decided that a married protégé was just one more tiny worry to add to all his others. He began to list them again in his mind. The catalog never seemed to shrink, it only grew longer. Nnanji himself was becoming a pest, demanding that he be allowed to try for sixth rank, and Thana would add her nagging now, seeking to further her fiancés career.

Honakura had instigated this stupid engagement! Wallie had overheard just enough of that whispered conversation to be sure. Certainly he had heard the word "prophecy" and he knew that must refer to the story of Ikondorina's red-haired brother. The old man's reticence on the subject was ominous, especially now that Wallie had wormed the other story out of him, and that other story had so obviously matched Katanji. What could have been prophesied about Nnanji that Wallie must not be told? He wished he had been able to hear more of what the old man had been telling Thana.

He wondered if those sutras had been changed by a miracle to fit the requirements of his mission. The demigod was quite capable of rearranging the memories of all the priests of the World. Indeed, he need change only Honakura's. Wallie decided he would search out a priest in Casr and ask him if he had ever heard of Ikondorina.

No, that would not work. A mortal could not outwit a god.

Yet Nnanji was hardly a worry to compare with his others. What might Wallie find in Casr when he met men and women who thought they knew him, who had known Shonsu? At least he need not worry about remembering names, because any conversation would begin with a formal salute. Those were as useful as the cutesy name tags of Earth: "Hi there, my name is . . . " Nor need he worry about being challenged. Only another Seventh would do that, and a brave one, for Shonsu's paramount skill must be known in Casr.

A greater danger was that he would be denounced, tried, convicted of cowardice, and executed. That was very likely, and his swordsmanship would not save him from that.

Explosions of laughter made him turn to look at the main deck. The center of amusement was a squirming heap of male adolescents. Even Holiyi was in there. Then it broke apart, revealing Nnanji underneath. Matarro had Nnanji's kilt and ran off waving it, with Nnanji leaping up to race in howling pursuit around the deck, while the spectators jeered and cheered.

Not so very long ago, such treatment from civilians would have provoked Nnanji to mayhem.

Wallie sighed. He ought to be down there, joining in the fun, not skulking up here being such a sourpuss.

Sorcerers!

They were the big problem, obviously. Mostly they were fakes and charlatans, their magic almost all sleight of hand, aided by the carefully prepared gowns, loaded with tricks.

Originally they must have been scribes, for their feather craftmarks represented quill pens. He had worked out a history for them. He had no evidence, but it all made so much sense that he was certain now that it must be the truth. Whether writing had been a gift of the gods or a mortal invention, it had been assigned to a separate craft, but reading and writing were such useful skills that the priests had coveted them. The scribes had resisted. Perhaps they had even initiated the violence. The swordsmen had sided with the priests—that was both obvious and inevitable—and driven the sorcerers away. They had taken refuge in mountain strongholds, like Vul, far from the River and the Goddess, claiming magical powers in self-defense. They had also roamed the World in disguise, preserving their monopoly by assassination. That explained both the present absence of writing and the swordsmen's implacable hostility.

Literacy made knowledge cumulative, and over the ages the sorcerers had accumulated knowledge, until now their fakery was assisted by primitive chemistry. Certainly they knew of gunpowder, phosphorus, some sort of bleach to remove facemarks, and the acid that had scarred Tomiyano. They might have other things, but nothing very terrible. Their guns were crude in the extreme, one shot gadgets, slow to reload and not very accurate. The sorcerers themselves were only armed civilians. Faced with swordsmen in Ov, they had panicked. They would be little problem out in the open.

The towers were the danger. Wallie knew that the tower doors were booby-trapped and he could guess at cannons, shrapnel bombs, and other horrors. If the swordsmen tried to take a tower, they would be slaughtered. It could be done, of course, but not in the traditional ways of the craft, not going by the sutra.

There, it would seem, was where Wallie Smith came in. That was why the Goddess had put the soul of a chemist into the body of a swordsman—so he could take over the tryst, win the leadership by combat, and lead the swordsmen to victory. But why, oh why, had She chosen so fainthearted a mortal as Wallie Smith? There must be no lack of bloody-minded chemists in the universe. He hated bloodshed. He still had nightmares about the battles he had fought, about the jetty on the holy island, about the night the pirates came, about Ov. Why him?

The sky was almost dark, the Dream God gleaming hazily across the south. The ends of the rings were concealed in mist, only the crest of the arc showing. Down on the deck, the party was growing quieter. He must go back and join in.

This fog was bad—good pirate weather—and Sapphire was advertising her presence across half a hemisphere. Tomiyano would set double watch this night.

Sorcerers—fakes.

But were they? All the magic he had seen or heard of he could now explain—with one exception. When he had so stupidly gone ashore at Aus and met with sorcerers, they had told him what he had said to Jja before he left Sapphire's deck. When a sorcerer had come on board at Wal, he had known Brota's name. In each case, that knowledge smelled like telepathy. Wallie could think of no other explanation. That was the only magic he could not rationalize away, and he had worried over that more than anything else since Ov.

Sorcery . . . science. They were incompatible were they not? Surely he need not fight both at once?

But no one could have heard what he had said to Jja that day.

And Jja had not gone ashore in Aus. He had asked. That had shown him how worried he was—that he could even doubt Jja.

So that was his worst problem: he was not quite certain.

No. That was not the worst. There was another, hanging over him like the blade of a guillotine: Whose side was he on?

Then cool fingers slid around his ribs and linked up on his chest. A cheek was laid against his shoulder blade.

Jja was concerned about him. He had not tried to explain all his troubles to her, for she could never have understood them properly. She did not resent that, he was sure. She did what she could, offering wordless sympathy for unspoken pain, as now. He cherished it in silence for a moment.

"Thanji? Brotsu? Shota? Nnathansu?"

He twisted around and returned the embrace, pulling her tight and feeling her warmth against him through the thinness of cotton. "What are you babbling about, wench?" he asked gently.

"Naming their firstborn, of course!"

"Oh my love," Wallie whispered "How I wish that it were us!"

"Silly man!" she said, but in a tone no slave owner could have resented. "What does it matter? I am much more married than Thana will ever be."

And much more beautiful, he thought. Jja was no skinny wraith, no fashion model. She was tall and strong and deep-breasted and the most desirable woman in the World.

He told her so.

She purred.

"I was sent to fetch you, my lord Wallie," she whispered, "for they are waiting."

"For me?" he demanded. "Why?"

"For the wedding, of course."

"What? Now? Tonight? But . . . what do I have to do?"

"Just say yes," she said.

"Yes?"

"Yes!" Chuckling, she led him to the steps, and they picked their way down carefully in the dark.

No bridal gown, no bridesmaids, no orange blossoms? Nnanji and Thana were standing together, with Brota positioned behind Thana, and all of them facing Tomiyano. Obviously a ship's captain could perform a marriage, as a captain could on Earth. Wallie stepped into position behind Nnanji, who had retrieved his kilt and now turned to welcome his mentor with a broad leer. The rest of the crew, the family, had gathered around, vague faces smiling and silent in the night.

The ceremony was unbelievably short and even more revoltingly one sided than Wallie had expected in this sexist World.

"Lord Shonsu, do you permit your protégé to marry this woman?"

"Yes."

"Mistress Brota, do you permit your protégé to marry this man?"

"Yes."

"Adept Nnanji, swordsman of the fourth rank, do you take Thana, swordsman of the second rank, as your wife, promising to clothe and feed her, to feed her children, to teach them obedience to the gods and claim them as your own, to find them honorable crafts when they reach adulthood?"

"Yes."

"Apprentice Thana, swordsman of the second rank, do you take this Nnanji, swordsman of the fourth rank, as your husband, offering your person for his pleasure and no other's, conceiving, bearing, and rearing his children, and obeying his commands?"

"Yes."

Along with one copper, Wallie thought, Brota was not obtaining much of a commitment from Nnanji, in return for exclusive enjoyment of Thana's person.

And now, obviously, all that was required to seal the marriage was a kiss. Eyes shining, Nnanji turned and put his arms around Thana. She raised her face.

He bent his head . . .

He raised it . . .

He looked wide-eyed at Wallie.

And then Wallie heard it also in the sudden silence, drifting across the water out of the darkness—the sound of clashing swords.

 

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Framed