by David Duncan
If that happened―or so the plan went―he would be caught in a net, trussed like a pig for market, and put ashore, together with the rest of the passengers.
Tomiyano himself had other ideas. His vitriolic hatred of swordsmen allowed no room for nets in his view of the future. Any nonsense from Nnanji's direction was going to be countered with a fast knife, the consequences be damned. Some of the men agreed with him.
Sapphire was not a tranquil ship.
Yet now she was becalmed and so was the quest. The old priest knew that the matter was urgent―a process that should have taken years was being squashed into a few short days. The gods were in a hurry, but things had come to a halt. Obviously someone ought to be doing something and had failed to pick up his cue. Honakura was quite willing to help, but he was a minor character in the drama and would not be permitted to meddle greatly. And he did not know what was supposed to happen next, or who was supposed to make it happen.
The Ikondorina prophecies were some guide for him, of course, and the demigod's riddle was beginning to make sense. He knew more than anyone else about Shonsu's mission―certainly more than Shonsu did―but at the moment he was baffled.
It was a hot and still afternoon. The banks were far off on either side, the mountains faint in the eastern haze, the water an azure mirror. High above him―and looking straight up was a tricky procedure for Honakura―the youngsters hung in the rigging like sloths, Katanji among them. A group of women sat on the poop deck, chattering quietly and knitting, preparing warmer clothes for winter in this nontropical climate. Holiyi, Maloli, and Oligarro were splicing ropes, which was a peaceful and sedentary task. Linihyo and Sinboro dangled lines in silence from the fo'c'sle. Young Matarro held the tiller with obvious pride, although the ship was virtually stationary, her wake a faint ripple on the silken sheen.
The only person being energetic was Tomiyano. Down on his knees beside the aft hatch cover, he was scraping one side of it with a sandstone block. It seemed an unpleasant task. He was probably demonstrating that he had recovered his health, and the spare sanders he had laid out in clear view were a strong hint that he would appreciate some help. The hint was being ignored. After some thought, Honakura decided that the purpose was to remove the old paint before applying new―he had not had to worry about such practical matters since he was a child, but that seemed logical. At any rate, Tomiyano was the only really active person in sight, and the screech of his block was the only loud noise.
And there was Nnanji, leaning on the rail, staring out at distant fishing boats. No one in the crew spoke to him now. He was being treated like a dangerous animal.
Honakura sauntered over and laid black sleeves beside sinewy young arms. Nnanji turned to regard him for a moment in silence.
"Any change?" he asked.
Honakura shook his head.
The swordsman nodded and looked out at the water again for a while. The strain was telling on him, inevitably. The smooth juvenile planes of his face had become more angular. Even this silent contemplation was new.
"I was not always popular in the barracks, either, you know," he said softly.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that you don't need to follow me around with that worried expression. You look like my mother, wondering if I'm constipated."
Honakura was taken aback―an unfamiliar sensation, he admitted to himself.
Then Nnanji asked, "Did I make an error?"
That also was unexpected. "When?"
"When I sold Cowie. She was one of the seven."
"There was no miracle to stop you, so I don't suppose so."
Nnanji groaned. "It feels like an error. I've never been so horny in my life."
He had, of course, sported quite a reputation in the barracks. "Why did you sell her, then?"
Nnanji's pale eyes stayed fixed on the far-off fishing boats, but a slight smile tugged one corner of his mouth. "I interpreted a hint as a promise."
Interesting! The lad was poking fun at himself, and that was another new development. Of course he had not been able to go ashore with the other bachelors in Ki San and Wal. He could not romp in the rigging with his sword, either, and the crew did not invite him to join in their chores.
"What you need is some exercise, adept."
Nnanji nodded, still facing the water. "That's what I meant. But even other exercise would help, I suppose. Would you care for a fencing lesson, old man?"
"A fencing lesson is just what I need," Honakura said wryly, "but it would not be legal, would it? Try Thana―she might agree to that sort of exercise."
Nnanji shook his head. "I think I must have lost weight. She doesn't see me now, even when I speak. I work the nipper to distraction; he hates it, and I don't want to sicken him of it too much." He sighed.
Honakura had heard Brota's opinion of Katanji as a swordsman and seen him head off to hide in the chain locker when his mentor appeared with foils.
Then Nnanji half turned, leaned on one elbow, and grinned at the priest. "I shall have to ask the captain."
Yet again Honakura was startled. "You're joking!"
"No." The grin grew wider. "The sutras say I can't give a civilian a foil―but they don't say I can't accept one from a civilian. I left mine back in Hann. And I can't give a civilian a lesson..."
"But he's better than you are? You are thinking like a priest, adept."
"Where could I have picked up such a bad habit, I wonder? Still, he can't do more than throw me overboard for asking, can he? And in return for a fencing lesson, I can get a sailoring lesson, also―I'll offer to help him with whatever that noisy job is."
This was all very much out of character! A swordsman doing manual labor? Asking fencing lessons from a sailor? Honakura prided himself on being able to predict people. He did not welcome such anomalous behavior. A twinge of intuition whispered that this might be what the gods were waiting for, but...
But there was also something new in Nnanji's eyes, hidden behind the grin. Most people, in Honakura's experience, used their eyes only to look, few used them to see. Nnanji had just changed categories, for he had noticed Honakura's reaction, and the old man very seldom gave himself away like that.
The grin grew wider. "Well?"
"He might do much worse. He may flog you as Shonsu flogged him."
Nnanji shook his head. "No. He's not that much better than I am. It would slow him. I'd butcher him, too, if he started that."
"But why should he agree to give a fencing lesson to a man who may try to kill him? That's crazy!"
"Panache?" Nnanji said. "He likes to impress the others. He gave me my sword back, remember?"
Where had this swordsman found such an insight? From Katanji? Yet Honakura did not think Katanji had been consulted. That would be even more out of character...
"Want to make a bet, old man?"
"No, I don't! I think you should stay away from Tomiyano. He's dangerous." But that, Honakura realized as soon as he said it, was not likely to be an effective argument in this case. "He'll try to cripple you!"
Nnanji registered astonishment. "No! Yes, he will, won't he? Well, then! There's a real incentive for him!" He flashed a truly wicked smirk and went striding off toward the deckhouse door, emerging a few moments later without his sword and harness.
Tomiyano looked up warily as he heard boots approach. He sat back on his heels, scowling, reached for his knife, and then showed surprise at seeing a swordsman unarmed.
Honakura had spent a long lifetime analyzing people and knew be could read expressions better than most. He saw the dark flush of fury on the sailor's face when Nnanji made his request. He saw it change to disbelief. He saw the attraction of the idea dawn. Nnanji pointed to the sanding job, looking hopeful and earnest and totally lacking in guile. Then he grinned broadly across at Honakura as the captain rose, heading for the fo'c'sle, obviously going to fetch the foils.
Still apprehensive, the old man perched himself on a nearby sand bucket and prepared to w
atch. The tension among the crew was far too high to risk such nonsense; the memories of the fight between Shonsu and the captain much too vivid. There would be too many opportunities for things to go wrong. It was a blatant challenge to the gods. He should have more faith, but he wished he knew what to expect, or how this could possibly help.
Tomiyano was gone some time. Quite likely his mother had hidden the equipment. Few people noticed the foils and masks in his hand when he returned, but the first clash of steel rang through the silent ship like an alarm bell, and the reaction was frenzied. Youngsters came swarming down the ropes, the knitting party on the poop disintegrated, people erupted from the companionway to stare in disbelief and then gaze at one another. Brota came out screaming, her nerves ragged from the days of uncertainty.
"What in hell are you doing!" she yelled, even as she burst through the crowd around die doorway like a surfacing whale.
The fencing stopped, and the captain pulled off his mask and looked around at the watchers, then at his mother.
"I'm teaching a swordsman to fence," he said. "If all of you would get out of the way and give us some room." Then he put the made on again and went to guard.
Brota ground out an incredulous oath. For a moment she seemed about to argue, then she fell back with the others and watched as the lesson proceeded, quietly wringing her fat hands.
Honakura knew nothing about fencing and cared less, but he could study the spectators. At the beginning, the women looked worried and the men mostly pleased, eager to see the captain return some of the medicine he had taken from Shonsu.
It seemed to be a very static match. The two men were standing their ground, left foot planted, left arm high. Nnanji's right boot would stamp forward, Clump, and then retreat, Tap. The captain's bare foot moved in silent counterpoint. Foils rang. Clump... Tap... Clump... Tap... Back and forth they disputed for that one spot on the deck. Evidently this was not orthodox―eyebrows began to rise. Glances were being exchanged. The smiles became frowns. But Thana, watching intently, was beginning to smirk. Clump... Tap...
Neither man was claiming any hits. The noise increased, the pace grew more ferocious. Then the captain stepped back instead of forward, and Nnanji followed. Clump... Clump... Spectators muttered in astonishment. Again the captain had to retreat, and this time he kept going, being driven by Nnanji as he had been driven by Shonsu. The watchers scrambled clear ... faster yet... along one side of the aft hatch... past the fo'c'sle door. Clump... Clump... Clump... Forward again toward the main mast.
"One!" Nnanji yelled.
The match stopped. Tomiyano whipped off his mask and hurled it to the deck. He was red-faced, gasping for breath, and obviously furious; glaring murder at the swordsman.
Nnanji unmasked, also. He was equally breathless, but his grin said more than all the other faces put together. "Sorry!" He panted. "That was a little harder than I meant."
Tomiyano was holding one hand to his incompletely healed, still-variegated ribs. He brought it away, and there was blood on his fingers. Thana stifled a noise like a giggle. The captain transferred his glare from the swordsman to his sister, then pushed past Nnanji and marched toward the fo'c'sle door, the crowd parting for him in silence. Nnanji looked around at the circle of scowling faces. "I didn't mean to," he said.
The sailors turned away.
He shrugged, laid the mask and foil tidily on the hatch cover, and walked toward the deckhouse. The spectators began to disperse in angry silence.
Honakura slid off the bucket and followed the swordsman.
* * *
Even with all the shutters open, the deckhouse was airless and hot. Shonsu lay in his usual corner, wasted and soaked in sweat, his breathing labored. Pus oozed from his tumescent thigh. Jja was asleep on the bare floor at his side, exhausted from her vigil.
Nnanji stood at the far end, by a window, wiping himself with a towel. He had removed his hairclip, and his hair was a red mop. He was panting still, and grinning still. Without pony-tail and harness he looked astonishingly young and innocent.
Honakura eyed him with concern. "You can beat him, then?"
He nodded and wiped his face. "He fooled me."
"He fooled you?"
"Yes." Puff. "He's very fast... has some good routines... but now I know them..." He wiped some more and panted some more. "He's not a swordsman. A swordsman would have others... he doesn't. I didn't realize!"
"And he tried to hurt you?"
Nnanji laughed, unable to suppress his joy. "At first. But I truly didn't mean... to hit like that. We were going very fast. It does happen."
Shonsu had said that Nnanji's memory worked in fencing, also. He never forgot anything. So now he had the captain's measure. He knew his tricks.
"You have hardly calmed the crew's worries, adept."
Nnanji had draped the towel over one shoulder and was combing back his hair with his fingers, about to replace his hairclip. His juvenile grin faded. "No." He frowned, lowering his arms. "And this does change things, doesn't it? I could hardly give him a sword if he might lose, could I?"
He gazed at the speechless Honakura with that strange new stare of his. It was Shonsu's stare. Then he waved at the oak chests.
"Pray sit, my lord." That was Shonsu, too.
Honakura sat, waiting, hiding a rising excitement.
Nnanji threw away the towel and quietly closed the aft shutters for privacy. Then he stooped to retrieve his harness and the seventh sword from the floor. "Have you. Lord Honakura, in all your years on the temple court, ever heard of a valid excuse for civilians killing swordsmen?"
Aha! So that was it?
"No, adept. I have been wondering the same. But, no. I have never heard of one."
Nnanji rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "One isn't enough―we need two, don't we? I think I've found them, but I'm not sure of the words. I need your help, my lord."
††† †††
Long before sunset the wind failed utterly, and Sapphire dropped anchor, still in mid-River. The evening meal was brought out early, and the fare was sparser than usual. There were jokes about starving to death if the calm continued―black humor. Black was the prevailing mood on board these days.
Brota had found one very, very tiny ray in the darkness―for the first time, she thought Shonsu seemed a little better. Reluctant to raise false hopes, she said nothing.
Tomiyano's stupidity in taking on a swordsman at fencing had cast a deeper pall than ever over Sapphire. He had tried to administer a beating and had thereby almost lost the first few passes. That had shaken his nerve, and then Nnanji had countered his every move and gone on to swamp him with innumerable complicated routines. She had recognized Shonsu's techniques, of course, and probably Tomiyano had, also, but never in time to block them. In a real fight her son would probably be still the better man, for in a real fight repetition did not matter. But Nnanji had coached Thana and Matarro, Tomiyano's pupils, and had also watched him fight against Shonsu. That experience had given him advantages Tomiyano had not foreseen. No matter how gifted, an amateur should not meddle with a professional.
But now the crew were more worried than ever, and there were dark whispers of caging Nnanji in a cabin. She had refused to listen, for she knew that the swordsman would fight if they tried it. For the first time since Tomminoliy had died, her leadership was being questioned, and the air smelled of mutiny.
Since the fencing, Nnanji had stayed out of sight in the deckhouse. Either he was being surprisingly tactful, or else the old priest had taken him in hand. He had appeared only once, when Tomiyano returned to collect his sanding blocks, coming out and offering to help with the work. That had been a peace offering, but the sailor had rejected it with obscenities. And the ship was too small to keep them apart for long.
So Brota abandoned her usual eating place. She sat herself on the aft end of the forward hatch cover, next to her still-resentful son. It was not a position she favored, for the flanking dinghies cut off her view of the River
, but she had Tomiyano under control and could keep an eye on the deckhouse door. The rest of the family collected food and spread around the deck as usual, but there was little conversation and much angry brooding.
Jja appeared. She laid a few scraps on a plate, smiled faintly when spoken to, then hurried back to her master's sickbed. Katanji, ever sensitive to mood, had put himself in a far corner and was being invisible. The old priest arrived. He took a slice of bread and a lump of soft cheese over to the forward end of the other hatch cover, facing Brota and Tomiyano. That was an odd choice, and Holiyi had to move to make a space for him. Was the old man keeping an eye on Tomiyano, also?
So everyone was eating except Nnanji, and normally he was first pig at the trough. Then the sound of boots...
Brota lost interest in the plate beside her. The red-haired young swordsman was not going toward the food. There was a strained, tense look about him.
He stopped by the mast, facing her. But it was not she that he wanted.
"Captain Tomiyano?"
The sailor's hand slunk near to his dagger, and she prepared to grab his arm if he tried to draw it. "Well?"
Nnanji pulled in his chin and said gruffly, "I owe you an apology."
Surprise! No, astonishment! Formal apologies from swordsmen were rarer than feathers on fish.
Tomiyano's fingers moved up to touch the new scrape on his ribs. A half-healed scab had been knocked off; it was trivial. "I accept that this was an accident," he said gruffly.
"Not that, sailor." Whatever was coming, Nnanji was finding it difficult. He was taut. "I apologize for causing you worry. I made a mistake last week, when Novice Matarro asked me what would happen if Lord Shonsu were to die."
Goddess be praised!
"I said that I should have to avenge him. I was wrong."
Relief! The onlookers began to smile.
