by Dave Duncan
In cash, of course. Swordsmen would be poor credit risks in Samarinda.
Directly underfoot, two of the wives or near virgins began screaming at each other. Wolfbiter dropped his bundle and went to climb the ladder, which creaked even louder than the floor did.
“He’s lying through his beard about the daughters,” Kromman said in Chivian. “The rest is probably not far off the truth. Apart from the money, naturally. You want one boy or both, Sir Durendal?”
That was a typically Krommanian sneer. Fidelity was a difficult concept for him to appreciate. He could not understand Durendal’s celibacy, and even Wolfbiter thought it odd.
“You are the expert, Ivyn,” Durendal said wearily. “Negotiate realistically, but don’t make a career out of it, please. No boys for me.”
Kromman said, “One obit per night, including all the food we can eat and fresh water whenever we need it.”
Cabuk screamed as if impaled. “One obit? I have never accepted less than a dizork and a half, and that was in midwinter.”
“I bet you’ve taken four obits and been glad of them.”
“Never! But since there are only three of you and you seem honest and well-behaved persons, I will make an exception and take one and a half dizorks.”
“Four obits,” Kromman said with a satisfied tone. “Here, take it and begone.”
“Wait!” Durendal cut off the next flood of protest from the landlord. “I have a whole dizork here for information—in addition to the rent, just this once. We want food and beer, but no daughters.”
The old man hesitated and then nodded grudgingly. “But tomorrow we must reach a more reasonable arrangement.”
Durendal dropped his bundle near the wall and sat down, leaning back against the wall. Kromman folded down where he was standing.
“Aha!” the old man said. “You want me to tell you how you go about winning all the gold you can carry. You could not have asked a better expert. But first…” He dropped to his knees and put his mouth to a gap in the boards. “Food!” he screamed. “At once, food! A feast for six mighty warriors! Do not bring shame upon my house by scrimping, you bitches! They are huge men and starving. And send up beer at once for these nobles. Enough for all six to drink themselves into a stupor, or I shall whip you to death’s door.” He sat back and crossed his legs. “Now, my lords, I shall tell you the truth of the wonders of Samarinda.”
2
Wolfbiter came squeaking down the ladder and nodded to say that there were no problems on the roof—security being his responsibility, of course. They would probably sleep up there. He settled himself cross-legged, close to the door.
Cabuk rubbed his spidery hands, producing a rasping sound. “Around dawn, noble lord, you go to the courtyard of the monastery and give your name to the monkeys on the gate. There is a long waiting list, you understand.” He rubbed his hands again gleefully at that thought. “About an hour after sunrise, they start calling out names. If yesterday’s challenger won, then he is called again—given a chance to double his fortune, see? Else the next name in line is called. If that man does not answer, then the monkeys call the next, see? No man is ever given a second chance if he misses his first.”
That was the first new information. Durendal had heard the rest many times already, even the peculiar stories of monkeys. The traders insisted that the Monastery of the Golden Sword was guarded by man-size talking monkeys.
“Wait. These monkeys? Do they write down the names?”
Cabuk cackled, sounding startled. “Monkeys cannot write, my lord!”
“I never heard of any that could talk, either. How long is the waiting list?”
“Usually a couple of weeks, my lord.”
“I heard a couple of months.”
“It is very rarely that long. I have not checked recently.”
Kromman scratched his knee. It was understood that the inquisitor moved his left hand when he smelled a lie.
“So the monkeys remember every name in the correct order? For months?”
“These are no ordinary monkeys, my lord. They will remember a man’s face for years. Where was I?” Cabuk’s speech was obviously given by rote. Having been interrupted, he might have to begin at the beginning again.
“The monkey just called out my name.”
“Um, yes. When a man responds, then he comes forward to challenge. The monkeys make sure that he is armed only with a sword, and he must strip to the waist to show that he is not wearing armor. He beats on the gong. The door opens and one of the brothers comes out with the golden sword and they fight. If the challenger wounds the brother, then he is taken inside and comes out carrying all the gold he can move. Anything he drops before he reaches the gate must remain. If he falls over, then he loses it all, but that is a fair penalty for greed, yes? It is very simple. I have seen it done many times.”
“What happens if the brother kills him?”
The old man shrugged his tiny shoulders. “He dies, of course. But you seem a most noble and virile swordsman, my lord, and your companions also.” He glanced uncertainly at Kromman who did not, although in fact he was an outstanding amateur. “I am sure you will prosper, especially if you are living under this roof of great good fortune.”
The door creaked open. A woman waddled in, carrying a leather bucket with both hands and holding three drinking horns tucked under her arms, bringing an unmistakable stench of beer. The foul Altain brew was made from goats’ milk and probably other things even worse, but the traders insisted it kept away the flux. It did seem to settle the stomach.
“My eldest,” Cabuk said. “Is she not ample? In all Altain there are no more generous breasts. Drop your gown, child, and display your charms to these noble lords.”
“That will not be necessary,” Durendal said sharply. “Leave the beer, wench. We will serve ourselves.” He waited until she had gone. “How else can one approach the brethren?”
“Er…I do not understand, my lord.”
“If I just wanted to speak with them, or one of them—can I go to the door at some other time of day without issuing a challenge?”
“But why?” Cabuk sounded so puzzled that perhaps none of his customers had ever asked him such a question before. “What other business could you have with them?”
“Suppose I just wanted to ask them a question.”
“I never heard of that being done, my lord. No one ever goes in or out of the monastery except as I have told you.”
Kromman’s fingers did not move.
Durendal persisted. “Who delivers their food?”
“I—I do not know, my lord!”
“How often does the challenger win? Once a month?”
“Oh, more often than that.”
Kromman rubbed his chin.
“And are these brothers truly immortal, as the legends say?”
“Indeed they must be, your honor,” the old man said unwillingly. “I have seen them all my life. When I was but a child, my father would sit me on the wall to watch the duels, and they were the same men then as they are now. I know them all—Herat, Sahrif, Yarkan, Tabriz, and all the others. They are no older now than they were then.”
Kromman’s fingers were still.
“Thank you. The food soon.” Durendal flipped a coin, which Cabuk snatched out of the dark with surprising agility—take him back to Ironhall, maybe?
As the door closed behind him, the inquisitor spoke in Chivian, “Mostly true.”
“But not once a month?”
“No. What did the caravan guards say?”
“About once a year. Or less.”
Wolfbiter snorted with disgust. “They must be fiery good fighters! And the challengers are earth stupid! Three or four hundred to one? Those odds are not worth it.”
“Not to Sir Wolfbiter,” Durendal said. “But if you were a strong young peasant with absolutely nothing—no herds, no lands, and could see no other way of winning a wife—they might seem reasonable.”
His cautiou
s Blade obviously disagreed. He would be a lot less likely ever to accept such a gamble than his impetuous ward would.
Kromman rose and creaked across to inspect the crocks in the corner. “Do you suppose the odds are adjusted to draw the required number of challengers?”
Durendal had not thought of that. “You mean the brothers deliberately lose once a year? Flames!” They might be even-better-than-fiery good.
“You did not ask about Sir Everman.” Wolfbiter made the statement a question.
“I wanted to see if our flea-bitten friend would mention him on his own. Now I want to know why he didn’t. Besides, we have the rest of our lives ahead of us. We’ll take this mystery one step at a time.”
“I may make a competent agent out of you yet,” Kromman remarked in his unpleasant hoarse rasp.
Observing a dangerous glint in his Blade’s eye, Durendal said hastily, “After we’ve eaten, if we don’t fall ill immediately, I’ll take a stroll around the town.”
Wolfbiter rose and took a step to stand before the door. He drew Fang and raised her in the duelists’ salute. “Over my dead body.”
“Put it away; you’re bluffing.”
Fang went back in her scabbard. “But I’m not joking, sir. All those strong young peasants you mentioned, trapped here for months waiting their turn, running out of money…Do you remember where I put the manacles?”
He had a good point. Samarinda after dark would not be a haven of tranquility and a prudent man would explore it first in daylight. “All right, nurse, tonight I’ll behave myself.”
“Thank you.”
The inquisitor said, “This is the water jug and this is the chamber pot, I think. Confirm that please, Sir Wolfbiter.”
About once a year, Kromman showed signs of a sense of humor.
3
They left at first light, locking the door behind them in the certain knowledge that it would not keep Cabuk from rummaging through their packs while they were out. The alleyways were deserted still, but the monastery was so high that it could not be hard to find. Soon they were walking parallel to it, seeing it looming over the adjoining buildings.
“Makes no sense!” Wolfbiter complained. “These houses must butt up against it. Why give your enemies a three-story leg up?”
If his quick wits did not understand, then his ward’s certainly would not. “Because you defend yourself with conjuration, I expect. The fortifications are just for show.”
Then they turned a corner into a square, the first open space they had found in the city. The side to their left was the front wall of the monastery, a smooth and forbidding curtain of stone between two corner towers. The other three sides were a tightly packed jumble of the ramshackle, chaotic houses of Samarinda, a continuous frontage broken only by a few narrow alleys. Most of the square itself was occupied by the fateful courtyard of the legends, defined by a chest-high wall on three sides, directly abutting the monastery on the fourth. The terrace between the wall and the houses provided both access to the dwellings and a grandstand for spectators, for the flagstones of the court lay a man’s height below street level.
“The bear pit. Once you’re in you’re in.” Durendal leaned on the wall and peered over. He wondered how often some poor wretch lost his nerve down there and was pursued around and around by an immortal conjurer wielding a golden sword. The coping of the wall was too smooth to offer any hope of a handhold; it had been polished by centuries of arms leaning on it.
In the chill dawn light, the courtyard stood deserted and the monastery door was closed. The arch was large enough to take a loaded wagon, which was clearly impractical, as the only other way in or out of the courtyard was a barred gate directly opposite, and it was only man-size. Steps outside it led up to street level, while close inside it stood a post with a single arm, like a gallows, and from that hung a bronze disk about shield size. Cabuk had mentioned a gong.
A dozen or so men were already leaning on the wall near the gate. Durendal set off to join them, in the belief that they would have chosen the best place to view the show. Before he reached the corner, a door in one of the houses opened and the biggest man he had ever seen emerged, bent almost double. He straightened up to tree stature and put his hands on his hips. He looked up at the morning and then down at Durendal. He was obviously not a native of Altain, for his hair was the wrong color. He was all hair: tawny beard trailing to his waist, a cinnamon mane hanging down his back, a black bearskin around his loins, and man-fur everywhere else. He bore a shiny steel battle-ax on his back. He would have curdled blood had he not at once grinned from ear to ear.
“You’re new! Do you speak Puliarsh? I am Khiva son of Zambul.”
“Durendal the Bastard.”
“Chalice of Zuropolis.”
“Wolfbiter the Terrible.”
“Welcome!” He looked doubtfully down at Wolfbiter, who did not come up to his nipples. “How terrible?”
The Blade gave him a malignantly calculated glare. “Appalling when I have to get up before dawn. Quite patient otherwise.”
The colossus took a moment to work that out and decide it was a joke. He laughed, a sound like runaway barrels. “Are you going to put in your names today? Come!”
He set off with long strides. Durendal walked with him, letting the other two follow.
“We’ll decide if we want to enter when we’ve seen a few fights.”
“They’re very good, all of them. But I am better.”
Was he? A warrior who let his hair or beard grow long was inviting opponents to catch hold of it. “Will they let you fight with that ax?”
“Yes. The monkey said it would be all right.”
“How long have you been waiting?”
Khiva pondered. “Weeks. But I’m due soon, because I don’t know anyone who was here when I came, except Gartok son of Gilgit. It will be nice to have someone else who can speak Puliarsh. I have been lonely since Ysog was called.”
“Have you seen any winners?”
“No. But you will, if you watch me. I have a woman waiting for me, friend Durendal! Her father said I could not have her because I had no flocks. When I go home, I shall buy up all the flocks in the village and buy her with them and everyone will be amazed. And I may take her sisters, too.”
Alas, when the brains and brawn were passed out, Khiva son of Zambul had been served twice from the same pot and missed the other one altogether.
A couple of dozen aspiring swordsmen had gathered at the gate now, and more were drifting in. As soon as the newcomers introduced themselves, it became clear that many of the other contestants had the same cognitive shortcomings as Khiva son of Zambul, but a few were quite impressive. It made sense that only fools or very skilled swordsmen would venture their lives in the Golden Sword Stakes. One man in particular stood out as having a following. He was large but not ungainly, past his first youth but still lithe. His swarthy, hooked-nosed features probably came from somewhere on the shores of the Seventh Sea, and his curved sword certainly did. He gave his name as Gartok son of Gilgit.
“Ah! Then you are next?” Durendal said.
His dark eyes gleamed in a smile. “I believe so. It is impossible to be certain. There were forty-six here when I put in my name, but many become dispirited and go home. I have been here forty days. It must be soon.”
Durendal wondered why he could not just ask the monkeys to tell him where he stood on the list, but the question seemed so absurd that it stuck in his throat. “And you believe you can win?”
Gartok shrugged. “If they send out Tabriz or Valmian, I have a very good chance. Against Karaj or Saveh, a reasonable one. I have not seen all the brethren in action, and a couple of them only once. If Herat comes or Everman or Tejend, then I am dead.”
Aha! “I was told that Everman was a recent recruit to the brotherhood?”
Gartok shrugged again. “So they say. He has a strange style, but he is deadly. I have watched him twice. He does not toy with his victims as Karaj and Herat
do. He goes straight for the heart. Stab! Like that!”
Everman had been a rapier man.
Before Durendal could ask more, a murmur of excitement drew his attention to the courtyard. The sun was over the rooftops now, already hot. One of the flagstones had lifted like a trapdoor, and the monkeys were emerging. He left Gartok and strode along the terrace a few yards to watch this performance more directly.
The only monkey he had ever seen had been a pet chained to a beggar’s wrist in Urfalin, and that had been a tiny animal. These were as tall as he was, although they walked stooped with a shambling gait; and they most certainly outweighed him. They were all female, wearing loose trousers of many-colored material—scarlet, blue, green, and gold—and each had a sword on her back, the scabbard held by shoulder straps. He counted seven of the strange beasts before a dark hairy arm pulled the trapdoor closed. Two shuffled toward the gate; the others spread out to the sides of the yard. Then they just stood, waiting.
He glanced behind him, and for once his Blade was not there. He went back to the group at the gate, receiving an angry stare from Wolfbiter, who could not have noticed him leave.
