The Destiny of the Sword

by David Duncan

  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 then' 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 fee 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 protege 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.

  ††† †††

  Yes, there was something there, uncertainly visible through the dark and fog, something pale and glimmering, drifting slowly downstream toward Sapphire's
bow as she lay at anchor.

  By the time Wallie had established that fact, Tomiyano had the tarpaulin off the starboard dinghy, and his orders were crackling through the night. The wine fumes had vanished and a well-trained crew was leaping to stations. Swords and boat hooks... the four adult male sailors would row, Tomiyano steer... the two swordsmen...

  "No Thana!" the captain snapped.

  "Yes, Thana!" Nnanji said firmly. There was a moment's pause. Then Tomiyano nodded and carried on; she was Nnanji's wife now, and he would decide. The boat went down with a rush to the water as Wallie vaguely registered Nnanji's thinking... Thana was as good a swordsman as any, and families were not divided on the River, for the Goddess could be fickle. Had Wallie not been there, Sapphire's crew would probably not even have gone to investigate. They might have done so, for She would not penalize an act of mercy, but he wished he had Jja with him.

  Then the four men were pulling the dinghy through the inky River with long, sure strokes, rowlocks squeaking, water hissing by hi surges. Thana sat by her brother at the tiller. Wallie and Nnanji crouched in the bow-their amateurish efforts would only hinder if they tried to help with the rowing.

  Stroke. Stroke. Silver flecks flew from the oars in the chill air. The Dream God was a road of shining mist through the dark sky, his light blurred and ineffective.

  Stroke. Stroke. Metal clanged again in the darkness ahead, less faintly now. A cold cramp of fear knotted Wallie's gut-he thought he could guess who was out there. He took a deep breath and cupped his hands.

  "What vessel?" he bellowed.

  No reply. Stroke.

  "In the name of the Goddess, lower your blades. I am a Seventh ..."

  Then, very faintly: "Help?"

  A woman? A child's voice?

  "What vessel?" Wallie yelled once more.

  Stroke. Stroke. More clashing of blades, louder now.

  "Sunflower!" came a male reply. "Stay clear!"

  Stroke.

  It was coming clearly into sight, the fog darkening and congealing into the shape of a small ship, barely more than a fishing boat, with fore-and-aft rigging. Her sails were raised, but there was something wrong with the foresail. She was listing slightly, drifting sideways.

  Stroke.

  "I am a swordsman of the Seventh! Put down your swords."

  Stroke.

  "Lord Shonsu." Again that high voice. Wallie was certain of it now, an adolescent voice made shrill by stress.

  More strokes of the oars, more clattering of blades, and then a male voice, hard and breathless: "Polini, my lord!"

  "Stay clear!" shouted another.

  Stroke. Silver flew from the oars.

  The fear had expanded. It filled Wallie with ice. He clenched his fists so hard that they hurt. He peered through the cold night air at that pale blur slowly growing. So slowly! He was going to be too late. The swords were ringing faster, and there was shouting and cursing. The victims would be murdered and dropped overboard before he could arrive. The piranha would dispose of the evidence.

  "Polini! Hang on!" he roared. "We're coming!" He wanted to weep and scream with frustration. He drummed fists on the gunwale.

  The fighting had stopped. Oh, Goddess! Help them!

  Stroke. Stroke. Someone cried out-high, shrill, full of pain. Then the hull loomed suddenly close. Tomiyano swung the tiller and yelled to ship oars, barked a warning not to stand up yet. The dinghy veered and struck hard alongside; rocked. Swords glinted above them, faces showed as lighter blurs. Nnanji caught the rail with a boat hook. Holiyi stood and swung an oar. Wallie ducked under the stroke and caught the rail with his left hand as he drew the seventh sword with his right. Then he was up on the gunwale, parrying a blade. Nnanji was there, also. Metal rang in the night.

  But they knew they were too late.

  * * *

  Swordsmen must not weep.

  Polini was dead, killed in that last desperate attack. Young Arganari was going to die very soon. He had been run through, and there was nothing that all the healers in the World could do for him now. He lay on the black-stained deck, with Wallie kneeling at one side of him and Nnanji at the other. Fortunately the light was so poor that nothing was very distinct.

  Amidships lay Polini's body, and two others. Three live men were penned at the stern, hemmed in by a line of dragons' teeth-swords held by Sapphire's crew, angry and silent and waiting.

  The anchor had been dropped and the sails lowered.

  "Water... my lord," Arganari whispered again.

  Wallie raised his head and Nnanji gave him another drink.

  "Thank you," he said, his voice quavering. Then he turned his face and vomited a rush of blood, black in the night.

  Swordsmen must not weep.

  "What happened?" Wallie demanded, but he had already guessed. Of course the victims still wore their expensive boots and kilts and harnesses, their silver hairclips. Polini had not taken Wallie's advice, as Wallie had known he would not. The World was a place of poverty. Murder could be committed for much less than fancy clothes. Now the fancy clothes were all soaked with blood.

  "They took our silver," the prince said. "We paid them." Even his whispering had a singsong strangeness to it, "They came for us last night." He gasped with sudden pain, and Nnanji took hold of his hand. "Master Polini held them off."

  All night and all through the day? Stalemate-the big swordsman had made his stand in the bow, holding back five men, defending his ward. One against five. The boy would have been no use.

  Polini had cut the forestay, causing the foresail to collapse. That would have made the boat unmanageable. Perhaps he had hoped, too, that it would attract attention and bring help. All night and all through the day until, when he had been weakened by exhaustion, by lack of food and water, they had come for him again.

  And the Goddess had moved the boat.

  But not soon enough!

  Wallie's teeth ground like millstones. His fists trembled.

  "I think I wounded one, adept." Arganari was ignoring Wallie now. Nnanji was his hero, the young Fourth who had killed sorcerers at Ov. Perhaps only three years lay between them, Wallie thought with sudden wonder, five at the most.

  "You've done very well," Nnanji said. His voice was always soft, and now it was even softer, calm and level. "We'll get a healer to you shortly." He sounded totally under control. Wallie was beyond speech, his throat and eyes aching fiercely.

  "Adept?"

  "Yes, novice?" Nnanji said.

  "You will take my hairclip."

  "Yes, all right," Nnanji said. "I'll take it and wear it against the sorcerers. I'll wear it to Vul and when I get there, I'll tell them that you sent me. 'Novice Arganari sent me,' I'll say. 'I come in the name of Arganari.' "

  There was no point in trying to move the boy. It would not be long. He gagged and then threw up more blood.

  "Adept? Tell me about Ov."

  So Nnanji related the battle of Ov, his tones quiet and matter-of-fact. The anchor chain creaked slightly and there was a low mutter of voices from the stern.

  Then Arganari interrupted. Probably he had not been understanding very much. He was obviously in agony, trying not to whimper. "Nnanji. It hurts. I'm going to die?"

  "Yes, I think so," Nnanji said. "Here, put your hand on your sword hilt. You promised to die holding it, remember?"

  "I wish it was my other sword."

  "I'll tell the minstrels at Casr," Nnanji said. "In the saga of the Tryst of Casr, your name and Master Polini's will be first among the glorious."

  The boy seemed to smile. "I was trying to go home."

  After a few minutes he said, "Nnanji. Return me?"

  "If you wish," Nnanji replied calmly.

  "I think... I do. It hurts."

  "Should I use the seventh sword?" Nnanji asked.

  There was no reply, but Nnanji rose and held out his hand to Wallie. Wallie stood also, passed over his sword, and turned away quickly. He could not do what Nnanji was now doing-not even
if the boy was unconscious, not in a thousand centuries. Yet it would have been his swordsman obligation. Fervently he thanked the Goddess that it had been Nnanji who had been asked.

  He stared into the dark and tried not to listen. He heard nothing. Swordsmen must not weep.

  "No point in wiping it yet, is there?" Nnanji said.

  Wallie turned round and accepted his sword back again, not looking down, not looking near his feet. "No. Not yet," he said, and the two of them headed aft, side by side along the obscurity of the deck, until they stood behind the line of sailors fencing the captives.

  "Do it!" Wallie snapped at Nnanji.

  Now even Nnanji's voice took on a harshness. "Lord Shonsu, I denounce these men for killing swordsmen."

  "Have you any defense?" Wallie asked. He was the judge and a witness and he would be executioner.

  A trio of voices began shouting indignantly. They all sounded quite young, but they all wore breechclouts and so were legally adults.

  Then one voice drowned out the other two. "They took our ship at swordpoint, my lord! There were four of them. We got the others..."

  Wallie let them rave on in the night for a while with their lies and slanders.

  Then he shouted, "Quiet! I find you guilty."

  Then there was silence, except that one of the three was sobbing.

  Wallie was about to move, but Nnanji put a hand on his shoulder. "Let me do it, brother?"

  "No! This will be my pleasure!"

  Perhaps Nnanji thought Wallie did not want to do it, or was not capable, but he was shaking with rage, gripping his sword with every ounce of strength, his limbs quivering as if with eagerness. Shonsu's manic temper raged within him. Wallie Smith was just as insanely furious. He was brimming with hatred and contempt, and nausea also. He wanted to take these murderers by the throat, or tear them apart with his fingers.

  No, Nnanji was begging. "Please, brother? As a wedding present?"

  "Stand aside!" Wallie barked. He pushed between Tomiyano and Holiyi, stepped forward, and began to slash at three unarmed youths. They screamed a lot and tried to parry the seventh sword with bare hands. He could not see properly, so he hacked them to pieces to make sure. It was no pleasure, but he had no regrets.