The Destiny of the Sword

by David Duncan

  "One!" Tivanixi exulted.

  Damn! Shonsu should be winning this on straight points. Wallie growled angrily and drove in hard, forcing Tivanixi back against the barricade, where footwork would count for less. "Three!" Wallie said; best of five.

  They removed the masks and breathlessly thanked each other. The crowd applauded loudly for a fine match and began to discuss the form sheet, doubtless with many comments that this Shonsu might have lost an army, but was certainly a good man with metal.

  Wallie yielded mask and foil back to the First and accepted a towel. Wiping and panting, he headed toward his companions, expecting smiles. Instead he saw warning looks and glances to his rear. He spun around. Two Sevenths stood behind the far hurdles.

  Damnation!

  He almost lost Shonsu's diabolical temper on the spot.

  True, he had revealed his style and his abilities to Tivanixi, but that had been a fair exchange. He had not planned on giving a free demonstration to these two. They were quite within their rights in being there, but he felt as if he had been spied upon. A surge of fury came burning up his throat and red fringes flickered inside his eyelids. He made a huge effort to force that berserker madness back down again, balling his fist to keep it from making the sign of challenge.

  One of the Sevenths could be dismissed at a glance, but the other...

  The popular favorite was somebody called Boariyi, Nnanji had said. The other Seventh was taller than Shonsu, and that was unfair; Wallie had met almost no one taller than himself in the World. He was also younger. Unfair again; Shonsu was a very young Seventh, and Wallie was proud of that.

  This must be a Boariyi. He was a human mantis, a basketball player, obviously built from a sutra on giraffes. His kilt was a thin blue tube around gibbon hips and thighs like baseball bats. He had a jaw too big for his head and a mouth too wide for his jaw and a single dark slash of eyebrow across the top of his ugly face, and he was standing with one leg vertical and the other sloped, with golf club arms crossed over a birdcage chest, head slightly tilted to one side, gazing at Wallie with a supercilious smirk on oversize rubbery lips.

  In that moment of fury the decision was made.

  You sneaky, arrogant young lout! Wallie thought-and it was all he could do not to shout the thought aloud. Think you can take me, do you? Well, Mister Boariyi, if that's your name, I'll tell you this: You'll be leader of this tryst only over my dead body!

  For a moment longer Wallie stood alone in the middle of the fencing area, aware that his fury must be blazing in his face and obvious to the crowd. Then the tableau was broken by the older of the two newcomers. He drew his sword and made the salute to an equal... Zoariyi, swordsman of the Seventh.

  He was a slight, short, and wiry man, gray hawed, well into middle age. However great his skill, his speed would be deserting him now, which was why Shonsu's instincts had rejected him as a threat. He wore the unadorned garb of a free and he was conspicuously scarred. He had the same continuous eyebrow as his younger companion and his name was very similar-father and son?

  Wallie grabbed a foil from the startled First and made his response with it. It was intended as an insult, and Zoariyi frowned.

  Then the beanpole beside him drew his sword-a very long sword, of course-and perfunctorily saluted without shifting from his slouched, hip-tilted stance. His smirk did not change. He was indeed Boariyi, the popular favorite. With those arms the reason was obvious.

  Wallie used the foil again. The kid's contemptuous amusement increased. One of his facemarks was not quite healed.

  He might be little older than Nnanji, and that was ridiculous for a Seventh. Thirty was normal. Indeed the system was designed to prevent youngsters from advancing too quickly. Systems always are. By the time a man had mastered eleven hundred and forty-four sutras, fought his way up through the six lower ranks, found a Seventh as mentor, and then could manage to find two Sevenths together as examiners-which must be extremely rare-he had to be at least thirty. How Shonsu had managed it sooner, Wallie could not guess. Nnanji was going to do better, because of his memory, and because he had found a mentor who really cared, and who could teach well.

  All of which suggested that Zoariyi was the power behind Boariyi.

  Wallie took another look at the older man and decided that, yes, he might be a great deal shrewder than that smirking pituitary malfunction beside him. Then he swung around and strolled over to the bench behind which Nnanji was standing. "My sword now, please," he said loudly.

  Nnanji was staring in doubt at his mentor, but he was about to hand over the seventh sword...

  "Let me see that!" Tivanixi demanded sharply. Nnanji reacted instinctively to the tone of authority and handed the seventh sword to the castellan.

  He studied the griffon on the hilt, the sapphire in its beak, and then the blade; especially the blade. Wallie passed his foil back to the First, returned a grin from Katanji and a smile from Jja, and continued to wipe at himself with the towel. The crowd waited.

  "Shonsu!" Thana whispered urgently, and he looked at her in surprise. She was staring past him, toward Boariyi. "Don't challenge!" she hissed.

  Wallie resisted the temptation to turn around.

  "No matter what!" she added in the same whisper.

  "This is a remarkable sword, Lord Shonsu!" The castellan had a strange expression on his face.

  Wallie smiled and nodded.

  "May I ask where you got this?"

  "It was given me," Wallie said.

  Tivanixi directed a calculating stare at him. "It looks as if it came fresh from the forge yesterday."

  Wallie smiled blandly. "Not quite-one previous owner."

  Tivanixi paled. "Do you mean what I mink you mean?"

  "Yes."

  The castellan gazed at him hard and long. "Yet you will not join the tryst?"

  Wallie shook his head. "I'm still considering."

  Tivanixi's eyes shifted toward Boariyi and Zoariyi, then back to Wallie. "I would not wear this," he said quietly.

  Wallie thought of young Arganari and the Chioxin topaz. The boy would have borne that priceless heirloom for only a few minutes after it was formally given to him. Then he would have been quickly given another to wear.

  "We all must bear our burdens," Wallie said. He took the seventh sword back from Tivanixi, who continued to stare at him in bewilderment.

  A voice said: "The name of Shonsu is well known in this lodge."

  Wallie turned around to face Boariyi and unobtrusively sheathed his sword.

  "The name of Boariyi, however, is not."

  The kid's eyes narrowed. "Not all reputations are good."

  "But nothing is still nothing."

  Boariyi's hand twitched and the older man growled something quietly. There was a forest of green Sixths behind those two Sevenths, and a desert of red-kilted Fifths behind them-and they were not pressing in to the barricades as the rest of the audience was. They were standing in proper military form, behind their superiors. Boariyi, as popular favorite, had collected a large following-and disciplined it.

  Wallie turned back to face his own entourage. Nnanji was frowning and moving his lips as if reviewing sutras. Katanji had lost his grin. Thana flashed another warning glance at Wallie and went back to studying the opponents.

  "His uncle," Tivanixi remarked quietly, to no one special. With a warm rush of relief, Wallie realized that the castellan was now on his side.

  Boariyi called across the fencing ground once more. "You have come to join the tryst, I suppose, Lord Shonsu?"

  Wallie turned again.

  "No."

  That was a surprise, and Boariyi glanced down at the man who must be his uncle, if Tivanixi's remark meant anything. "It is an honorable cause, for honorable men."

  "I am sure it is," Wallie replied calmly.

  "Afraid of the sorcerers?"

  The audience gasped in unison. That was grounds for opening arteries.

  Wallie's hand had started to rise before he remem
bered Thana's warning and lowered it again. Was this to be the combat for leadership-no formalities, just a vulgar squabble escalating to challenge? Then he understood. He was going to be baited into making the challenge-and Boariyi would refuse it, claiming that Shonsu was not a man of honor. In the absence of witnesses and a prepared case, a denunciation would be dangerous, for if an accuser failed to prove his charges, then he must pay the penalty. This way was safer because Tivanixi, as host and interim leader of the tryst, would have to judge. All Boariyi would be risking, at worst, was having to accept the challenge, while in the meantime he would have been able to drag out all the unsubstantiated rumors in support of his position. It was a sneaky plan, obviously the brainchild of die older, more experienced Zoariyi. If Wallie refused to rise to the bait, he would be exposed as a coward. His only defense was to try to force a challenge out of Boariyi, for that would be an admission that Wallie was a man of honor. Not that it would work, but it was all he could do.

  He walked slowly across to the middle of the fencing area, letting die tension build, frantically trying to think up some ammunition, and unhappily aware that a fight was almost inevitable now... and that Boariyi thought he was the better man.

  "Let me ask you a question, sonny, before I answer that. Have you ever seen a sorcerer?"

  Boariyi scowled angrily. "Not yet. But-"

  "Well, I have!" Wallie shouted. "And I will answer your question. Yes, I am afraid of sorcerers. Have you seen that?" He pointed up at the line of kilts hanging over the court behind Boariyi's head. "Any man who knows what that means and yet is not afraid of sorcerers is too dumb to be allowed out of the womb. But being afraid doesn't mean that you can't fight them! We killed fourteen at Ov, my young friend, so I haven't quite paid off the score yet. But I'm fourteen ahead of you."

  "No, Shonsu! You're thirty-five behind."

  Ouch! The kid was not as dumb as he looked.

  "You plan to be leader of the tryst, do you, sonny?"

  "If that is the will of the Goddess." Boariyi was obviously confident that it was.

  Almost the whole tryst must be present now, standing in silent fascination at this confrontation between Sevenths.

  "You'd better learn to count better than that, then," Wallie roared, hearing his voice booming back from the walls. "Eleven years ago in Aus: eighteen swordsmen killed by twenty sorcerers wielding thunderbolts, and at least another dozen killed there since. Four years before that, in Wal: thirty-two swordsmen killed by twenty-eight sorcerers. And about two years ago a party of four swordsmen came ashore..."

  He had learned how to do without notebooks-he used Nnanji, and the two of them had been over these numbers a hundred times. One by one he went around the cities of the loop, calling out the ghastly toll... Aus and Wal and Sen and Cha and Gor... the whole garrison with one thunderbolt at Gor. Perhaps this was all recorded somewhere in the libraries of Vul, but he was certain that no swordsman had ever worked it out before. He had gathered this information-Katanji and Honakura and the sailors had gathered it, quietly asking questions and listening in the sorcerer towns. Fifteen years of sorcerer infiltration and fifteen years of rank stupidity by swordsmen. None of them had learned a thing in fifteen years. And Amb and Ov... forty men ripped to pieces in Ov...

  "So add it all up, sonny," he concluded. "Add in the forty-nine and you'll come up with three hundred and thirty dead swordsmen. That's the best estimate I can make. How many did you make it? Will you try for thirteen hundred and thirty?"

  The echoes died away into stunned silence. Boariyi and his uncle looked as shocked as anyone. Everyone was shocked. Lord Shonsu had scared the kilts off the entire tryst of Casr with his litany of death. It was Zoariyi who recovered first.

  "You were castellan here, Lord Shonsu! Why did you not act sooner? Why did you not call this holy tryst?"

  For a moment Wallie considered challenging him instead of his nephew, but the same problem arose: He would refuse.

  "Thank the Goddess I did not, Lord Zoariyi!" Again he pointed to the pathetic line of kilts hanging over the court. "It would have been a thousand kilts there, not fifty. I did not know how to fight sorcerers! But now I do. I proved that at Ov!"

  He turned and stalked away. Hopefully they would let it rest now, while they thought about it. Tavanixi's face was pale-Shonsu was imperiling his tryst.

  He had barely moved when Boariyi spoke again: "But you wouldn't attack the tower in Ov? What sort of leader calls off his men when he has victory within his grasp?"

  Ov was safer ground. Wallie beckoned to Katanji, who jumped in shock and clattered his cast against a rack of foils, then reluctantly came forward. Wallie faced him toward Boariyi and stood behind him with his hands on his shoulders, looking over his head.

  "This, my lords, is Novice Katanji, my oath brother's protégé, and therefore mine, also. I shan't present him, because he can't salute with an injured arm." And you might not respond, which would force me to challenge. "It was broken by a sorcerer's thunderbolt." He raised his voice even higher, over die sudden clamor. "All of you, take note! This boy is the bravest man in this courtyard. He has been ashore in every one of the sorcerer towns, risking a terrible death every time. He was captured at Ov, and we rescued him. He has been inside one of the towers and has seen what is in there-probably he is the only swordsman in the history of the World who has done that and lived."

  He had to wait for the sensation to die down.

  "How large is a tower, Lord Boariyi? How thick are the walls, Lord Boariyi? How many doors, Lord Boariyi? How high are the first windows, Lord Boariyi? You don't know, Lord Boariyi? But Novice Katanji does! He's forgotten more about sorcerers than you'll ever know, Lord Boariyi. And I say he's better fitted to lead this tryst than you'll ever be!"

  "Stop!" Tivanixi came marching forward and stood between the two factions. "This is not a proper discussion to be held in public. Lord Zoariyi, Lord Boariyi, you will excuse us. Lord Shonsu, I wish a word with you in private!"

  Whew! Saved!

  Tivanixi herded Wallie and Katanji back to the others. "Master Nnanji, you need to see our facemarker. We have a tailor here who can provide you with the kilt you have so richly earned. Lord Shonsu, perhaps we could visit the museum together?"

  Wallie nodded. "You will see that my friends are not harassed?"

  Tivanixi frowned and snapped his fingers to bring a Sixth. He gave orders, then looked expectantly at Wallie. "Lead the way, Lord Shonsu."

  "After you Lord Tivanixi," Wallie said politely.

  †† † ††

  Tivanixi headed toward the southwest corner, and a quick glance showed Wallie that there was a doorway in each comer of the great rectangle. From the shapes of the windows, he could guess that each opened into a stairwell. A nice, simple architectural plan, he mused cynically-not so complicated that swordsmen might get confused.

  The stairs wound up and up, the treads of the lower flights dished by generations of swordsman boots. The lower floors of the lodge were noisy and smelled of bodies, but as the two Sevenths climbed higher, the sounds died away, and the steps were less worn. The air grew cool and musty until finally the men reached the top, sneaking glances at each other to see which was puffing harder.

  "Think we can manage the bar?" the castellan asked.

  There was only one door, and the gigantic iron bar across it was fit with six handles, not four.

  "I always did it one-handed," Wallie said modestly, but it was a struggle for two men to lift the monster and set it down without crushing feet, or wrenching things necessary for swordwork. The floor there was scored and gouged and had been patched a few times, he noticed. It took three men or two strong ones to rob the museum. There were no locks in the World.

  The massive door opened with a groan of pain. The swordsmen walked into a long gallery, smelling of mice and rot and sheer antiquity. Along one side were windows fogged over with dust; the opposite wall was paneled and hung with hundreds of rust-spotted swords. The floor was fil
thy with litter and crumbling rubbish, cluttered by a line of wormy tables bearing miscellaneous heaps of anonymous relics. Overhead, remnants of banners trailed down from the ceiling, webbed, shredded by insects, and faded to a uniform gray in the dim, cold light. Even the air felt old. One of the windows rattled continuously in the wind.

  Wallie shivered as he followed Tivanixi's footsteps along that mournful room. The castellan stopped and lifted a fragment of a sword blade from the wall.

  "The ruby," he said. "The fifth. Or so it is said." He swept the fragment across the top of the nearest table, showering garbage to the floor, raising a cloud of rancid dust. Then he laid it down, and Wallie placed the seventh sword beside it.

  Tivanixi bent to compare them. Wallie took a walk down to the end of the room and back. He had never seen a place that depressed him more; designed to honor the valor of young men whose names were forgotten, whose very descendants must have forgotten them... those who had survived to have descendants. The honored kilts in the courtyard would be brought here one day, with ceremony and pomp perhaps, and empty words. The mice would rejoice, and within a generation the kilts would be a nameless heap of filth like the rest of this junk.

  He turned to inspect the myriad blades on the wall, of every possible design and quality. Most were very long swords, he noticed. Perhaps the men of the People were getting smaller, but more likely the usable weapons had been quietly pilfered away.

  He rejoined Tivanixi, who was cleaning off a spot on the fragment with his whetstone so that he could study the damask. There was no hilt. It was just as Wallie had remembered it-long ago, it seemed now-in the only glimpse he had ever been given of Shonsu's personal memories: half a sword, with no hilt and no point. No point at all... just like this whole depressing junk room.

  The chasing on the two blades was similar. Swordsmen battled mythical monsters on one side, maidens played with the same monsters on the other. The order was different and no pose was repeated exactly, but the superlative artistry was unmistakably the same.

  "I am convinced," Tivanixi said, still studying.