The Death of Nnanji: The Seventh Sword Book Four

by Dave Duncan

  Maternal instincts working as well as always, Mother accosted them before they even reached the staircase. Vixi pulled his sword and made the salute to an equal. Being unarmed, she gave him the civilian response.

  “Congratulations, swordsman,” she said. “I don’t think Lord Nnanji was any younger than you when he achieved middle rank.”

  Her eyes wandered at last to Addis. No snow fell, but the temperature dropped appreciably.

  “Thank you, Aunt,” Vixi said. “And if you want to grab my protégé in a bear hug and give him a huge slobbery kiss, I won’t let him challenge you.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. Congratulations, son.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  “I just hope you don’t regret this.”

  “The Tryst cheered him,” Vixi said.

  “No,” she said. “If they cheered, they were cheering his father. Nobody gets cheered until they’ve done something worth cheering. But his father will be happy to see him. Let’s go see if he is awake.”

  Dad was sort-of awake, not so feverish as he had been two days ago, but still very sick. His head lay on the pillow as if he lacked the strength to move it, and Mom gestured Vixi to go close, into the spot where Dad was looking. He noticed his brown kilt, muttered something complimentary.

  Vixi stepped aside and Addis took his place. Dad just stared at him for a while, then blinked a few times. “Makes me feel old, Son,” he whispered. “Proud, too. You… mother… something for you.”

  Mom’s lips were clenched so hard they were white, so she obviously didn’t approve, but she held out a hand holding a silver hairclip in the shape of a griffon.

  “But that’s Dad’s hairclip!”

  “He insists I give it to you. It’s very old, and very valuable.”

  “I’ve heard the minstrels sing about it,” Vixi said. “It belonged to the great hero Arganari, who led the Tryst of Xo. A griffon is the symbol of royalty. You can’t wear that, protégé!”

  “I’ll keep it safe for you,” Mom said, her fingers closing.

  Addis felt a need to be stubborn. He turned around. “Dad? You want me to wear that hairclip?”

  The great Nnanji, liege lord of the Tryst, most powerful man in the World, managed a hint of a nod.

  Addis held out his hand for it. “It’ll be quite safe on me,” he said, “because nobody will see it in my haystack.” He never bothered having his hair cut until Mom noticed and ordered the slaves to catch him and hold him down long enough to give him a trim. Mostly it curled up so much that nobody could tell how long it was.

  “Swordsmen obey their mentor’s orders,” Mom said, “and your mentor just told you not to wear this.”

  “But their mentors obey the liege, Aunt,” Vixi said gently. “Put on the hairclip, protégé. As I remember the epic, it came from Plo originally. You can take it back there.”

  Addis tucked the clip into his hair. Then he stepped close to Mom so she could hug him and kiss his cheek; she wasn’t too slobbery.

  BOOK THREE:

  HOW THE SWORDSMEN

  PREPARED FOR WAR

  Chapter 1

  “Three ships?” Novice Addis grumbled. “A hundred men at most? What sort of an army is this supposed to be?” He was leaning on the rail on a very smelly two-masted trading vessel named Hyacinth. Beside his spindly arms on the rail rested his mentor’s much thicker arms. They were three days out of Quo, heading for Kra and the war.

  A hundred men? Could the sorcerers sleep nights?

  “It’s not an army, it’s an egg,” Vixini said. “Two Sevenths, six Sixths, and a whole plague of Fourths and Fifths. Maybe two dozen Thirds altogether, and a handful of low life like you in case food runs short.”

  Addis was not worried about being eaten. But he did worry that he was the only First included and that the half-dozen Seconds were there only to make his presence not quite so obviously due to personal favoritism. The rest of the Tryst would not be deceived and must resent his special treatment. Apart from that unpleasantness, and the barfy food, this was life as it should be. He was a man, almost, among men, doing a man’s job. They slept on deck when the nights were dry, because the hold stank, but they told man jokes and did swordsman things like fencing and learning sutras. The River itself was endlessly fascinating, with ships and towns going by all the time.

  “There is no point,” Vixini continued, imperturbable as always, “in transporting and feeding thousands of swordsman halfway around the world when the Tryst has many times that many serving closer to the enemy. When we get near to Plo, Dad can start hiring ships and raiding the cities’ garrisons. There’ll be plenty of eager volunteer Thirds to hatch the egg. But if you’re unhappy, there’s still time to send you home.”

  “Piss on that. Sir.”

  “You can’t mean you’re actually enjoying yourself?”

  “I have trouble not giggling all the time.”

  “We can help with that,” said a new voice behind them.

  Novice and Apprentice straightened up and spun around. Master Filurz, formerly captain of Lord Shonsu’s bodyguard, had won promotion to Fifth at the assembly, and had accepted Vixini as a protégé. He was a small man, shorter than Addis, but lightning with a foil. And mean, too. He put bruises on Vixi’s ribs every day.

  “Low life shouldn’t waste time giggling,” the little man said. “How is your protégé progressing, swordsman?”

  “He keeps his sword straight on his back now, mentor. He’s doing well with sutras.”

  That was a hint that Addis wasn’t very good with a sword, which was true. The two of them would make a good team, if Vixi did all the fencing and Addis the sutras, but the Tryst wouldn’t approve of that sort of sharing.

  “Is he? Let’s see.” Filurz drew his sword. The other two did the same and all three sat down on the deck, with the swords lying between them, in the swordsmen’s favored position for sutra chanting. “How many do you know, novice?”

  “Eight, master.” Since Addis would only need to know eighty-nine to make Second and nobody got to be a Second until he had grown a ponytail, he thought he was doing quite well.

  “Is that all? Let’s hear number two, then.”

  Easy one!

  2: ON PROTÉGÉS

  The Epitome

  The protégé shall swear: I, [giving his name and rank], do take you, [giving his name and rank], as my master and mentor and do swear to be faithful, obedient, and humble, to live upon your word, to learn by your example, and to be mindful of your honor, in the name of the Goddess.

  Then the mentor shall swear: I, [giving his name and rank], do accept you, [giving his name and rank], as my protégé and pupil, to cherish, protect, and guide in the ways of honor and the mysteries of our craft, in the name of the Goddess.

  The Epigram

  The trunk lifts the branches to the light and the branches are the glory of the trunk.

  “What about the episode?”

  “The second sutra does not include an episode, master.”

  “Quite right. How’s your fencing coming?”

  Why ask? Filurz could not help but know the answer when they were all cooped up on this poky little ship.

  “I am a great disappointment to my mentor, master.”

  Filurz nodded. “Right answer. You deserve to be beaten.”

  “This rebuke is justified, master.”

  “Swordsman, why was your protégé hung over the ship’s rail like laundry when you could be teaching him?”

  “This rebuke is also justified, mentor.”

  It wasn’t, because there hadn’t been any room on deck to fence a moment ago. Now one pair had stopped.

  “Then get to work. And two sutras a day from each of you.” Filurz lifted his sword, stood up, and was gone.

  Addis rose, sighed, and eased his aching shoulder. “Can I try left-handed this time, mentor?”

  “No. You’re even worse that way around. Go and get some foils. At the double.”

  “He
’s right about the beating, you know. Good for morale. Nnanji’s son fencing like a duck must have them all in stitches.”

  “Move!” Vixi roared, aiming a buffet at his ear. It couldn’t have been a serious attempt, though, because Addis managed to dodge.

  Admiral and General Lord Shonsu was also enjoying the voyage. He had been shut up in Casr far too long. He fenced every day, as he always did, but only his deputy, Joraskinta of the Seventh, could give him a fair match. In fact Joraskinta might even beat him if he really tried, but was tactful enough not to do so in public. Wallie visited the other ships most days. He talked with the high ranks, discussing strategy and tactics. He had demonstrated the pistols and other trickery confiscated from the assassin, Yarrix of the Sixth, so everyone knew about such horrors and wouldn’t panic when they were used. He saw Vixini and Addis when he visited Hyacinth but made no effort to treat them as special. They were almost always on deck, either fencing or obviously reciting sutras. Filurz was managing to keep Vixini much more industrious than Wallie ever had.

  Addis was clearly finding fencing difficult. The contrast between him and his father must be the fires of hell for him. Although he would never be another Nnanji, he was trying very hard and should eventually make a passable Third. If Wallie could get a moment alone with Vixini he could pass on some tips about instructing, which was an art in itself.

  Possibly Wallie had erred in manipulating the kid into becoming a swordsman, and erred even more in bringing him into harm’s way on this expedition. He didn’t think so. The demigod had made a prophecy about Nnanji’s firstborn, an ambiguous prophecy, of course, because prophecies were like that. Wallie’s memories of it were strangely vague, which his memories were usually not, but gods did not prophesy at all without good reason.

  The little flotilla was colorful, with Hyacinth flaunting blue hull and white sails, Speedy red and gold, and Rainbow living up to its name, but most ships were brightly painted. Overall, River traffic was a spray of jewels as varied as the cargoes it carried. Always there seemed to be a thousand ships in sight, both lumbering local traffic transporting the people’s food, fuel, and raw materials—such as ore, bricks, tiles, timber, hides, and yarn—and the faster, usually smaller vessels bringing luxuries from far away climes: spices, ivory, amber, gold, and silver. To Wallie’s eye it was an artistic delight and a practical nightmare. He watched the hectic jostling as half the ships ran before the wind and half tacked against it, helped or hindered by the serpentine current. Always he wondered about the steam engine.

  The principle was so simple that the only reason the sorcerers had not invented it centuries ago must be that they had been shut away in mountain retreats where the need for power was much less. True, perfect cylinders and tight-fitting pistons required very sophisticated metalworking, but the need would soon bring forth the skills. He had released the sorcerers’ technology on the World; how much of the Earth’s was he supposed to import? The sorcerers were hopeless at theory, probably because their math notation was no more advanced than Roman numerals had been on Earth, but they were supberb experimentalists. He could explain the steam engine to Wizard Woggan in half an hour, the sorcerers would have it working in a year, and in five years every shipyard in the World would be copying it. Paddle boats and stern wheelers would be churning the waters of the River.

  What followed then? A huge boost in the quality of life? Or air pollution, forests destroyed, strip-mined coal, and industrial slums?

  The weather at the outset had been vile, but it soon improved. The expedition’s serpentine course would wander southward overall, reaching semi-tropical territory before real winter set in. If the Goddess willed, it should arrive in the Plo area before the worst heat of summer.

  Before they left Casr, Wallie and Horkoda had spent hours in the council hall, comparing the many different routes available. The only way they could make even a rough estimate of distance was to count cities on the map, because large towns tended to develop around three or four days’ sailing apart and large cities at about three times that. The spacing might be set by trade factors or social influence or the will of the Goddess, but it was not set by war. Because the swordsmen held a monopoly on violence and were reluctant to kill one another for someone else’s benefit, the World was a much more peaceable place than Earth. Once in a while a swordsman might set himself up as a tyrant, although that might involve breaking an oath of obedience and his subordinates would stop him if he offended their personal sense of honor. Only rarely did such upstarts succeed in passing their rule on to their sons, as earthly dictators often did. Whether Nnanji could manage to break this pattern remained to be seen.

  Large cities were important because they would be the Tryst’s recruiting ground. A hamlet might have a single swordsman, a village constable who could not be taken from his duties. A great metropolis would have hundreds and could certainly spare a few dozen for a season. Since the Tryst’s record clerks had notes of over 4,000 settlements of all sizes, Wallie foresaw no difficulty in enlisting a few thousand men to wage war on Kra. He was also certain that Kra was a test. If he could smash Kra, the other covens would fall into line. If he failed, the Tryst would fall apart within a generation and a dream would die.

  Every few days, the flotilla tied up to provision, at which time the swordsmen would rush ashore to find enough space for fencing practice. Two weeks after they set out they stopped at the sizable city of Laru, which had a sorcerers’ tower and was therefore on the list of mail drops that Wallie had set up with Horkoda. Lord Shonsu summoned his bodyguard and went ashore. First, of course, he had to visit with the reeve, who almost fell on his knees in his eagerness to enlist. When he saw that this would not be allowed, he recommended a couple of quicksilver young Fourths. After watching their fencing for a couple of minutes, Wallie accepted them both, although he had not planned to start recruiting so soon. It was entirely possible that the reeve foresaw these stars outshining him in a few years and was hoping to be permanently rid of them. In that case he was doing them more of a favor than he realized.

  Then Wallie was free to call on the wizard, who promised not to report the army’s passage to its enemies in Kra, but almost certainly would. At the tower Wallie collected a couple of pigeon-grams and sent one to Horkoda, reporting his progress. Later that day, after the flotilla had sailed, he decided he could now reasonably entertain his stepson and godson-equivalent to dinner. He ordered Speedy to draw alongside Hyacinth so Prumpt the herald could shout an invitation to them, shouting being beneath a liege’s dignity. Vixini nimbly scrambled up on the rail, judged the roll of the ship perfectly, and sprang across, his long legs making light work of the leap.

  Addis jumped as a stray gust caught Speedy’s sails and delayed her roll. He crossed, but landed hopelessly off balance. For a nightmare moment he stood poised on the rail, arms windmilling madly, eyes wide with horror. Behind him waited instant death, the piranha-infested River. Wallie jumped forward, but Vixi was there before him, grabbing his protégé by his kilt and hauling him forward into his arms. Then he set him down on the deck as if he were a child.

  The look Vixini gave Wallie clearly said, “Told you he had three feet,” but he didn’t put it into words.

  Addis said quietly, “Thank you, mentor.” And that was the end of the matter.

  Speedy had a fairly roomy deck house to serve as the admiral’s stateroom, but Addis could only just stand straight in there, while Wallie and Vixini had to crouch. Headroom was always a problem on the River, and the usual solution was to sit on the floor, which is what they did, cross-legged around a cloth spread with a feast. Judging by the visitors’ comments and enthusiasm, Speedy’s cook was more skilled than Hyacinth’s, although Wallie still recalled with nostalgia the magnificent meals he had eaten fifteen years ago, on Sapphire.

  Both boys were browner and somehow brighter now, he thought. Their facemarks had healed. Even Vixini seemed to have matured and deepened since he donned the brown kilt of manhood and th
e responsibility of being a mentor. Addis had stopped addressing Wallie as “Uncle,” but only his boots and sword showed that he was a swordsman. If there was a hairclip inside that heap of curls, it was a well kept, but ill kempt, secret.

  Eventually, after the first pangs had been satisfied, he asked the question that all juniors asked Wallie if they got the chance, because very few mentors could answer it from their own experience. “How does real sword fighting differ from fencing?”

  Wallie gave him much the same answer he always gave.

  “Lots. It’s much more defensive, for one thing. Not many men risk their lives needlessly. I can’t speak for women, but I assume that’s as true for them. In my great duel to the death with Lord Boariyi, I tried for a quick first blood to rattle him. I was the one who bled, and I admit it rattled me. You’d be amazed at how many highly skilled fencers fall apart when they face a real blade. Some seem to forget their training altogether. That’s why we allow betting and minor challenges: to let people fight for real stakes, but money or honor, not blood. The most important thing to remember before the fight starts is to instruct your second carefully. Dueling is exhausting like nothing else. After a very few minutes you may begin to think that a draw would be an acceptable ending after all. Seconds don’t have to follow orders, and it’s a mistake to try to bind them. When the dance begins, remember that your opponent is feeling just as mortal as you are. After that, I can give you only two pieces of advice about dueling. One, remember your training; and two, try not to do it at all if you possibly can.”