No, Katanji would not have been content to knot rugs all his life. Wallie recalled also Briu’s twin sons, and Imperkanni being appointed reeve of the temple guard. And Coningu would be reunited with his long lost son by now.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said sleepily. “I hope for Quili’s sake that you are, and that we can all get out of this alive to enjoy our rewards.”
Then Jja kissed him. It was a vigorous, inventive sort of kiss, and they ended lying prone together. “You’ll think of something to do, master.”
“Tonight I can’t think of anything,” he said. “Rewards must wait. Go to sleep.”
He remembered shivering briefly in the night, and Jja tucking a blanket around him. The sun god in summer needed much less rest than mortals, especially mortals so travel-weary that they could sleep on the hard ground as soundly as they would have done in feather beds. Birds made encouraging noises at dawn and were ignored.
Morning was half gone . . .
“Mentor?”
Nnanji? No—that was Katanji’s voice. Shonsu’s warrior reflexes could leap from sleep to full awareness instantly. Wallie sat up and said, “Yes?”
Katanji’s impish grin hung against the sky. “May I have the honor, my lord, of presenting Novice Matarro, swordsman of the first rank?”
††
“The honor shall be entirely mine,” Wallie said, “if you will allow me a moment to find my hairclip.”
The boy at Katanji’s side had cowered back in shock as he registered Wallie’s rank. He was taller than Katanji and farther along in his adolescent metamorphosis, but probably little older. He looked healthy and well fed, his skin burned dark by sunlight. He wore a harness and sword, and the single craftmark on his forehead was certainly a sword and long since healed, unlike Katanji’s, which was now infected into a festering red sore.
Yet Matarro did not look like a swordsman. He had no pony-tail, or kilt, or fancy swordsman boots. His hair was cropped short and his only garment was a breechclout, a long strip of white cloth that he had tied around his hips, with one end hanging down as a tail behind and the other passed between his legs and looped over to form another tail in front.
Having clipped his hair back and disentangled himself from his blanket, Wallie took hold of his harness and scabbard and scrambled to his feet. He fastened buckles, putting on his most friendly smile for the nervous newcomer.
Somewhat reassured, the boy drew and began the salute to a superior. “I am Matarro . . . ” He moved his sword with confidence, but he made two of the postures in the wrong order and did not seem to realize his error.
“I am Shonsu . . . ” Even as he replied, Wallie was staring over the lad’s head at the jetty. The campsite lay at the rear of the valley, hidden by scrub. When the ship had arrived, the crew had seen only a deserted quarry and a few grazing horses. Novice Matarro had come ashore to scout, or had perhaps been ordered to do so as a joke.
One question that would need to be resolved was how Katanji had met him. If he had seen the ship first, then he should have wakened Wallie or Nnanji—who was now sitting up in bleary surprise, hearing the voices. Katanji, of course, had turned on his charm and invited Matarro to come and meet his mentor. He had then chosen Wallie because he had been told that Wallie was now his mentor, also, and he was grinning broadly at Matarro’s stunned reaction.
Nnanji bounced to his feet. “Allow me to present you, novice,” Wallie said, “to Adept . . . ”
The little ship had a blue hull and white masts—three masts, which seemed excessive for her size. She had a definite list to starboard. Two gangplanks had been set out, and men were carrying lumber down one, piling it on shore, and trotting up the other. Any sound of voices had been drowned out by the noise of the waterfall.
“What vessel?” Wallie inquired when the formalities were over.
Matarro’s alarmed eyes were flickering around the campsite, counting and inspecting as the rest of the party began to stir.
“Her name is
Sapphire
!” Katanji said quickly, smirking. Wallie wilted him into silence with a Seventh’s killer glare.
“
Sapphire
, my lord.”
“And what brings you to this deserted place?”
Matarro hesitated, uncertain how much he should reveal. Likely he had never met a Seventh of any craft before and he was right to be nervous. Highrank swordsmen were dangerous, especially to other swordsmen. Wallie could challenge the boy if he did not like his looks or the way he spoke. It would not be honorable to maim or kill a novice, but no one would argue the point with Shonsu, and it would be quite legal.
“We were brought by the Hand of the Goddess, my lord. We dragged our anchor last night . . . That has never happened to us before, my lord.”
“And the cargo has shifted?”
Matarro nodded, seeming surprised that a landlubber could make such a guess.
“And who is the master?”
“Tomiyano of the Third, my lord.”
Wallie smiled. “Then pray present my compliments to Sailor Tomiyano and inform him that I shall call upon him in a few minutes. We are on the service of the Most High and are in need of some transportation.”
The lad nodded once more. He began to turn, before remembering that he should speak a formal farewell. He made an even worse mess of that ritual than he had of the salute; but he knew how to handle a sword. Then he shot off through the scrub like a startled hare, heading for the jetty.
Nnanji snorted and said, “Water rat!” with bottomless scorn. “
Sapphire
, huh?” he added, grinning at Wallie. Then he turned to Katanji with a face like a Demon of Retribution—time to impart a few truths about proper military procedure.
Wallie headed for the tents. Honakura had already emerged and was beaming toothlessly.
“The Goddess be with you, old man.”
“And with you, my lord.”
“You were right again!”
“Aren’t I always?”
“So far,” Wallie admitted. “So tell me what has happened to the sorcerers? And I thought I was not supposed to benefit from miracles?”
Honakura’s tiny shoulders shrugged within his black gown. “As far as sorcerers are concerned, perhaps you have been overestimating them? Men may have great powers and yet make mistakes, you know. They are only human. They may still be on their way here, but too late. And I wouldn’t call this a miracle; it is the Hand of the Goddess. Besides, I never said you would not be granted miracles, only that you must not count on them. Heroes are allowed to be lucky, my lord. That is quite different.”
He smirked. Honakura could have knotted a college of Jesuits into a lace counterpane.
Chuckling, admiring the fine weather, savoring this dramatic solution the gods had provided to his problem, Wallie continued over to the pool at the base of the waterfall to spruce himself up. In a few moments Nnanji joined him, muttering under his breath about scratchers and figuratively wiping Katanji’s blood from his hands. He could not see that three days was not long enough to turn his brother into a textbook swordsman, or that he would never rise to Nnanji’s own impossible standards.
“Let me guess,” Wallie said. “He asked you to describe the proper procedure, and then you had to admit that we were not following it, because I had not posted pickets . . . ”
Nnanji growled wordlessly. He could pull rank on his brother, but too often he allowed him to talk back and then he invariably lost the argument. Grinning to himself, Wallie dropped the subject.
When the morning’s usual routine was completed, he said, “Now let’s go and call on
Sapphire
. What are the formalities for boarding a ship, Nnanji? Does one ask permission?”
“Permission?” Nnanji looked shocked. Deep in thought, he followed after Wallie for a moment and then said, “Yes! Adept Hagarando mentioned that once. And a captain expects the salute to a superior from anyone, regardless of rank. No swords drawn on board . . . ”
These were the sort of things that Wallie did not know about the World. This was the reason that the gods had assigned Nnanji as his assistant, with his flawless memory packed full of lifetimes of experience from the whole temple guard. But Nnanji’s pride was in his swordsmanship, and Wallie must be careful not to let him suspect that his main purpose was to be a human reference library. He would be crushed if he suspected.
So Wallie thanked him offhandedly, as if the matter were trivial, pushing his way through the bushes. “A water rat is a swordsman who lives on a ship?” Shonsu’s knowledge of swordsman slang had been passed along. “How many types of swordsmen are there?”
Nnanji blinked in surprise. “Three, I suppose: garrisons, frees, and water rats.”
“No ponytail, no kilt? Water rats are really sailors with sword craftmarks?”
“That may be, my lord brother—I never met one before. The frees always spoke of them with contempt. I’d have to think—”
“Don’t worry about it now,” Wallie said hastily, not wanting to call up another retrieval from the mental databank. “With a name like
Sapphire
, this ship has obviously been brought by the Goddess for—”
Nnanji shouted, “
Devilspit
!”
Blue and green sails spread,
Sapphire
was a hundred paces out in the River, still listing, but making good time downstream. A pile of lumber lay abandoned on the jetty.
Wallie had erred. He should have gone straight to the ship with Matarro.
How long until the sorcerers arrived?
“My lord brother! What do we do now?”
Wallie stood for a moment in angry silence, watching the ship dwindle, aware for the first time that there was a fair breeze blowing this fine morning out there on the River.
“I think we leave the problem to a friend of mine,” he said weakly.
“What friend?”
“I call him Shorty.”
Nnanji frowned. “Shorty?”
“You haven’t met him. He’s a god.”
Very funny, Mr. Smith
! He had been told that he must not call for miracles. He had also been warned that he might fail, as Shonsu had failed. He could die on this mission. Now he had been given good fortune ranking close to a miracle, and he had let it slip through his fingers.
How long until the sorcerers arrived?
Jja and Quili had prepared breakfast. Wallie was too mad at his own folly to have much appetite. He brusquely ordered Katanji down to the jetty to watch the disappearing
Sapphire
. He assured the others that she would soon be returned. His fake confidence certainly did not fool Honakura, who smirked, or Jja, who looked worried. The others seemed to believe his prophecy, especially Garadooi.
Accepting a pile of roasted pork ribs and pancakes heaped on a wad of dock leaves, Wallie signaled Nnanji to accompany him. Once they were out of earshot of the others, he sat on the grass. Nnanji copied him, carefully balancing a triple helping of his own. Katanji appeared, puffing, to report that the ship had vanished. Wallie told him to go back and wait until it unvanished.
“Talk and eat at the same time,” he said; Nnanji usually did so, anyway. “I want to hear all the stories you can remember about sailors and free swords. The exact words this time, if you can.”
“Of course!” Nnanji looked surprised that there should be any question. He thought for a moment, chewing on a bone, then he chuckled. “At lunch on Potters’ Day, two years ago . . . ”
That was a humorous story of a Fifth who claimed to have killed, in the course of his career, four men and eight ship captains. The other tales were more specific, all told in Nnanji’s unconscious mimicry of the voices he had originally heard recount them. Free swords expected free transportation—they were on Her service. Sailors who declined to supply it, or who got cheeky with swordsmen, might lose an ear, or worse. Sometimes, of course, the swordsmen had to put up with the impertinence until the ship reached port. Then they were free to impose penalties, and did so. A couple of incidents sounded perilously close to rape. Not surprisingly, there were also rumors of swordsmen mysteriously disappearing in transit.
Of course these were the tales that had been worth repeating; for each of those there might have been a hundred uneventful, or even friendly, encounters. But the overall trend was clear.
“That’ll do! Thank you, Nnanji.”
“I’ve lots more!”
“That’s enough. They’re a revolting bunch, aren’t they?”
Nnanji nodded vigorously, chewing a lump of gristle. Then his eyes widened, and he swallowed it, half choking. “You mean the sailors, my lord?”
“No.” Wallie rose and stalked away, leaving his protégé openmouthed with horror.
“My lord, you do not need us now.” Garadooi had no doubts. “Apprentice Quili and I would take our leave, if you will permit it.”
“But the sorcerers . . . ”
“They will not harm her, my lord. Nor, I think, myself.”
“You can’t know that.” Wallie had expected to take these two with him when the ship returned, if it did. If it did not, of course, they might be safer away from his company, but the young builder was not thinking of that.
“My father is one of their main supporters among the guild-masters.” He did not like to admit that. Then he grinned innocently. “And how have I offended? Three swordsmen arrived, lost. I escorted them out of the sorcerers’ domain by the quickest route.”
“I am very grateful to you both.” Wallie put on his sternest face. “Go, if you wish, with my blessings. But I shall require an oath from you, builder.”
“I shall tell them nothing, my lord!”
“You will tell them everything! Answer all their questions. You must swear to that—I will not have you tortured on my account. Otherwise you stay here.”
The lad’s thin features took on their familiar fanatic sheen. “I am aiding Her cause. She will protect me!”
That might be so, but Wallie extracted a solemn oath from him regardless. Being preliterate, and having no other form of contract, the People put great weight on oaths.
“You will take the cart?”
Garadooi looked surprised. “And the horses.”
‘Two would be enough? I will buy the rest from you.”