There were pots everywhere: in the cabins, along the passages, in the dinghies, on the decks. The plates had gone in the hold, and Tomiyano fretted about draft and shifting cargo and incomplete repairs and ballast and trim. The trader had wept hysterically, screaming that he was ruined. The crew were astounded and wondered if she had taken leave of her senses. With pots all over the deck, what do you do if it rains? How do you get to the ratlines in an emergency? Brota ignored all of the comments. She knew an opportunity when it barked loud enough and she did not think Shonsu was going to be drowned. She could get three fifty for this lot, perhaps more. Five days. A slow death, that, and his leg had not started to turn black yet.
The only place without metal was the deckhouse. One load had been placed in there. Nnanji had moved it all outside and stood glaring in the doorway, his arms folded and the seventh sword on his back. He might be a simple swordsman, but he seemed to have made a good guess as to what was happening and why. The deckhouse stayed clear.
Sapphire
moved drunkenly away from the dock, responding to her tiller with a reluctance that felt like resentment.
The deckhouse was the only place left to eat, so when the anchor fell, it was there that the food came—roast dodo and rich-smelling manatee pie; fresh brown loaves and steaming dishes of fresh vegetables from Ki San. Brota sat on one of the chests, and everyone else crowded in on the floor.
She sensed strange moods in the company. The crew were worried about the trim and the cargo, anxious about tomorrow’s weather; but they were also jubilant over the windfall from the sandalwood, believing now that the Goddess was smiling on them. Hool was a discarded memory. Their only sadness was a certainty that the wounded man in the corner was going to die of his wound as Matyrri and Brokaro had died. The passengers were morose, but were equally certain that he would live. As dishes passed around, little conversations would start up and then fade away again uneasily.
Then Tomiyano came in, carrying a large copper pot with a strange coil on the top of it. Brota held her breath. He glanced around until he located Nnanji, then picked his way cautiously over legs and around people to reach him, and laid the pot gently on the deck.
“Adept Nnanji,” he said in a gruff voice. “Do you know what this is for?”
Nnanji frowned at it, looked up, and shook his head.
“Your mentor saw some like these in Aus,” Tomiyano said, “but larger than this. He was very interested in them for some reason. I had hoped you would know. We got it with the others.”
Nnanji closed his eyes. “All he told us was: ‘I saw some copper coils that I thought might have something to do with sorcerers and I went over to look at them.’ ” His voice had taken on some of Shonsu’s low rumble. He opened his eyes again. “I can’t help you, captain. But perhaps you would let me buy that, so he can look at it when he recovers.”
“I’ll give it to you,” Tomiyano said gruffly.
Brota thought a prayer to the Holiest: a peace offering! Incredible! But would the swordsman take it?
“I cannot accept a gift from you, Captain,” Nnanji said. “How much to buy the pot?”
Tom’o flushed furiously. “Five golds!”
Nnanji calmly reached into his money pouch and counted out four golds and twenty-one silvers, laying them on the deck at the sailor’s feet.
Madness
!
As soon as he had finished, the sailor kicked the coins away across the floor. He stamped over to the other side of the deckhouse, his face dark with rage, leaving the pot where it was.
Brota sighed and decided not to interfere. When men behave like children, women should stay out
“What’s the next port, my lady, and how long?” Honakura asked from a corner.
“Wal, in about three days,” she said with her mouth full.
“There are sorcerers in Wal!” Nnanji said sharply.
Brota looked quickly at Tomiyano. “Is that right?”
“I didn’t think to ask,” he confessed, frowning, angry with himself. “Times and current and landmarks and shallows and trading, but I didn’t ask about sorcerers! I didn’t ask about Dri, either; the one after.”
“Dri’s all right,” Katanji said.
He had a great gift for throwing rocks into still pools, that lad, thought Brota.
“I didn’t give you permission to go ashore,” Nnanji growled in the silence.
Katanji didn’t say anything, kept eating.
Nnanji admitted defeat. “All right. What did you discover?”
“The left bank is sorcerer country,” said his brother, waving a crust in the general direction of the mountains.
“Don’t you know your right hand from your left?”
“He’s right, adept,” Brota said. “We’re going upstream, so that side is the left bank.”
Nnanji glared, seeing that he had been trapped. Katanji’s eyes were twinkling, but he was careful not to smile. “There are Black Lands to the south, mentor,” he said. “The sorcerers have taken over at least three cities on the left bank: Aus, Wal, and Sen, maybe more. And Ov, of course, on the other side of RegiVul, the mountains. Even the sailors don’t seem to know much farther than two or three cities. But there are no sorcerers on the right bank, at least near here. Ki San and Dri and then Casr—they’re all right.”
His brother nodded and growled, “Well done, novice.” Again he sounded like Shonsu—Katanji noticed and hid a grin in a mouthful of pie.
“Well done,” Nnanji muttered again, scrunching up his forehead in thought. He looked at Brota. “We’ll bypass Wal, then?”
“No more sorcerers for me,” she said. “We can go on to Dri.” But they couldn’t reach it in five days.
The food was eaten and the dishes removed. Oligarro brought out his mandolin and played awhile. Then Holiyi shrilled a few tunes on his pan pipes. Then a sleepy silence . . . It was almost dark. The Dream God was starting to shine, this strangely low Dream God, wider and brighter.
“Nanj?” said his brother. “Sing us a song.”
“No,” Nnanji said.
“Yes!” said everyone else. The passengers were in favor now. Jonahs brought profit.
So Nnanji let himself be persuaded. His voice was reedy and not strong enough for a minstrel’s, but his unconscious gift of mimicry led him through the tune, and the words were apparently no problem. He chose one of the great sagas, about the tryst of Illi and the ten-year siege, about the great hero Akiliso of the Seventh and how he had sulked in his tent because his liege had taken away one of his slave girls. It was a familiar tale, but he sounded like a minstrel and he had the cadences and the pauses and the triumphs and griefs in all the right places.
But when he got to the place where Akiliso’s oath brother went to fight in his stead, he suddenly stopped. “I think that’s enough for one night,” Nnanji said. “Finish it another day.”
The deckhouse applauded and praised and wiped a few eyes. Brota flexed her shoulders stiffly. She had been as much caught up in the song as any of them. The old man might be right. Shonsu might recover before they reached Dri, where there were swordsmen. Then the Goddess would release
Sapphire
. Three hundred golds for a load of sandalwood!
But she thought that Shonsu was going to die.
Matarro’s young voice came out of the shadows, for it was quite dark now. Only the windows glowed. Reflected ripples of light played over the ceiling. “Adept Nnanji? What will you do if Lord Shonsu dies?”
‘That’s none of your business, my lad,” his mother snapped.
“It’s all right,” said Nnanji’s soft voice out of the blackness on the other side. “It’s a swordsman problem, so he’s right to be interested. I die also, novice.”
A terrible coldness ran through Brota. “Bedtime!” she called loudly, surging to her feet. One or two of the children copied her, but everyone else stayed still, waiting.
“Nanj!” squealed his brother. “What do you mean?”
“There was no abomination!” Brota shouted. “Tom’o had been empowered as a posse!”
“That’s correct,” Nnanji said. “No denunciation. You see, novice, if I were only bound to Lord Shonsu by the first oath, as a follower, or me second oath, as his protégé, then there would be no difficulty. But we two swore a greater oath, so I would have to try to avenge him.”
Tomiyano snarled wordlessly from somewhere to Brota’s right.
“It isn’t going to happen, though.” Nnanji might have been discussing the price of fish, so quiet and level was his voice. “But it would be an interesting problem. The captain isn’t a swordsman, so I couldn’t challenge him, and there was no abomination, so I couldn’t just pronounce sentence and kill him. Probably I would have to give him a sword and empower him as a posse again, to kill me. But it doesn’t matter, because Shonsu isn’t going to die.”
“Filthy landlubber sword-jockey!” Tomiyano snarled. “You think you can get away with that?”
“Not a chance. You would knife me or run me through with the sword. And even if I did do you, the others would get me.”
The men growled in angry agreement.
“So don’t worry about it,” Nnanji said. “I wouldn’t do it without warning you. Shonsu isn’t going to die, and even if he does, you’ll easily get me first.”
“That means all of you!” Brota screamed. “Witnesses, your brother for certain. Yes, all of you!”
“I expect so,” Nnanji said coldly. “But an oath is an oath.”
She swore loudly, silencing the rising noise. “That settles it!” she snapped. “You go ashore tomorrow at the first jetty we see. All of you. I’ve never broken a deal in my life, but this one is finished!”
The crew shouted agreement.
In the darkness to her left the little old priest coughed. “You did well on your lumber, mistress?”
The coldness increased, filling her with ice. She had not only accepted Shonsu’s gem—now she had also taken gold from the Goddess. And she had so overloaded the ship that any sudden squall would lay her on her beam ends.
“Well . . . we’ll see tomorrow,” she said faintly.
The deckhouse filled with shouts of disbelief. They thought she was crazy. So did she.
††††
Four days out of Ki San, in late afternoon, Brota sent Tomiyano to fetch Nnanji. The lanky young swordsman, pale-skinned and bony, was leaning morosely on the rail, staring out over the River. Flashes of sunlight streaked on the silver handle of his great sword; the sapphire gleamed against his red ponytail. Very few people on the ship would even answer him now, let alone venture to address him.
She watched from the tiller as Tomiyano approached and saw him deliberately jostle a few of the copper vessels so that Nnanji would hear him coming. Oligarro and Holiyi were on deck, also, keeping a wary eye on things.
The captain spoke; Nnanji glanced up toward her and then shrugged and led the way aft. If he was uneasy at turning his back on the knife-bearing sailor, he did not show it. The poop was even more closely packed with pots than the deck and the two men edged their way through.
“Mistress?” Nnanji was curious but cautious.
Brota pointed to starboard. Far off over the bright waters, the eastern shore was a thin line, on which sharp eyes could just discern the tops of buildings and a good imagination could see a tower. Beyond lay the remote mountains of RegiVul, crumpled blue like crystallized sky.
“Wal?” said Nnanji.
“Wal,” she agreed, then pointed over the port bow.
He turned and studied the swampy, desolate bush flowing past only a few cable-lengths away. There had been no hamlets or even shacks on that bank for hours. Then he looked up at the rigging and back to her, puzzled. “What am I supposed to see?”
Landlubber! “The sky,” she said.
“Oh!”
It could not have been more obvious—a gigantic, boiling thunderhead, dazzling white on its foaming top, lightning flickering in the dark below its flat base.
“You overloaded the ship, didn’t you?” he said, turning to her with amusement.
“Even if I hadn’t, I’d want a port for that thing,” she said. “I’ve never seen one grow so fast.”
Suddenly he grinned, broadly. “She wants us to visit Wal.”
Brota could see nothing to grin about. She leaned on the tiller, and grudgingly
Sapphire
began to respond. “We have no choice,” she said grimly.
“Fine,” Nnanji said. “I’ll stay in the deckhouse.”
Tomiyano’s face held hatred and resentment. He fingered the sorcerer brand on his cheek. “So will I,” he said.
An hour later she sent for Nnanji again, and this time he came alone. The ship was carrying every stitch that Brota and Tomiyano dared hoist, rolling uneasily in a fitful breeze, and Wal was dismally far away. He was wearing his own sword again, instead of Shonsu’s—evidently ready for trouble.
“We may not be going to make this,” she told him. Perhaps she had been wrong; perhaps Shonsu was destined to drown, and she was to be punished for greed.
The swordsman looked puzzled. The fingers of the storm were reaching out above them and about to seize the sun, but Nnanji ignored that. He pointed at Wal. “I thought you were going there, mistress?”
“We’re tacking,” she snapped. “Can’t sail straight upwind, Nnanji!”
“Oh!” he said, not interested in technicalities.
“We have to clear the decks,” she told him, clenching her teeth at his smile.
“The pots will fill with rain?” he asked.
“They’ll roll. We’re going to put as many as we can in the deckhouse.”
His smile vanished and for a moment she thought he would argue, but then he nodded. “If we put Shonsu behind those two chests he will be safe?”
“We had thought of that. He will be safe from rolling pots, at least.”
Nnanji nodded. “Anything I can do to help?” he asked.
She gestured at the cluttered poop. “You can throw these overboard, if you like.”
He blinked. “You are serious, mistress?”
“Yes!”
He did a fair job of not laughing at her, but it was an effort. “Fine!” he said, and started tossing the pots and urns and ewers over the rail. Lae and Mata were already doing the same on the main deck, while others were starting to pack the deckhouse. Tomiyano was emptying the dinghies. Then an army of shadow came racing over the water after them, and the sunshine died.