She listened for a reply and was astounded to hear a baby crying. Swordsmen bringing babies?
Nnanji stopped at the end of the jetty, peering down and speaking to whoever was waiting there, doubtless reporting that there was no danger.
Immediate
danger was what he had asked about, so she had not lied. But Quili had not had time to work out how her ladyship might be reacting to these visitors. Uneasily Quili now concluded that Lady Thondi might already be sending word to Ov that swordsmen had arrived. How long did it take a horse to reach Ov? How long for sorcerers to ride back? Perhaps the swordsmen would not interpret
immediate
in quite the same way she had.
Nnanji reached out his arms and caught a baby, as if plucking it out of the sky. He cuddled it to him, and the yells stopped.
As Quili reached him, he turned round and grinned. “This is my friend Vixini.” The baby was about a year old, obviously teething. It was a slave baby—Quili’s mind staggered.
Then this so-bewildering swordsman reached down a helping hand, and another man sprang up on to the jetty. Nnanji remarked offhandedly, “My lord, may I have the honor of presenting Apprentice Quili?” Then he went back to tickling the naked baby, as if he were unaware of what he had just produced.
A giant! He was taller even than Nnanji, vastly wider and deeper, thickly muscled. His hair was black, and his black eyes fixed on Quili with a cruel, ruthless intensity that turned her bones to straw. Rape and death and carnage . . .
Nnanji was young to be a Fourth. This huge menace was a few years older, but far too young to be a Seventh. Yet there were seven swords marked on his forehead, and although his kilt was dirty, rumpled, and obviously bloodstained, it had undoubtedly started out as the blue of that rank. He must have been sheltering somehow from the rain, for the faint smears of gore on his chest and arms were quite dry.
Momentarily Quili trembled on the verge of turning and fleeing before this terrifying barbarian giant, then she began to stumble through the greeting to a superior, remembering that Nnanji had said women went glassy when they met Shonsu. She did not feel glassy, she felt like an aspen; her hands shook in the gestures. Kandoru had told her that never in his long career had he ever met a swordsman of higher rank than Sixth. She herself had never spoken to a Seventh of any craft—except her ladyship, and everyone knew that her husband had bought that rank for her years ago. But no one would or could buy seven swordmarks.
She bowed, then straightened. The deadly gaze did not waver or shift from her face. The giant’s arm rose. The sun god streaked and flashed on a sword blade. “I am Shonsu, swordsman of the seventh rank, and am honored to accept your gracious service.” His voice seemed to rise from depths unimaginable. Then the muscles of his arm bunched again as he shot the sword back into its scabbard.
The formalities over, Lord Shonsu put his hands on his hips and smiled.
The transformation was miraculous, as if another man entirely were standing before her. He had a wide, friendly grin, absurdly boyish for his size. Hardness suddenly became male good looks; thoughts of barbarians vanished. This enormous young lord was the most incredibly masculine man she had ever seen.
“My apologies, apprentice!” He had the deepest voice she had ever heard, too, a voice that seemed to echo all through her with shivery promises of confidence and competence, of protection and consideration and good humor. That smile! “We are not in a fit state to come visiting unannounced like this, and at such an unsociable hour.”
Glassy now, very glassy.
“You . . . you . . . are welcome, my lord.”
The smile grew warmer still, like the rising sun. “You show great hospitality in coming to meet us . . . and no small courage?” His eyes twinkled, “I hope that my gory friend did not startle you too much?”
Quili shook her head dumbly.
“There is no swordsman nearby? And what of priests? Have you a mentor?”
“He lives in Pol, my lord.”
“Then you are our hostess for now, at least until this Honorable Garathondi appears.”
“He lives in Ov, mostly, my lord. His mother, Lady Thondi, is in residence . . . ”
“You’ll do every bit as well,” the giant said with a heart-melting chuckle. “Nnanji tells me that you know of no task that may be awaiting our swords here?”
“Er . . . none, my lord.”
Lord Shonsu nodded in satisfaction. “I am glad to hear it. We had our fill of slaughter yesterday, as you can see. Perhaps the Most High has sent us here for some rest and relaxation, then?” He boomed out a laugh and turned back to the boat.
Quili doubted that Adept Nnanji had had his fill of bloodshed. She saw that he was watching her with quiet amusement, rather wistfully. She felt herself blush, and looked away.
Her eyes returned of their own accord to Lord Shonsu, and now she noticed the sword on his so-broad rippling back. The hilt beside his black ponytail was silver, gleaming in the rays of the sun god and the rain. There was a huge blue stone on the top of it, held by a strange but magnificently crafted beast—a griffon. She knew that the griffon was a royal symbol, so that was a king’s sword. The great gem could only be a sapphire, and there was another, matching stone, in Lord Shonsu’s hairclip.
But . . .
But these men were supposed to be free swords. Free swords were men of poverty. Random had explained often—free swords served only the Goddess, wandering the World to stamp out injustice, to regulate other swordsmen and keep them honest, to guard the helpless. Having no masters, they would accept no reward except their daily needs. A genuine free sword took pride in his penury.
A king’s sword? The gem alone was worth a fortune, and the craftsmanship was superb, priceless.
How could any honest swordsman acquire something like that? Bewildered, she looked at Nnanji’s sword to compare it. Nnanji was still holding that incongruous baby, which was gurgling and enjoying his attention, but Nnanji’s eyes were on Quili.
“It belonged to the Goddess,” he said.
“What?”
He nodded solemnly. “It is very old and very famous, probably the finest sword ever made. The man who crafted it was Chioxin, the greatest of all swordmakers, and it was the last and best of his seven masterpieces. He gave it to the Goddess.”
Quili turned away to hide the horrible suspicion that flared up in her, which must not show in her face. These men had come from Hann, from the mother of all temples. They had fought a battle. Had someone tried to prevent their leaving—the temple guard that Nnanji had formerly belonged to? Was that sword the reason? Had this Shonsu stolen that royal sword from the treasury of the Goddess’ temple?
But if he had, then why had She let the boat leave the dock when he boarded? And why had She moved it here, where there were sorcerers? Swordsmen of the Seventh were very rare and very terrible. Nnanji had said that Shonsu had killed six men in the fight—perhaps the Goddess had few swordsmen capable of bringing such a colossus to justice. But sorcerers certainly could.
Had they been brought here to die?
She felt sick with indecision. Was she supposed to aid these men, or not? What of preventing bloodshed? Whose blood? A mere apprentice should not be faced with such conundrums.
“Apprentice Quili, this is Jja, my love.”
The woman smiled shyly, and Quili received another shock. Jja was a slave; her face bore a single stripe from hairline to upper lip, and she wore a slave’s black. His
love
? The woman was tall and only that hateful badge of slavery and the close-cropped maltreatment of her dark hair stopped her from being spectacularly beautiful. No, she was beautiful in spite of those. Her figure was magnificently proportioned to her height, yet she moved with a sensual grace: strong and competent and serene. Even a Seventh could not change a slave’s rank, but it seemed ironic for a man of such power to love a mere chattel. He was introducing her as if she were a person, though, and watching for Quili’s reaction. She smiled carefully and said, “You are welcome, also, Jja.”
A faint blush spread over the high cheekbones, the dark eyes were lowered. “Thank you, apprentice.” A good voice. Jja turned to take the baby, who was now sitting on Nnanji’s shoulders, wedged in place by his sword hilt. Little Vixini resisted, screaming angrily and clutching the swordsman’s ponytail.
Then Lord Shonsu’s strong arm pulled another woman up from the boat. “This,” he said, “is Cowie.” There was an odd note in the way he spoke, as if he had said something funny.
Cowie was another slave, and another sort of slave. If Lord Shonsu was the epitome of masculinity, then Cowie was the ultimate sex partner. Quili had never seen a figure so exaggeratedly female, and it was barely concealed at all by the flimsy wisp of garment. Her breasts strained against it, her arms and legs were soft and voluptuously rounded, her face was a lovely and sweet nothing. At the sound of her name, the provocative lips parted in an automatic smile, but her eyes continued to stare blankly at the shore.
Quili remembered her misgivings about her own too-tight gown. In this company she was not going to be noticed.
Nnanji had said something about buying a slave. She glanced at him, and he turned away.
Then another black-clad figure was lifted up by hands below, accepted, and gently set down by Lord Shonsu. He was very tiny and very old, his head totally hairless, his neck a crumple of wrinkles. The gown he wore appeared to be both too large for him and also a woman’s garment. A black headband covered his brow. Quili blinked in astonishment at this apparition—babies, slaves, and beggars? What other surprises would Lord Shonsu produce?
“This is Honakura, who prefers to conceal his rank and craft,” the swordsman said. “I don’t know why, but we humor him.”
The little ancient wheeled around angrily, waggling an arthritic finger to scold the giant swordsman towering over him. “You must not speak my name, either! A Nameless One is exactly that—no craft, no rank, no name! Address me as ‘old man’ if you wish.”
Lord Shonsu regarded him with mild amusement. “As you wish . . . old man. Apprentice, meet one old man.”
Honakura, if that was really his name, turned back toward Quili. He chuckled and smiled, revealing a mouth devoid of teeth. “Thus I also serve Her,” he said.
“You are welcome . . . old man.”
Lord Shonsu boomed a laugh. “And this . . . ” He dropped on one knee and reached down into the boat. Then he sprang upright, hoisting a youth bodily into the air, a First. He floated there, his shoulders gripped in Shonsu’s great hands, and he beamed down at Quili as if there was nothing undignified about such an unorthodox arrival, or as if Sevenths clowned with Firsts all the time.
The big man’s voice came from somewhere behind the boy’s grubby white kilt. “This is our mascot. Apprentice Quili, may I have the unparalleled honor of presenting the dreaded Novice Katanji, swordsman of the first rank?”
Then he let go. Novice Katanji landed unevenly, stumbled, recovered, and grinned. He tumbled for his sword hilt, which was canted over behind his left shoulder.
“Leave that!” Shonsu said quickly. “You’ll decapitate someone—probably yourself.”
Katanji shrugged, still grinning, and made the salute to a superior in civilian fashion. Bewildered, Quili responded. It was very rare to make formal presentation of a First; slaves and beggars were always ignored. Lord Shonsu not only had a peculiar sense of humor, he must also dislike formalities and ritual.
The young Katanji was a dark-eyed imp. His single facemark was raw and new, his curly black hair cropped short like a child’s. There was a hairclip precariously balanced in it, but no ponytail resulting. He was grubby, but not as filthy as Nnanji, and innocent of bloodstains. Remembering Nnanji’s story, Quili could guess that Novice Katanji had sworn to the code of the swordsmen only the previous day. Nnanji must be his mentor, for surely no Seventh would take a First as protégé. Yet perhaps this unconventional Shonsu was capable of even that.
“You are welcome also, novice,” Quili said.
His big eyes’ regarded her solemnly. “Your gracious hospitality is already evident, apprentice.” Then those eyes dropped, to linger over her cloak.
Quili glanced down and saw that the right side was stained, the faded yellow cloth marked by streaks of grease, and even perhaps blood, where Nnanji had hugged her against himself. She looked up in mingled shame and anger, as Novice Katanji turned away with a deliberate smirk showing on his face. Impudent little devil!
“No more strays, sailor?” Lord Shonsu was addressing the two men still in the boat. “Then you will come ashore for food and rest before you seek to return?”
“Oh, no, my lord.” The captain was a fat and obsequious man. He would probably be very glad to be rid of so strange a cargo. To carry a Jonah reputedly brought good fortune to a vessel and normally the Goddess sent it home again promptly, but Lord Shonsu would be an unnerving passenger.
“We must not keep Her waiting, my lord,” the sailor explained.
“May She be with you, then.” Shonsu reached in a pouch on his harness and flipped a couple of coins down. They glinted in the sunlight. Free swords paying gold to mere boatmen?
“There we are, apprentice. Seven of us looking for a bite of breakfast.” Lord Shonsu had turned to Quili again with high good spirits. He was amused—her astonishment must be showing. Two swordsmen, two slave women, a boy, a baby, and a beggar? What sort of army was that?
Then the menacing frown snapped back, and he stared along the jetty at the road vanishing into the notch of the gorge. He swung around to Nnanji.
“Transportation?”
Horror fell over Nnanji’s face, and he jerked to attention. “I forgot, my lord.”
“
Forgot
? You?”
Nnanji gulped. “Yes, my lord.”
For a moment Shonsu’s eyes flicked to Quili, then back to Nnanji. “I suppose there has to be a first time for anything,” he said darkly. “Apprentice, we have a problem. I assume that we need to climb at least as high as the top of that cliff?”
“I am afraid so, my lord.”