The Death of Nnanji (23 page)

“You and I are going on a journey,” Pollex told him. “Have two good horses ready at dawn; bedrolls and two days’ rations, in case we’re delayed.”

Grundrimp didn’t ask where to. He just thumped his chest—which was a large chest, well able to withstand even his outsized fist—and went away.

So next morning Pollex tore himself willingly away from his wife and children, and rode off with Grundrimp to find Kra while the summer sunrise stretched their shadows far ahead of them. There was an ancient law that no one must pass the barrier Rock, which stood beside the only trail heading up into the hills, so nobody ever went visiting Kra. What happened if anyone tried, Pollex intended to find out. Laws didn’t trouble him, because he was the one who enforced laws in Plo, and no one was going to enforce any laws on him.

He had only a vague idea of how far away Kra was, but the wagon trail past Barrier Rock headed southwest into the mountains, and he knew that local labor was hired once in a while to maintain it at least that far. It was obviously being used for horse or mule traffic.

Grundrimp did not speak, not a word, not even a good morning. Pollex waited to see how long it would be before he did, but eventually, after a good hour, he was the one to break the silence.

“I was thinking,” he said, “that swordsmen used to kill sorcerers on sight.” And now he was in league with them. A necessary evil, which many of his craft would regard as betrayal, but justified by his right to self-preservation. “It seems wrong, somehow, that I, a swordsman of the Seventh and commander of the second-largest army of swordsmen in the World, have never killed anyone in my life.”

“You’ve had me kill plenty for you.”

“Only because I thought you liked doing it.”

Grundrimp didn’t argue the point. He never used his sword to do Krandrak’s odd jobs. A club for men, usually, or bare hands if the malefactor was a woman. Or a tinderbox, in the case of the Arbo brothel.

The road passed through farmland, paralleling a small river. Fields gave way to pasture, where spring lambs frolicked, and then to woods of beech and oak. About midmorning, as the trees thinned out enough to offer glimpses of snowy peaks ahead, the swordsmen met an empty wagon being drawn by four horses. The driver astride the right lead horse was a comparatively young man wearing brown breeches and a facemark of three wheels. Pollex veered his horse in front of the team, or it would have carried straight on by him. The rider halted his team and stared at Pollex insolently, making no salute at all.

“How far to Kra, carter?”

“If you have to ask, swordsman, you’re not supposed to know.”

Civilians never spoke to swordsmen like that. Normally Pollex would either have cut off the youth’s nose himself or had Grundrimp jelly him. In this case, however, the man was almost certainly a sorcerer, so justice would have to wait.

“Then I’ll find out for myself. But be careful in Plo. After today it will be dangerous for you.”

“Not as dangerous as Kra will be for you, Pollex. Clear the road.”

As soon as they were out of earshot, Pollex said, “If you ever set eyes on that one again, cousin, be sure you get lots of blood on your boots.”

In a spacious meadow a stone blockhouse stood beside the trail. There were pigeons on the roof, swallows swooping overhead, and a walled yard with a solid timber gate. Pollex’s horse neighed as if catching other horses’ scent, but nobody answered his hail or his knock. He rode on, feeling as if eyes were drilling holes in his back.

Snowy peaks moved in on either hand and the river shrank to a large stream. But before the swordsmen reached its source, the forest gave way to fields of grain, with peasants at work in the distance. Sorcerers and their horses must eat, of course. Soon after that they came in sight of the city itself, a sprawl of roofs and towers inside a wall, all built of black stone. A row of thatched cottages some distance away suggested that non-sorcerers were kept outside, but the main trail led straight to the gate.

The wall stood about ten feet high and the top of it, as far as Pollex could see in both directions, was decorated with skulls. Most of them were weathered to a chalky white, as if they had been exposed to the sun for a very long time. The lower jaws were missing, as were a lot of teeth, so he decided these were not battle trophies but some sort of ancestor display. As a rule, the People gave their dead to the Goddess, but that was not an easy option for those who lived in the mountains, far from Her River.

The gate was open, so he rode through, finding himself, in a sizable stable yard, not in a street as he expected. A boy clad in a white cloth beckoned the visitors over to a doorway, from which a man emerged as they dismounted. He wore a brown robe with the hood up to shadow his face, and he had his hands tucked in his sleeves. The boy took the visitors’ reins.

The Third did not salute, but Pollex had expected that. Disciplinary action could wait.

“Follow me, swordsmen.” He turned and swished back into the darkness within.

Sword hand twitching with fury at such insolence, Pollex followed. The echoes made by his boots and Grundrimp’s told him they were walking along a narrow corridor, but he could see very little after the bright spring sunlight, just the dark shape going ahead of him, towards a faint light. He felt a cold draft on his back. They emerged into a wide circular hall with a huge fire crackling merrily on a central hearth.

“Up there,” the guide said, gesturing to a staircase. “You are expected.”

The stairs, which had no balustrade, wound around the walls, climbing at least twenty feet high before they completed one circuit and arrived at a landing. The walls continued on another two or three stories before reaching unglazed windows and a vaulted roof. Was this a giant’s chimney or a temple of the Fire God? Seething at the lack of the courtesy due a lord of the Seventh, Pollex climbed. The air soon became very hot and smoky.

When he had almost completed the circuit, he saw that the reception awaiting him was yet another snub, for it was led by a mere master, accompanied by six apprentices. The six in yellow robes stood in a row, backs against the wall. Red Robe was in the center, blocking a doorway. Like the stairs, the landing had no balustrade. Much aware of the unguarded drop behind him, Pollex walked around to face the Fifth.

“I came to see Wizard Krandrak.”

“He is busy,” the master said. He looked young enough to be a swordsman; Fifths of other crafts were usually middle-aged or close to it. Only then did Pollex recognize him. He was so accustomed to identifying people by their craft markings that features came second.

“I know you as a minstrel of the Third!”

“Remember where you are, swordsman, and watch your tongue. And you,” he said to Grundrimp. “Take off your sword and throw it down there, into the fire.”

“Don’t!” Pollex snapped.

The roar of thunder made him jump and reach for his sword hilt, but Grundrimp flew backward and was gone. Pollex cried out and leaned over as far as he dared, seeing his cousin lying face up, half on and half off the hearth. His upper body was on the burning logs, the rest of him draped over the curb. There was no visible wound, but he did not move as his hair and kilt began to burn. His eyes stared lifelessly at the roof

Trembling with shock, Pollex turned to face the sorcerers. The six apprentices all had both arms extended, each boy clutching a thunder weapon pointed straight at him. He could not tell which one of them had fired at Grundrimp. The acrid smoke cloud had almost dissipated in the draft. He knew that those deadly little holes in the end of the weapons could spit lead balls at him, for he had heard all about the thirty men who had died at Cross Zek.

“Take off your sword and throw it into the fire,” the Fifth said.

Pollex’s mouth was so dry he could barely speak. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you will be true to your oaths, for the first and last time.”

Pollex unfastened the buckles with shaky fingers and removed his harness.

“Throw it!”

Sword, scabbard, and harness went down to land not far from Grundrimp’s head, which had already turned black.

“Squad: safe hold!” the Fifth said. The apprentices all lowered their arms to aim at the floor. “Pollex, you will be allowed to leave here if you do as you are told from now on. You will be only the third member of your craft ever to leave a coven alive. How many civilians have you enrolled in your posse?”

“I wish to speak with Wizard Krandrak.”

“You will not, and if you refuse to answer just once more, you will join your friend down there. Grundrimp was human garbage, unworthy to be an offering to our god, and the fact that you tolerated and encouraged him weighs heavily against you also. Do not try my patience further. How many?”

“One thousand, two hundred, fifteen.”

“And how many able-bodied swordsman in the garrison of Plo?”

“Two thousand, four hundred, twenty-nine.”

The master shook his head in disapproval. “How many when you were appointed reeve?”

A sickening smell of burning meat was drifting up from Grundrimp’s funeral pyre.

“I don’t… About nine hundred.”

“And that was plenty for a city of its size. Small wonder the king’s subjects moan about their taxes. You do understand, don’t you, swordsman, that you have more to fear from the Tryst than anyone does? Your king is incapable and virtually blind, but not especially evil, so they may well leave him on the throne until he dies, with a regent running the government. But you? You are a prime example of the sort of swordsman trash the Tryst is seeking to drive out. You and your men prey on your city—stealing, extorting, raping as you will. You murder witnesses and intimidate magistrates. You are despicable.”

Pollex faked a laugh, a dry laugh, probably not very convincing. “As a murderer whose latest victim is still burning, you could be accused of hypocrisy. You need me to help you stop the Tryst. Casr knows who slaughtered its company at Cross Zek; it will assume that you also set up the mass murder at Arbo and tried again at Zek. The Tryst may blame Arganari for the deaths of the two heralds, but he will deny knowing anything about them, and they may well believe him. If the Tryst sets foot on this bank, it will march on Kra and make the whole town an offering to your god.”

“That is possible, but what it will do to you is certain. ‘Drain’ you? That’s how you swordsmen put it, isn’t it? And the Tryst is not doing especially well so far. Three weeks ago, Shonsu landed at Tro and promptly led his men into the jungle. He spent a week wandering around there, losing a third of his men to snakebite and fever. He needed another week at Ki Mer to find enough ships to start downstream from there. He can’t possibly muster at Soo before Lorimers’ Day. He will be fighting in the heat of summer.”

“So will we.”

“But we will have set up the battlefield at our leisure, and he has to march over the hills to reach us. We will ensure that he has no water and no food. He has messed up so badly that I would not be at all surprised if his men disposed of him for us and went home. Including Fex and the client towns, plus your posse, how many men can you field against the Tryst?”

“Just short of four thousand.”

“And how many horses?”

“A thousand, maybe twelve hundred.”

“And we shall supply thunder weapons that will tear the enemy to pieces. I think we may look forward to this contest with confidence. You will continue to receive your orders through the normal channels, and will obey them promptly and without question. Is that understood?”

No swordsman of the seventh rank should ever have to take orders from anyone. As reeve of Plo, Pollex could even refuse an order from the king if he felt it impaired his honor. But he had given up his sword, so now was not the time to argue the point.

“Yes, sorcerer.”

“Swordsman, you trespassed in coming here without permission. As you said, you may be of use to us in the near future, so your life is spared, but your horse is forfeit. A lusty man like you should manage to reach Plo by midnight. However, before you go you will grovel before me and swear your swordsmen’s third oath that you will obey our coven to the death and without reservation.”

No! “That oath is sworn only to other swordsmen and on the eve of battle.”

“As you wish,” the sorcerer said. “But if you refuse, I shall also impound your kilt and boots and make you walk home naked.”

No swordsman should ever surrender his sword. That had been Pollex’s mistake, and now he must pay the penalty. He stared into the sorcerer’s mocking eyes and cursed his own cowardice.

“If you do that, you will have to deal with a new reeve of Plo, because I will be a dead man.”

“Ah. This is true. So I shall have to be satisfied with listening to you die. Execution squad, attention! Aim at his legs. On the count of three…” He wasn’t bluffing.

Pollex went down on his knees. “I cannot swear the third oath without knowing your name.”

“This is true. Swear it, then, to Lord Krandrak, sorcerer of the seventh rank, grand wizard of Kra.”

Proxies were not allowed! If that was not this man’s name, then the oath would be invalid. Clutching at this feeble straw, Reeve Pollex prostrated himself on the warm stonework and became the first swordsman in history ever to swear allegiance to a sorcerer:

“I, Pollex, do swear by my immortal soul and with no reservation, to be true in all things to you, Krandrak, my liege lord, to serve your cause, to obey your commands, to shed my blood at your word, to die at your side, to bear all pain, and to be faithful to you alone for ever, in the names of all the gods.”

Krandrak laughed. “And now you kiss my foot. I didn’t feel that. A little more passion, please. Better. I take you, Pollex, as my vassal and liegeman in the names of all the gods.”

The very same day that Reeve Pollex was receiving bad news in Kra, Liege Lord Shonsu was meeting with better fortune a couple of thousand miles away, in a city named Gra. Gra was one of the largest settlements on the Soo Reach, perhaps in the World. It sprawled for miles along the left bank—which was now comfortingly on the left-hand side, as
Triumph
headed downstream. The approach of a ship laden with swordsman must have been noticed and reported, because even before the sailors had made fast to the quay, a thunder of hooves announced the arrival of the garrison. That was impressive efficiency. And the blue-kilted Seventh who came charging up the ramp with his men at his heels was almost certainly the reeve himself.