The Death of Nnanji (39 page)

Authors: Dave Duncan

Nnanji might not have heard that. Often he seemed superhuman, but just then his face had taken on a very goofy proud-father expression. His parents had been rug makers, and his son was to rule one of the World’s greatest kingdoms.

“The Goddess moves in strange ways, sometimes,” he said at last. “You had to fight and win a war just to get Addis to Plo?”

“I didn’t win it, brother. I told you, Vixini won the war. You should hear what the minstrels are singing about him.”

“Good for him,” his oath brother said coolly. Nnanji loved heroic epics, especially epics about Nnanji. Epics about swordsmen of the next generation would take some getting used to. “So who started this war? Who killed all my men at Gor and Arbo?”

“A grossly corrupt reeve, Pollex, who knew his reign would end as soon as you hit town, and a reactionary grand wizard, Krandrak. Once they’d killed some of your men, war was certain, which let Pollex swear his men by the blood oath.”

“They’re both dead now?”

“Very. Oh, by the way, you must have made a very fast recovery after we shipped out.”

“I don’t like lying around in bed doing nothing.”

Wallie laughed aloud. “Oh, I know that! You never do. What I was about to say is that your wife tells me she is expecting your fourth child. Congratulations.”

By the time he had explained as much about god speech as Nnanji would ever want to know, they were riding into the palace courtyard. Wallie did not mention his plans to turn Kra into a university. The language had no word for that, and Nnanji wouldn’t be interested anyway. Nor did he mention his idea of opening a branch office of the Tryst here in Plo. There would be time aplenty to talk about that.

A band was playing, the palace guard was lined up outside the great door.

“Is this for me or the holiday?” Nnanji asked as he dropped to the cobbles.

This was Midwives’ Day, start of a new year. That felt nicely symbolic.

“Both.”

Only after the formal salutes and responses were the liege lords ushered into the great hall. Prince Arganari seemed very small at the far end, standing by the throne, and Vixini behind him not a great deal bigger.

“Wait!” Wallie said, drawing the seventh sword. “Take this now. We can say the words later if you want. He’s only a prince yet, so he will salute you. But he’s got the fourth, so you’d better have this for your response.”

And then, not even waiting for the heralds to announce them, the two proud fathers marched forward, side by side, hastening to greet their spectacular sons.

EPILOGUE:

THE DEATH OF NNANJI

The summons came just after dawn: a quiet tap on the door, a voice outside.

“Coming!” Wallie called, and pulled himself awake. He sat up, rubbed his face, ran fingers through his hair. Then he put his feet on the floor and dressed. It didn’t take long, although a robe was slower than a kilt. He gathered his hair into his ponytail—a thinner ponytail now, far more salt than pepper. He fumbled with his harness.

“You go ahead,” Jja said from the far side of the bed. “I’ll follow as soon as I can.”

“Whenever you’re ready, love. I’m sure it’ll be a while yet.”

The corridor outside was empty. As he strode along it, he reflected that an epoch was ending. He thought briefly of that gangling, awkward teenager he had met on a beach, a Second so hopelessly cursed by the Goddess that he could no longer fence. He thought of the man that boy had become and what he had achieved, transforming a world. Then he nodded to the heralds and guards on the door, crossed the antechamber, and arrived finally at the bedchamber beyond.

Thana was there—bent, now, and silver-haired. She rose as Wallie entered, and he embraced her briefly. She had probably been there all night. The healer was a nervous little man, strangely unimpressive for his high reputation, but perhaps he was merely awed at having to preside over such an epochal passing. Wallie raised eyebrows in a question, the healer nodded, mouthing the word, “Soon.”

And Nnanji. Bright red hair had long since faded to a dowdy fawn, lean features had become gaunt. He had recognized Wallie and the others when they first arrived, two days ago; he had smiled but not spoken. Now his eyes were closed and his breathing was very shallow. The door opened to admit Lord Tomisolaan. He went first to Thana, as Wallie had, and then to stand over the dying man. He glanced at the healer and then Wallie, both of whom nodded that the time had come.

Tomisolaan, swordsman of the seventh rank, took up the seventh sword of Chioxin from the table beside the bed, and placed it on the coverlet, laying his father’s hand on the hilt:
Live by this; wield it in her service; die holding it
. No swordsman could ever have obeyed those commands any better than Nnanji had. And this son looked very like him. His hair was as red, and his mastery of a sword almost as impressive. His eldest, another Nnanji, had been sworn in as a novice just a year ago.

Three more family members entered to join the vigil: Queen Argair, King Arganari XV the Blessed, and Tomisolaan’s wife, whose name Wallie never could remember. Jja arrived, closely followed by her second son, Lord Jjon, who went to stand with his parents. Voices murmured outside, in the antechamber, and more family members entered.

The last were Lord Vixini, reeve of Plo, and his wife Nnadaro. Theirs had been the fastest romance in the history of the World. Nnadaro had accompanied her parents to her brother’s wedding in Plo, and lightning had struck the moment she and Vixini set eyes on each other. Childhood friendship had blossomed into marriage fast enough to use up the leftover wedding cake—so Addis had said. Nnadaro put an arm around Thana.

So Nnanji was dying at last, but dying in the best way possible: at peace, in his own bed, in the care of his loved ones, not bleeding to death on some distant street with his bowels in his hands, a fate he had risked innumerable times. And in a sense his world was already dead, murdered by the sorcerers and Wallie, who had taught them. Swordsmen often carried guns now, and the juniors bragged as much about their marksmanship as their fencing. An industrial revolution was what the Goddess had wanted, with the Tryst to keep order and fairness and avert the worst of the calamities that beset that transition on other worlds. Wallie had delivered the first, and Nnanji the second.

None of the youngsters present, Wallie reflected, could really appreciate what a great miracle it was that the family contingent from Plo was able to be there at all. The telegrams had arrived only two weeks ago. He had at once sent word to Addis that the gunboat
Chioxin
was at his disposal, and would have steam up within two hours.

Exactly two hours later they had departed, leaving Prince Argie to take care of the kingdom—plus, of course, his own children, including the future Arganari XVII the Tyrannical. Addis had been unsympathetic to his son’s misgivings, pointing out that he had been a lot younger when the kingdom had been dropped on him.

In their race from Plo to Casr they had traveled on three more steam boats and four trains, timing their transfers to the minute. Public newscasts had followed their progress. Not all the Tryst’s gunboats were as speedy as
Chioxin
, which was screw-driven, but in general they were the fastest things on the River. Now that even trader ships could have radio, the Tryst was at last managing to clean up the pirates who had ravaged honest commerce for centuries.

News of Nnanji’s impending demise had flashed around the World within hours, and toward the end of their journey it seemed that half the stern-wheelers and paddle boats in the World were racing to Quo with Sevenths aboard.

The room was very quiet now.

The healer went to the bed and produced a stethoscope. Kra still made the best stethoscopes. After a moment he closed Nnanji’s eyes and stepped back. Nnadaro put both arms around her mother.

Then it was Wallie’s turn. After allowing a long moment for reflection, he went to the bed and retrieved the seventh sword, musing that this must surely be the last time he would ever touch it. He made the salute to a hero. He glanced around at each of the swordsmen present, then led them out through the antechamber, all except Addis, for he was still only a First.

At the top of the grand staircase, he motioned for them to precede him. The great hall below was packed with Sevenths. More than four hundred had been present at the council meeting yesterday, and others had arrived on the evening train from Quo. When Tomisolaan, Vixini, and Jjon reached the bottom, Wallie started down after them. A peculiarity of the grand staircase was that it included a seemingly useless landing about five steps up. Now he understood its purpose and wondered what genius had designed it. He stopped there, where he was in clear view of everyone.

“Lord Nnanji has been called to the Goddess,” he said, “and She will cherish him dearly, for the great services he has rendered in this life. I can no longer fulfill my duties as they should be fulfilled, so we need a new liege.” At least fifty of the Sevenths present would consider themselves qualified to succeed, and no doubt several of them were, but one was doubly qualified, for he had the right of inheritance on his side. Yesterday’s council had agreed on that, seeing that any other decision would risk a bloodbath or civil war. He was also an honorable and honest man, which in Wallie’s own opinion, was the most important factor of all.

“I give the Chioxin sword to his son, Lord Tomisolaan, commanding all of you to swear to him the third oath as you swore it to his father.”

As he knelt to Tomisolaan, he recalled the prophecy of the demigod:
He will be Nnanji the Great, founder of the first dynasty. For almost a thousand years the symbol of his house will be the sapphire sword.

When the brief ceremony was over, Wallie rose, which was no longer the effortless process it had once been. As Jjon prostrated himself before his brother to swear the blood oath, Wallie went slowly back up the stairs to join the rest of the family.

Table of Contents

The Seventh Sword Series

Dedication

Preface – Encore! Encore!

BOOK ONE – How a Swordsman Came Home