The Destiny of the Sword (24 page)

At once he saw what Tomiyano had meant about plenty of room. There were many ships at both ends of the harbor, leaving the center strangely empty. The slimy masonry of the dock itself was visible, and the road and the warehouses beyond it. The captain had moored in that long gap—any captain would.

It was a trap!

Wallie bellowed for the sailors and began to fumble inexpertly with ropes. Crowds had been running for shelter, horses bolting and rearing at the noise, but the road was clearing rapidly.

Tomiyano and Holiyi appeared and began to hoist sail. There was wind, but not very much. Griffon acknowledged it sluggishly, swinging her bow toward open River with reluctance. As nasty crawling feelings ran over his skin, Wallie studied the dock and waited. He was out of range for pistols, but not for cannon. The two closest ships were flying red flags, so the orders had been to stay out of the flagged area...

Nnanji and Thana came scrambling up the ladder, and Wallie yelled to them to take cover again, but Doa was coming up behind them, free of her bonds.

Almost simultaneously, three columns of black smoke jetted skyward beside the warehouses. Two more followed at once. The roar of cannons thumped at his ears and he saw the horses panic once more. Vertical? He raised his eyes and thought he saw one black speck in motion.

*Those were very big thunderbolts, brother,” Nnanji said judiciously. Then waterspouts reared all around and Griffon staggered. A spray of mist blew over the deck. Close!

Mortars would not take long to reload. Wallie was about to order everyone below again, then decided that a cannonball could kill all of mem just as easily there as here. They all began coughing as the cloud of gray smoke overtook the ship. Black powder made an astonishing amount of smoke.

‘Tack!” he shouted. Tomiyano started to argue and Wallie yelled at him. Griffon changed course slightly as two—four— five more explosions mushroomed from the roadway. This time he certainly saw a couple of the balls in flight and pointed them

out. They seemed to take a long time falling. Mortars would have less chance of hitting a ship than cannons, but they would do far more damage, knocking a hole in the keel. Traveling horizontally, a cannonball would merely go straight through the hull, unless it was lucky enough to hit a mast.

Waterspouts again—and one just off the bow. A torrent of water fell against the sails and over the deck, making the ship shudder and heel. Katanji and Thana were hurled down and everyone was soaked. Tomiyano swore angrily and changed course slightly again. Now he could see the need to dodge. Wal,lie peered into the hatch, but there was surprisingly little water in the hold. He hoped that piranha could not survive being carried aboard in that rough fashion, or the prisoner would be nibbled to tatters.

Much too close for comfort! Their escape was agonizingly slow. The sorcerers would be able to get in at least one more good shot before Griffon was out of effective range. Why was it taking them so long?

His friends were battle,tested veterans. They were tense and most of mem were clutching the rail very firmly, but there was no panic. He looked to see how Doa was reacting and saw at once that he need not worry. She was soaked, her hair bedraggled, but her face glowed with excitement. Her eyes were shining. She noticed his attention, smiled happily, and said, “Wonderful!” She was an astonishing woman!

Obviously Griffon had arrived while the sorcerers were rehearsing their reception for the arrival of the tryst. A wide empty space would attract the unsuspecting ships and allow a clear field of fire. That might even explain why a Seventh had been down at the docks.

“Nnanji?” Wallie said in the calmest voice be could muster. “We never heard of a sorcerer city having more man one Seventh, didweT’

“No, brother.”

“Then you realize who that is in the hold?”

“Rotanxi!” Nnanji shouted. “The wizard! The man who sent the kilts to the lodge?”

Before Wallie could answer, smoke gushed once more from the warehouse doors where the cannons were; but this time the

jets were horizontal, and there were no waterspouts. As the noise arrived, so the River boiled—astern of Griffon and off to each side. White clouds of mist rose and then faded again. Grapeshot! Wallie shivered convulsively.

The gods might have ruled out miracles, but they were not withholding good luck. The sorcerers had been prepared to repulse an approaching attack, not to destroy a departing fugitive, so initially the cannons had been set in mortar position and armed with balls, for distance. Probably it took time to reset them for their close,range use as cannons, firing grapeshot. Against ships full of swordsmen the grape would be a hundred times more deadly—it would sweep the decks clean. Had the grape come first, while Griffon was nearer, then she would have been blasted to sawdust.

Slowly, so slowly, they were retreating from the dock.

“Get below!” he roared. “All of you!”

He tried to take the tiller from Tomiyano while the others obeyed orders; there was an argument. Before the matter was settled, the sorcerers tried again. This time the shots fell short. Wallie relaxed and wiped his brow. They were out of range of the grape and only a very lucky shot with a ball could hit them now. Today the luck was with the swordsmen.

Conscious and wearing his cowled gown, the sorcerer would be an imposing figure. He was tall and ruddy,faced, with eyebrows like snowbanks and stark, craggy features. Wallie guessed mat he was a well,preserved seventy.

He was beginning to stir and groan. Wallie untied his hands and stripped off the heavy robe. As Katanji had noted long ago, a sorcerer’s gown was lumpy. It held innumerable pockets, bulging with mysterious clunky objects. Wallie thrilled with satisfaction at the thought of unmasking the sorcerers’ craft with this evidence.

His victim was not imposing now. He was a pathetic figure in a short cotton shut that failed to hide a potbelly and spindly old,man’s legs, blotched with varicose veins. His white hair was thin and matted in two places with dried blood, but his injuries seemed to be confined to those. Wallie dressed him in the fake

gown that Lae had made, slung him over his shoulder, and carried him up to the deck.

Pulse, pupils... the old man was apparently in fair shape and now he was starting to come around, blinking, groaning, and drooling. Wallie leaned him against the upturned dinghy and turned to Nnanji, whose face bore enough satisfaction to embellish a victorious army.

“Watch him, master!” Wallie said. “He’ll be over the rail in a flash if we let him—and we want him alive!”

Then he went below to fetch the mysterious robe and a flask of wine.

The wind was rising again. The sun balanced still on the horizon, bloodied by volcanic dust, so obviously the whole escapade had taken much less time man it had seemed to. Triumph! Heroes were certainly allowed to be lucky. Remembering how close to Griffon the grapeshot had foamed, Wallie dampened his self,congratulation with a silent prayer of thanksgiving. The gunnery had been impressive—but so had the good fortune.

He sat on the deck close to Tomiyano, facing the sorcerer. The others gathered around, chattering and grinning in victory and relief. Nnanji and Thana weze cuddling each other, release of tension rousing other instincts. Doa, strangely solemn, was studying the sorcerer and absenonindedly tugging a comb through her wet hair, while Wallie ran his eye longingly over the wondrous length of her shapely legs, conscious of his own instincts in action. She noticed his attention and sent him a coquettishly inviting smile. It was probably no more genuine than its predecessors, but it still raised his heartbeat for a moment.

He passed the wine bottle around and studied the gown spread out before him. it was soaked and smelly with bilge. One of the lumps had seemed to twitch when he touched it, so he started with that. After a cautious peek in the pocket, he reached in, fumbled, and pulled out a bird. Tomiyano said he would be a barnacle’s grandmother.

“Not just a bird,” Wallie crowed. “It’s a pigeon and it has a band on its leg.” The others exchanged impressed glances. He put the bird back in the pocket and tried the next

“And what’s this?” He set his discovery upon his nose and the audience howled with laughter. Eyeglasses were the first step

toward the telescope, of course. Everything had to be explained, and they all tried die glasses.

“And here’s a...” He tried to say “quill pen” and stuttered into silence. “Quill... brash?” That came out. “Must be ink in this bottle? Right!” He knew the word for ink, although it meant only what came out of an octopus.

The same pocket also held tiny fragments of vellum, so fine mat it might have been bird skin. Wallie chuckled, suddenly remembering bis childhood and the Christmas parties when his father had hidden favors in a bran tub for the youngsters to find. This was more fun.

“Will you all promise not to tell anyone else about this?” he asked, and got a ballet of nodding heads. With the quill and the small ink bottle, he drew seven swords on one of the scraps of vellum and held it out for them to look at it.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

Chorus: “A swordsman of the Seventh/’

Then he attempted to draw a griffon. It looked like a pregnant camel. “And what does that all mean?”

A puzzled, frowning silence was broken by Katanji. “The seventh sword?”

“Right you are!” There was still enough light for flying; Wallie waved the vellum to dry it, then retrieved the pigeon and slid the message into its band. “Let’s send the sign back to the tower.” He tossed the bird into the air. They watched it circle and climb and vanish in the direction of Sen.

“That is how they send messages,” Wallie explained. “The ink comes from the squid. You tend to get it on your fingers, of course,” he added ruefully as he recorked the bottle—he was not experienced with a quill. He studied faces. They looked impressed and happy. Nnanji and Thana were paying more attention to each other, sniggering again already. The sailors were grinning. Only Doa seemed worried and puzzled. Katanji was staring at the pen and the vellum, thinking.

“You are becoming a nuisance,” the sorcerer said in a deep voice, glaring. “Lord Shonsu!” He looked around. “Master Nnanji, the wagon driver? And Novice Katanji, who understandably prefers being a slave to being a swordsman. The mendacious

Captain Tomiyano, of course. Lady Doa, you keep strange company!”

The audience hissed at this sorcery. Wallie laughed and pointed at Holiyi. “What’s his name?”

The sorcerer shrugged. “It is upon you that I shall set my curses,” he said. “I have summoned demons—“

“Pigeon droppings!” Wallie said. “You have spies in Casr, so you know who we are. I don’t scare with demons and curses, Lord Rotanxi.”

The man was groggy still, or else too proud, for he did not deny the name.

Doa said quietly, “It is you who are in strange company, my lord.”

“He probably has a sore head,” Wallie said. “Would you like a drink of water? No? Just speak up if you want a blanket or something. Now, let’s carry on.” Carefully he reached into another pocket. “Any guesses on this treasure? Little sticks with something on the ends!” Matches? He struck one and his audience gasped. That meant phosphorus, so his guess had been correct. “Sorcerer, what’s your name for the stuff you make these with? It’s soft and yellow, and you have to keep it under water or it goes on fire. Come on, man, I know all about it! I just want to know what you call it.”

Furious silence.

“Do you know how to make it safer by heating it?” Wallie asked. “It turns red.”

Obviously the answer was yes. “How do you know these things?” the prisoner demanded, shocked.

“That’s a long story. I’m a better sorcerer than you are. I know mat you can see a long way from your tower with a thing made of glass. And I know how to make messages with your quill and the ink, although I can’t do it in your words.”

The sorcerer seemed to shrink.

Wallie went back to the gown. “Now what’s in this pocket? Ah, here we have the thunderbolt.” He showed the others the pistol. It was a single,barrel muzzle,loader. He had anticipated a flintlock, but the mechanism used a phosphorus,based friction cap—very ingenious. The workmanship was exquisite, the butt scrolled with silver and mother,of,pearl. More rummaging un,

covered lead balls, but also measured packets of gunpowder like cartridges, and fortunately these had stayed dry, in a separate leather bag. He had expected a powder horn.

This, I suppose, you would call thunderpowder. It’s made from sulfur and charcoal and saltpeter.” Wallie examined the balls and explained how the pistol shot them out. Nnanji scowled and the others were disgusted.

Rotanxi was pale. This display of knowledge must be more of a shock to him than the rough treatment had been. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“My name is Shonsu, as you said. I am on the side of the Goddess and the swordsmen and I am going to take you to Casr and show the tryst this weapon. That was what I came for, and you yourself are only a bonus. I hope that I can become leader, so mat the tryst will not do stupid things like making frontal attacks on Sen.”

The sorcerer straightened bis back against the dinghy and attempted a triumphant sneer. He had an arrogant, aristocrat’s face —deep,set eyes below those snowy eyebrows, high aquiline nose, long upper lip—a good face for sneering, a Roman fallen among Goths. “You are too late, Shonsu. Yesterday the swordsmen held their absurd ceremony of trying to kill each other to see who is the biggest butcher. The juvenile Boariyi won. How curious to choose a leader by die length of his arms!”