Seventh Sword #01 - The Reluctant Swordsman by Dave Duncan

Author:Dave Duncan [Duncan, Dave]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Epic, Fiction, General, Swords, Swordplay
ISBN: 9780759270664
Google: 7X4yoYPROMsC
Amazon: 075927066X
Publisher: e-reads.com
Published: 1988-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

By the time Wallie had repaired the effects of Vixini’s performance, Nnanji was seeing the funny side. Such courage, he said slyly—to do that all over a Seventh!

Wallie agreed. “This is turning out to be quite a day,” he said. “And the jewel was acceptable to the formidable Kikarani?”

Nnanji laughed. “I never saw anything vanish faster, my liege.”

He had passed the test, for Nnanji attempting to lie would have red warning lights all over his face. Wallie was not going to tell him about it, though. He said, “By the way, the armorer confirms your opinion of my sword—the seventh sword of Chioxin.”

Nnanji beamed. “I wish I had heard that part of the ballad, then, my liege.”

“Apparently there isn’t any more. Chioxin gave it to the Goddess, and no more was heard of it.”

Unlike Tarru, Nnanji was willing to believe in miracles. He laughed excitedly. “And now the Goddess has given it to Shonsu!”

“Certainly, although I perversely refused to say so. But I am curious. It was three years ago that you heard that ballad?”

A shy smile slid into Nnanji’s eyes. “A little longer, my liege.”

Wallie stared at him, then seated himself on the floor and laid down his sword. Nnanji immediately sat in front of him and put his sword across the first. It was the traditional position for the reciting of sutras.

“How far have you got?”

“Five seventeen, my liege, ‘On Duels.’ ”

Coincidence? “Lucky me! Let’s hear a few. Eighty-four, ‘On Footwear.’ ”

They chanted in alternation back and forth. The sutras were a revelation to Wallie. He had them all in his memory, but he had never learned them, and each came out fresh, as if he was hearing it for the first time. They were a mixed bag, from crude jingles to lengthy lists. Some short, some long, they covered a myriad of topics: technique, ritual, strategy, professional ethics, tactics, anatomy, first aid, logistics—even personal hygiene. Many were dull and trite, but a few had the barbaric grandeur found in the best of preliterate narrative everywhere. Some were banal, others as obscure as Zen koans. Most contained a law, an anecdote, and a proverb. As Honakura had said, the stories helped the memory, but frequently the association of ideas was subtle and thought-provoking.

Nnanji was word-perfect in every one they tried, so Wallie chanted five eighteen, ‘On Hostages.’ Nnanji chanted it right back. Surprised, Wallie gave him two more and then had him go back to ‘Hostages.’ He made no errors. Wallie knew that preliterates could often perform astonishing feats of memory, but Nnanji seemed phenomenal. Honakura had been correct: this was the hand of the Goddess.

His protégé was looking understandably smug. “All right, smarty,” Wallie said. “Here’s five eighty-two, ‘On the Feeding of Horses.’ ” That was the longest, dullest, and least associative of them all. He stumbled a couple of times himself before he got it right. Nnanji sat and watched his lips. Then he recited it back—without the stumbles.

Wallie Smith had been taught to read and write.

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