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Authors: Dave Duncan
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could kneel,” he suggested. “Or bend over. Of course the scabbard will tilt to the side.”
So it would, sliding on the straps across his back. Wallie could pull the top of the scabbard to one side and the bottom to the other and, with much cursing and almost losing an ear, he sheathed the sword.
“Not bad,” the boy said, regarding him. “You have the guard on the wrong side. Shonsu is ambidextrous, so it doesn’t matter, I suppose. Remember to take it with your left hand when you want to kill someone.” “I’ve no intention of trying to draw this!” But Wallie did draw it, then replaced it the other way round.
“Now straighten it up with the hilt beside your ear,” the boy said. He picked up a small leather thong, the only thing left on the cloak. “Hairclip,” he explained.
“I never went for the leather scene,” Wallie muttered, pulling his hair back and tying the thong around it—thick, heavy hair, not Wallie Smith’s hair. “I really have to go out in public in this rig? I’ll be arrested.” He scowled into the foggy, spotted mirror.
The boy laughed. “Only swordsmen arrest people, and you’re a high-orbit swordsman. No, you’re fine. The girls would whistle at you if they dared. Let’s go.”
Wallie hesitated, seeing the cloak on the bed and the hamper with the fortune in silver dishes inside it. “What happens to this stuff?” he asked. “It will be stolen,” the boy answered. “Does it matter?” Wallie detected an odd note in the question, saw a gleam in the sharp eyes. It was a trick question—if he admitted that it mattered, then he was admitting that the things had value and hence that they were in some way real. Once he took that hook, he would be as good as landed.
“Not to me.”
“Then let’s go,” the boy repeated, dancing over to the door. “Hold it, Shorty!” Wallie said. “How do I know that you aren’t leading me into a trap?”
The mischievous pixie face grinned again, showing the missing tooth. “I am.”
The same question hung in the air, this time unspoken: Does it matter? Wallie shrugged and smiled. “Lead on, then!” He followed the boy out of the cottage.
††††††
It was a beautiful morning, languorously tropical, even if it did smell too much of horses and people. As soon as he cleared the shadow of the cottage, the sun struck hot on his back—the sort of morning that made him think of summer vacations, of beaches and suntanned girls, of hiking in forests or beating tennis balls. The boy skipped across the road, jumped up on the low parapet, and started trotting down it, arms outspread to keep his balance, wobbling. Wallie marched over to join him and noticed the long drop to trees below. But any comment from him would draw the same question again. There were only a few people coming up the roadway. As he approached they made gestures and bowed. He nodded to them and kept on marching. “How do I respond to the salutes?” he demanded of his guide. “A nod is fine,” the boy said, now walking more steadily on a broader stretch of wall. His face was almost level with Wallie’s. “Ignore the blacks and whites, of course. Yellows, too, if you like. Greens and blues you should acknowledge—clenched fist on the heart. That means you’re not going to draw, you see, just like a handshake means you don’t have a weapon hidden.” He spread his arms again for a crumbling, narrow section. “Don’t smile—it would be out of character.”
“Not even pretty girls?”
The boy glanced a warning at him. “From a swordsman of your rank it would be almost an order.”
Wallie took a closer look at the next few groups he passed. Orange garments went with four facemarks, brown with three. White meant one, obviously the very junior. He had seen no black garments yet, but he knew what that meant—slave. Preadolescents, male and female both, went naked like his companion. “That’s for civilians,” the boy
So it would, sliding on the straps across his back. Wallie could pull the top of the scabbard to one side and the bottom to the other and, with much cursing and almost losing an ear, he sheathed the sword.
“Not bad,” the boy said, regarding him. “You have the guard on the wrong side. Shonsu is ambidextrous, so it doesn’t matter, I suppose. Remember to take it with your left hand when you want to kill someone.” “I’ve no intention of trying to draw this!” But Wallie did draw it, then replaced it the other way round.
“Now straighten it up with the hilt beside your ear,” the boy said. He picked up a small leather thong, the only thing left on the cloak. “Hairclip,” he explained.
“I never went for the leather scene,” Wallie muttered, pulling his hair back and tying the thong around it—thick, heavy hair, not Wallie Smith’s hair. “I really have to go out in public in this rig? I’ll be arrested.” He scowled into the foggy, spotted mirror.
The boy laughed. “Only swordsmen arrest people, and you’re a high-orbit swordsman. No, you’re fine. The girls would whistle at you if they dared. Let’s go.”
Wallie hesitated, seeing the cloak on the bed and the hamper with the fortune in silver dishes inside it. “What happens to this stuff?” he asked. “It will be stolen,” the boy answered. “Does it matter?” Wallie detected an odd note in the question, saw a gleam in the sharp eyes. It was a trick question—if he admitted that it mattered, then he was admitting that the things had value and hence that they were in some way real. Once he took that hook, he would be as good as landed.
“Not to me.”
“Then let’s go,” the boy repeated, dancing over to the door. “Hold it, Shorty!” Wallie said. “How do I know that you aren’t leading me into a trap?”
The mischievous pixie face grinned again, showing the missing tooth. “I am.”
The same question hung in the air, this time unspoken: Does it matter? Wallie shrugged and smiled. “Lead on, then!” He followed the boy out of the cottage.
††††††
It was a beautiful morning, languorously tropical, even if it did smell too much of horses and people. As soon as he cleared the shadow of the cottage, the sun struck hot on his back—the sort of morning that made him think of summer vacations, of beaches and suntanned girls, of hiking in forests or beating tennis balls. The boy skipped across the road, jumped up on the low parapet, and started trotting down it, arms outspread to keep his balance, wobbling. Wallie marched over to join him and noticed the long drop to trees below. But any comment from him would draw the same question again. There were only a few people coming up the roadway. As he approached they made gestures and bowed. He nodded to them and kept on marching. “How do I respond to the salutes?” he demanded of his guide. “A nod is fine,” the boy said, now walking more steadily on a broader stretch of wall. His face was almost level with Wallie’s. “Ignore the blacks and whites, of course. Yellows, too, if you like. Greens and blues you should acknowledge—clenched fist on the heart. That means you’re not going to draw, you see, just like a handshake means you don’t have a weapon hidden.” He spread his arms again for a crumbling, narrow section. “Don’t smile—it would be out of character.”
“Not even pretty girls?”
The boy glanced a warning at him. “From a swordsman of your rank it would be almost an order.”
Wallie took a closer look at the next few groups he passed. Orange garments went with four facemarks, brown with three. White meant one, obviously the very junior. He had seen no black garments yet, but he knew what that meant—slave. Preadolescents, male and female both, went naked like his companion. “That’s for civilians,” the boy
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