Free The Coming Of Wisdom by Dave Duncan Page A

Nnanji said. “Sorcerers being found near the River!”
    Wallie stared at him. “What do you mean?”
    Nnanji tugged his blanket into greater comfort. “Coming down from the hills.”
    “What . . . what do you know about sorcerers, brother adept?”
    “Only the usual stories.” Nnanji reached out a hand and patted Cowie’s thigh encouragingly.
    “But Honakura never heard of sorcerers!”
    “He wouldn’t, would he? I mean, they worship the Fire God, so no one who had any dealings with a sorcerer would tell a priest. They’d tell a swordsman, though!”
    This was a complete revelation to Wallie. Just in time, he restrained a blast of temper: why had Nnanji not told him this sooner?
    Then Nnanji’s eyes widened. “I thought you would know about them, my lord brother! Did you not have sorcerers in your other—”
    “I’m asking you now.”
    Nnanji rubbed wet eyelids. “Well, the only man in the barracks who had met a sorcerer firsthand was Honorable Tarru. I never heard him tell it, but Briu had.” His gaze seemed to go out of focus as he recalled the words . . . 
    Tarru? Ironic—Wallie had almost enjoyed killing Tarru. “Just the outline, please, Nnanji.”
    “Well . . . it was when he was a Second. Long ago. They caught sight of a sorcerer on a donkey and chased him to a village. They surrounded it, but when they searched, he’d vanished. They found the donkey, and his gown, but that was all. They go invisible.”
    Invisible killers? “You’re serious?”
    Nnanji nodded glumly. “Seems so. There are other stories. Two frees came on pilgrimage on Leatherworkers’ Day last year, and one of them said . . . ”
    With effortless recall, be rattled off a dozen tales, all retold at least once—yarns spun by members of the guard who had been frees in their youth, or by pilgrim swordsmen granted hospitality in the barracks, or merely tales that had been lying around there for years. The basic theme was always the same. One: Swordsman sees sorcerer. Two: Swordsman kills sorcerer. Three: End of story. A swordsman’s invariable reaction to a sorcerer was instant attack—dog versus cat. If there was a contrary story that began with sorcerer seeing swordsman, then the survivor had not reported it to the barracks.
    Sorcerers wore gowns with cowls. Sorcerers’ facemarks were feathers . . . No, no one knew why. Why were farmers’ facemarks triangles? Sorcerers were never found near the River, only in the hills or mountains. There were legends of sorcerer cities—Kra and Pfath and Vul and others—and a few isolated towers. Swordsmen stayed away from those . . . or, again, did not return to report.
    Jja caught Wallie’s eye, looking very solemn. “There was a place called Kra south of Plo, master. No one ever went there, but I don’t remember anyone mentioning sorcerers . . . it was in the mountains.” Plo lay far to the south, so that could have nothing to do with these sorcerers.
    Nnanji moved on to minstrel ballads. The sorcerers were an evil bunch in those—killing, bewitching, laying on curses—but the minstrels would have selected their material to suit their swordsman audience, so the sampling could be biased. Yet if sorcerers wielded a fraction of the powers attributed to them, then Wallie was facing an impossible situation. The swordsmen’s standard murderous reflex would be the only defense—hit him first, before he knew you were there. But almost certainly Lady Thondi had already reported his arrival, so that would not work this time.
    Despite Honakura’s doubts, there really were sorcerers in the World, only not near Hann.
    “Vul?” Wallie said. “That was one of the cities? The mountains here are called RegiVul. Maybe Vul is in these mountains.” He thought for a while. “So sorcerers attacked Ov and killed the swordsmen . . . but why? I mean, why now? If they’re half as good as your stories say they are, then they could have done this centuries ago.”