Free The Death of Nnanji by Dave Duncan Page B

rest of them will need billeting, feeding, stabling. Inform the lords of the council that we’ll meet this evening as soon as Lord Boariyi has had a chance to freshen up. Master Endrasti, here, will attend. Meanwhile, he needs billeting and looking after also.”
    His aide had heard all this without taking a single note. He could read and write, but still preferred to rely on his childhood memory training.
    “You wish a recorder present?”
    “Certainly not.” Most recorders were sorcerers. “Where can I find the boy Addis?”
    Horkoda permitted himself a very faint smile. “In Swordsman Helbringr’s quarters in your palace, my lord. Master Filurz arrived less than an hour ago and doubled your guards. Apprentice Vixini is being force-fed sutras as if his life depended on it.”
    Wallie felt a twist of guilt. The opposite might be closer to the truth. By pushing his stepson into third rank, he would make him eligible for battle, and the war had already started.
     
    Accompanied by a pickup escort, Wallie rode back to his palace, where he found Adept Filurz newly cleaned up after his ride in, still slightly damp. Addis, he reported, was downstairs, demonstrating his new-found skills.
    Sure enough, the swordsmen of Wallie’s night watch, and many of his daytime bodyguard as well, were sitting around in the guards’ mess, deriding a gladiatorial show. In the center, Addis, son of Nnanji, and Novice Gwiddle, who was shorter but broader, were circling each other warily. Both wore very dirty kilts, originally of first-rank white. Unsworn youths were forbidden clothing except in cold weather, but some protection would be a wise precaution when engaged in Addis’s current activity. Swordsman Helbringr was on her feet, being referee and instructor.
    “Turtles!” she yelled. “Wake up! Make a fight of it.” The rest of her remarks were drowned out in a general chorus of booing, intended as agreement.
    Shamed into action, Gwiddle leaped forward, grabbing for his opponent’s throat. Addis caught his wrist, extended a leg, and flipped Gwiddle over it, to land face-down on the floor. He dropped his knees on his victim’s back and got an arm lock on him.
    Yelp of pain from Gwiddle, loud cheers from everyone else.
    Addis sprang to his feet, grinning triumphantly.
    “Better,” Helbringr shouted. “Up! Now, novice, let’s see you go for a—my lord!”
    Thirty boots hit the floor as the guards sprang upright.
    Wallie raised a hand to forestall formal saluting. “I have come to rescue your victim, swordsman. If he can still walk, that is.”
    Addis was hastily removing his borrowed kilt, a mark of respect that Wallie was still alien enough to find amusing and contradictory. The boy was filthy from top to toe, and well decorated with scrapes and bruises. But his grin looked genuine, as if an all-over beating was a first-rate treat. He had a notable black eye, and so did Swordsman Helbringr.
    “I kept trying to call it a day, my lord,” she said, “and he insisted on continuing. He wanted to learn every dirty trick you’d mentioned.”
    “Adept Filurz will demand an explanation of that eye, swordsman.”
    She smiled, knowing he was joking. “Line of duty, my lord. Boy Addis has put three men in the infirmary and practically ruined Novice Gwiddle.” This outrageous statement drew hoots of laughter from the audience and a howl of protest from Gwiddle. Addis’s grin grew even wider. He still hadn’t realized that he’d been tricked into demonstrating that he had the agility and reflexes a swordsman needed.
    Alas, merriment was out of order now.
    “Well done, both of you. Addis, come with me, please. Adept Filurz will brief the rest of you.”
    Wallie took the boy upstairs, to his private quarters. There, amid all the grandeur of silk rugs, travertine paneling, and gilded ceilings, he found his wife spooning mush into Budol, their youngest. Jja, who had once been a slave herself, had innumerable slaves and servants to do