"Duncan, David - Seventh Sword 1 - Reluctant Swordsman, The" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duncan Dave)

One did not become or prevail as Third Deputy Chairman of the Council of Venerables without learning to cover one's hindquarters. "It will succeed, my lord, unless..."
"Unless?" echoed the swordsman, his broad face darkening with suspicion...
Or was it guilt? Carefully Honakura said, "Unless the demon has been sent by the Most High Herself. Only you know whether you have committed some grievous transgression against Her."
An expression of great agony and sorrow fell over the swordsman's face. He dropped his eyes and was silent for a while. Then he looked up defiantly and growled, "It was sent by the sorcerers."
Sorcerers! The little priest staggered back a step. "Sorcerers!" he blurted. "My lord, in all my years in this temple, I have never heard a pilgrim mention sorcerers. I had hardly thought that such truly existed any more."
Now the swordsman's eyes became as terrible as the priest had guessed they might. "Oh, they exist!" he rumbled. "I have come very far, holy one, very far. But sorcerers exist, believe me."
Honakura pulled himself together. "Sorcerers cannot prevail against the Holiest," he said confidently. "Certainly not in Her own temple. If they are the origin of your distress, then the exorcism will succeed. Shall we see to it?"
* * *
Honakura beckoned over an orange-gowned Fourth and gave orders. Then he led the swordsman through the nearest arch and along the length of the nave to the statue of the Goddess.
The big man sauntered at Honakura's side, taking one stride to his three, but his head twisted and turned as he gaped around at the splendor, as all visitors must on their first glimpse of this most holy sanctuary -- seeing the great blue statue itself, the silver dais before it loaded with heaps of glittering offerings, the multicolored flaming of the stained-glass windows along both sides, the miraculous fan vaulting of the ceiling hanging like distant sky above. The temple was busy, with many priests, priestesses, pilgrims, and other worshipers moving over the shining mosaics of the pavement, yet their tiny figures were dwindled to dust specks by its immensity, and the vast space seemed filled with a still peace.
Inevitably, as he drew near, the swordsman became conscious only of the majesty of the statue, the Goddess Herself, the shape of a robed woman sitting cross-legged with Her hands on Her knees and Her long hair spilling down. Huge and ominous and majestic, She loomed more and more enormous as he approached. At last he reached the edge of the dais and threw himself on the ground in reverence.
An exorcism called for many priests and priestesses, for chanting, dancing, gesturing, ritual, and solemn ceremony. Honakura stood to one side and allowed Perandoro of the Sixth to officiate, for it was a rare opportunity. He himself had led an exorcism only once. The swordsman crouched on his knees within the circle, head down and arms outstretched as he had been instructed -- put a tablecloth on that back, and it would hold a dinner for three. Other priests and priestesses watched covertly as they went about their business. Pilgrims were shunted tactfully to the sides. It was very impressive.
Honakura paid little attention to the preliminaries. He was busy planning his next move against the unspeakable Hardduju. A sword was easy -- he could get one from Athinalani in the armory. A blue kilt for a Seventh was no problem, either, and a hairclip was a trivial detail. But swordsmen sported distinctive boots, and to send for a pair of those, especially in the size required, would certainly provoke suspicion. Furthermore, he was fairly sure that the rituals of dueling required that his new champion obtain a second, and that could make things complicated. It might be that he would have to spirit this dangerous young man out of sight for a day or two while the preparations were put in hand, but so far his presence was a secret. Honakura felt great satisfaction that the Goddess had not only answered the priests' prayers in this fashion, but had also entrusted him with the subcontracting. He felt sure that Her confidence was not misplaced. He would see that there were no mistakes.
Then the chant rose to its climax, and a chorus of, "Avaunt!" The swordsman's head came up, first looking wildly around, and then up at the Goddess.
Honakura frowned. The dolt had been told to keep his head down.
"Avaunt!" proclaimed the chanters once more, their rhythm just a fraction off perfection. The swordsman jerked upright on his knees, head back and eyes so wide that the whites were showing all around. The drummers went ragged on their beat, and a trumpeter flubbed a note.
"Avaunt!" cried the chorus a third time. Perandoro raised a silver goblet full of holy water from the River and cast the contents over the swordsman's head.
He spasmed incredibly, leaping straight from his knees into the air and coming down on his feet. The dirty loincloth fluttered to the floor, and he stood there naked, with his arms raised, his head back, water dribbling down his face and chest. He shrieked the loudest noise that Honakura had ever heard uttered by a human throat. For perhaps the first time in the age-old history of the temple, one voice drowned out the chorus, the lutes and flutes, and the distant roar of the Judgment. It was discordant, bestial, horrifying, and full of soul-destroying despair. It reverberated back from the roof. It went on for an incredible, inhuman, unbelievable minute, while the singers and musicians became hopelessly tangled, the dancers stumbled and collided, and every eye went wide. Then the ceremony ended in a chaotic, clattering roll of drums, and the swordsman swayed over backward.
He fell like a marble pillar. In the sudden silence his head hit the tiles with an audible crack.
He lay still, huge and newborn-naked. The rag had fallen off his forehead, revealing for all to see the craft marks on his forehead, the seven swords.
--------
*2*
The temple was a building whose origins lay hidden back in the Neolithic. Many times it had been enlarged, and most of the fabric had been replaced from time to time as it had weathered or decayed -- not once, but often.
Yet the temple was also people. They aged and were replaced much faster. Each fresh-faced acolyte would look in wonder at an ancient sage of the Seventh and marvel that the old man had probably known so-and-so in his youth, little thinking that the old man himself as a neophyte had studied that same so-and-so and mused that he was old enough to have known such-and-such. Thus, like stones in an arch, the men and women of the temple reached from the darkness of the past into the unviewable glare of the future. They nurtured the ancient traditions and holy ways and they worshiped the Goddess in solemnity and veneration...
But none of them had ever known a day like that one. Elderly priestesses of the Sixth were seen running; questions and answers were shouted across the very face of the Goddess, violating all tradition; slaves and bearers and healers milled around in the most holy places; and pilgrims wandered unattended before the dais itself. Four of the largest male juniors were led into back rooms by venerable seniors of unquestioned moral probity, then ordered to take off their clothing and lie down. Three respected Sevenths had heart attacks before lunch.
The spider at the center of the web of confusion was Honakura. It was he who poked the stick in the ant hill and stirred. He summoned all his authority, his unspoken power, his unparalleled knowledge of the workings of the temple, and his undoubted wits -- and he used them to muddle, confuse, confound, and disorder. He used them with expertise and finesse. He issued a torrent of commands -- peremptory, obscure, convoluted, misleading, and contradictory.
By the time the valiant Lord Hardduju, reeve of the temple guard, had confirmed that truly there was another swordsman of the Seventh within the precincts, the man had totally vanished, and no amount of cajolery, bribery, interrogation, or menace could establish where he had gone.
Which was, of course, the whole idea.
* * *
Even a day like that one must end. As the sun god began to grow tired of his glory and dip toward his exit, the venerable Lord Honakura sought rest and peace in a small room high in one of the minor wings of the temple. He had not visited those parts for years. They were even more labyrinthine than the rest of the complex, but ideal for his purpose. Trouble, he knew, was seeking him out -- it might as well be given as long a search as possible.
The room was a small, bare chamber, higher than it was wide, with walls of sandstone blocks and a scarred floor of planks bearing one small, threadbare rug. There were two doors, for which even giants need not have stooped, and a single window of diamond panes, whorled and dusty, blurring the light to green and blue blotches. The window frame had warped so that it would not open, making the room stuffy, smelling of dust. The only furniture was a pair of oaken settles. Honakura was perched on one of those, dangling his feet, trying to catch his breath, wondering if there was any small detail he might have overlooked.
Knuckles tapped, a familiar face peered in and blinked at him. He sighed and rose as his nephew Dinartura entered, closed the door, and advanced to make the salute to a superior.
"I am Dinartura," _right hand to heart_, "healer of the third rank," _left hand to forehead_, "and it is my deepest and most humble wish," _palms together at the waist_, "that the Goddess Herself," _ripple motion with right hand_, "will see fit to grant you long life and happiness," _eyes up, hands at the sides,_ "and to induce you to accept my modest and willing service," _eyes down,_ "in any way in which I may advance any of your noble purposes," _hands over face, bow_.
Honakura responded with the equally flowery acknowledgment, then waved him to the other settle.
"How is your dear mother?" he asked.
Dinartura was a stooped young man with thinning light-brown hair and the start of a potbelly. He had lately abandoned the kilt of youth for the sleeveless gown of middle age, a cotton robe in the brown color of his rank, and he tended now to hold things very close to his nose when he wanted to see them. He was the youngest of Honakura's sister's children and, in Honakura's opinion, an inexcusably prosaic dullard, boringly reliable.
After the formalities had been given a respectable hearing, Honakura said, "And how is the patient?" He smiled, but he waited anxiously for the reply.
"Still out cold when I left." Dinartura was presuming on his nephewship to be informal. "He has a bump on his head this big, but there are no morbid signs. Eyes and ears are fine. I expect he will awaken in time, and be as good as new in a day or two."
Honakura sighed with relief, so the healer added hastily, "If She wills, of course. Head injuries are not predictable. If I did not know you, my lord uncle, I would be more cautious."
"We must be patient, then. You think two days?"
"Three might be safer," the healer said. "If you have any strenuous exercise in mind for him," he added, being uncharacteristically perceptive. "When you need to tie him down would be about right, I think." After a pause he said, "And may I inquire what all this is about? There are many rumors, not one of which seems credible."
Honakura chuckled, slavering slightly. "Find the least credible and you will be closest to the truth. Under the nightingale, then?"
"Of course, my lord."
Honakura smiled to himself at the memory. "Your patient is one of five young men injured in the temple today."
"Five!" Dinartura peered closer to see if his uncle was serious.
For a moment Honakura wondered how much power he had expended during the day. He had very few IOUs left to call now; he had amassed debts. "Very sad, you will agree? All lying prone, covered by sheets, and not speaking or moving. All have been rushed to safe places -- in litters, in sedan chairs, in carriages. In some case the litters were borne by priests, too! At least twenty-two healers have been running around, and a few dozen other people. A couple of the victims were taken right out of the temple grounds, into the town, but others went from room to room, in one door and out the other ... There are eight or nine sickrooms like this" -- he gestured toward the other great oaken door -- "presently being guarded."
That door led out into another corridor, but he saw no reason to mention the fact.
"Guarded by priests," the younger man said. "Then you do not trust the swordsmen? Of course I saw my patient. Do swordsmen really act as you obviously fear?"
The priest nodded sadly. "In this case, nephew, perhaps."
The temple had a guard to maintain order, to protect the pilgrims, and to punish crime ... but who watched the watchers?