The Coming Of Wisdom by Dave Duncan Page A

young Garadooi seemed to know what was needed and was eager to display his competence. He began shouting orders as soon as the cart rattled in through the big doorway and came to a shuddering halt on the cobbled floor. Wallie stepped back into the shadows and let him take charge, insisting only that axes and chains and ropes be included. He knew what Honakura had in mind; more and more the old man’s priestly superstitions seemed to be working out as effective predictions of the ways of gods.
    “Hunting, my lord,” Garadooi explained proudly at a momentary pause in the confusion. “That’s how I know about the trail, too—the men used to take me with them in the fall, when they went hunting.”
    Those would be free men, of course, yet obviously young Garadooi was friendly with the slaves, also. The younger men, especially, greeted him as a too-long-absent buddy, and he responded in the same fashion—inquiring after this one’s health, kidding about that one’s love life, promising to investigate complaints. In return they swarmed to help. They ran to fetch the things he wanted and worked with a haste and efficiency quite foreign to slave labor. Wallie’s estimation of the poor little rich boy rose by several notches.
    Nnanji, also, was now caught up in the excitement of action, yet still not convinced that flight was permissible behavior. “Explain this third clue, my lord brother?”
    “I told you—I tried to enlist a half-dozen or so swordsmen. Most Sevenths would have at least that many, wouldn’t they?”
    “More!”
    “And therefore they would stay and fight. I was blocked, Nnanji. I have no army, although my sword needs guarding. It means that I am not supposed to fight. We were brought here to learn, that’s all.”
    “But . . . ” Nnanji wrinkled his snub nose. “But when do we fight, then?”
    “After we get to Aus. Then we enlist an army. Then we come back!” Maybe.
    “Ah!”
    “And we are going through the mountains, so we may see some sorcerers yet.”
    Better still. Reassured, Nnanji grinned and unconsciously tested that his sword moved easily in its scabbard.
    The previous day the adventurers had escaped from the temple on mules—but the mules had been strung nose to tail. “How are you on a horse?”
    The grin melted away. Nnanji confessed that he’d only been on a horse twice. As a First he’d been taken to see the guard post at the jetty, riding there and back. When a mount was produced for him and he clambered aboard, his inexperience was obvious. His long legs hung down like bell ropes, and the horse flattened its ears in contempt. The slaves turned away to hide smirks.
    Katanji, displaying his usual ability to astonish, scrambled into the saddle with much greater confidence and ability. The animal was frisky, but he soothed it and brought it under control. Then he smiled down in fake modesty at Wallie and explained that he had helped out muleskinners a time or two.
    Wallie wished that he could do as well. The furry, big-nosed steeds were long bodied but low slung. He was assigned the largest available, an ancient and docile cart horse, but he knew he must look as absurd as Nnanji. The saddle was not big enough for him, the stirrup had not yet been invented in the World, and his feet almost touched the ground. Wet kilts were poor riding garb. Moreover, he was still sore from the previous day’s mule trip—the coming journey would not be a pleasant experience.
    Then they were off, and the rain was certainly growing heavier. Quili drove the cart, loaded with supplies and passengers. Spare horses trailed behind it on tethers, while the swordsmen and Garadooi brought up the rear. At first their way wandered across fields and through orchards, heading inland and uphill. The traders’ trail joined the Ov road near Pol, Garadooi explained, but he knew a shortcut to it. Hooves splattered mud and five minutes sufficed to make everyone filthy. Every tiny hollow had become a lake.