The Reluctant Swordsman by Dave Duncan Page B

preliterate, Mr. Smith. You should know from Earth that before the Age of Writing comes the Age of Legends.   I am a legend myself.”
    “I’ll believe that.”
    The boy nodded rather sadly and paused. “Let’s try it from the other end, then.   Shonsu was a swordsman, a remarkable swordsman. The Goddess had need of a swordsman. She chose Shonsu. He screwed up. He failed, and failed disastrously.” “What does that mean?” Despite his skepticism, Wale was intrigued.   “Never mind! He was punished for his failure, by death. He died yesterday of a fractured skull.” He smiled once more as Wallie’s fingers reached for the lump on his head. “Never mind that, either—it was cured. That body is in perfect working order, a remarkable specimen of the adult male. As you doubtless noted?” “Let’s leave that part of my fantasies out of this, shall we?” “As you please.” The boy waved his twig idly. “Shonsu is dead, then, but the task remains undone. You were available, Mr. Smith. Never mind how. You have been given that remarkable body, you have been given the language, and you have been given the highest possible rank in one of the two top-ranking crafts in the World. All crafts have their patron gods, but the priests and the swordsmen belong to the Goddess Herself . . . and they don’t let anyone else forget it, believe me! Those are exceptional gifts you have received.” “And I am supposed to undertake the mission?”
    The gap-tooth grin flashed briefly. “Exactly.”
    “Dangerous, I assume?”
    The boy nodded. “Moderately, yes. So the body is at risk—but it was a free gift, remember! If you are successful, then you will be rewarded with long life and satisfaction and happiness. There are almost no limits on a swordsman of the Seventh, Mr. Smith—wealth, power, women. Anything you want, really. Any woman will accept you. No man will ever argue with you.” Wallie shook his head. “Who are you?”
    “I am a god,” the boy said simply. “A demigod, to be exact.”
    The big man looked around the squalid little cabin, smiled, and shook his head.
    “I think the asylum must be very full. They are doubling up the inmates.” The boy scowled angrily. The flies did not seem to buzz around him the way they did around Wallie. It was an insane conversation, yet Wallie had nothing better to do with his time.
    “A swordsman is a soldier, is he?”
    The boy nodded. “And policeman. And judge. And other things.”
    “I know absolutely nothing about soldiering.”
    “You can be taught, very painlessly. And taught to use a sword, too, if that is worrying you.”
    “That is not something I yearn for breathlessly. Let me guess, though. The mission was to kill this Hardduju character. Am I right?” “No!” the boy snapped. “You are wrong! However, you should do that also. As an honorable swordsman, you should regard it as your duty to uphold the honor of your craft. Hardduju is venal.”
    Wallie rose and wandered over to sit on the bed. “He certainly seems to have more enemies than friends. It is none of my business, and no one has proved anything to me, anyway.”
    The boy twisted round on the chair to face him, looking furious. “You don’t need a trial in his case, for he is a swordsman. All you need do is challenge. You need give no reason, and he cannot refuse. I assure you that he is no match for Shonsu.”
    Wallie laughed. “He would be for me! Except perhaps at tennis. Can I choose the weapons?”
    The boy bared his teeth in anger. “You were given Shonsu’s language, Mr.   Smith—you can be given his skill as easily. The task is important! Much more important than shaving a few mils off the unit cost of polypropylene, say, or evaluating consultants’ reports on alternative catalytic systems for hydrogenation.”
    “You’ve been going through my IN basket, haven’t you, figment? Well, prove it!
    Tell me what this so important task is.”
    “Gods do not beg!”
    Wallie shrugged.