The Reluctant Swordsman Read Online Free PDF Page B

Shonsu and you were being haunted by a demon named Walliesmith. Now you say that you are Walliesmith . . .
    ”
    “Demon?” The swordsman uttered a deep, rumbling chuckle. “Demon? Shonsu?” He thought for a moment and repeated, “Shonsu?” as though the name had a vague familiarity. “Well, Wallie Smith is my name, but I’m no demon.” He grinned an astonishingly friendly grin at Jja and whispered: “Honest!” “Certainly it is not the name of any of the known demons,” the old man muttered.   “There is a demon of the seventh circle named Shaasu, but I’m sure that wasn’t what you said.”
    The swordsman looked questioningly at Jja, as though asking her if the old man often raved like this. Then he slapped at a mosquito on his leg.   He stared at the leg. He peered at his arm, turning it over. He raised a hand to his face. Now it was he who went pale.
    Again he moved with incredible speed. He jumped off the bed, holding the cloth about himself, and took two fast strides across the room to the mirror—and recoiled from what he saw there. “Oh, God!” He stooped once more to peer at his face, stroked his chin, rubbed a finger over his facemarks, tugged a strand of his long black hair. He found the lump on the back of his head and fingered that.
    Time passed. A party of young women returning from the fields went by on the road. The hot little cottage was full of their giggling and the baiting calls of the boys following, jesting and shouting at the girls and one another. Both groups faded away down the hill toward the town, and still the swordsman stood by the mirror, looking himself over, even peering under his wrap. Finally he turned and came back, very slowly, with his face tightly closed. He sat on the edge of the bed and seemed to sag.
    “Shonsu, you said?” he asked.
    The old man nodded. “You got a bump on the head, my lord. Sometimes that can cause confusion . . . with all respect, my lord.” “Tell me the whole thing—from the beginning!”
    Honakura looked at Jja. “Leave us,” he said.
    The swordsman did not appear to have moved, but his hand was on Jja’s arm.
    “Stay,” he said without looking at her.
    It was a large and a strong hand, and a tremor ran through her at his touch. He felt it. She blushed as his eyes swiveled to study her. Then he smiled gently and took his hand away. “Sorry,” he murmured. A Seventh apologizing to a slave?   She was astounded and confused. She hardly heard the start of the priest’s story.
    Yet when he described the demon she was horrified. “Hair on its face and its belly? It must have looked like an ape.”
    “I came,” Honakura said, his voice still shaky, “to explain why a noble lord like yourself had been put in such obnoxious quarters with inadequate ministration . . . ”
    The swordsman glanced at Jja and winked, then said, “I have no complaint about the ministration.” Her heart turned over.
    “You are gracious, my lord,” the priest continued, not paying much attention.   “But the fact remains that your life may be in danger. Not that I doubt your prowess, my lord,” he added quickly. “I am sure that in a matter of honor you will dispose of Hardduju without the least problem. He is the only Seventh in the valley. He gives you fifteen years and is seasoned in debauchery. It is the thought of treachery that haunts me.”
    The swordsman was shaking his head gently and frowning, as though he could not believe any of this.
    “No, I do not fear swordsmen coming themselves,” Honakura explained. His color was returning, his voice stronger. “Rather the brigands who depend on the corruption of the guard for their protection. But no one will look for you here, my lord.”
    Jja drew a breath and then fell silent, hoping that they had not noticed; but evidently little escaped the swordsman, for his fearsome deep eyes were on her again. “You were going to say?” he asked.
    She gulped. “About noontime, my lord . . .