by T. C. Rypel
Yet he curiously found that he was more eager to defend his improper planning—which his own father would surely have condemned—than he was to set it aright. And further, he was unwilling to examine his own motivations, even in the privacy of his mind, preferring to get on with the venture.
He motioned for the French, Spanish, and Italian detachment to move on to the square to link with the rest of the company as they encountered a small squad led by Lieutenant Noyes, who cast Perigor an ugly glance as he rode by.
“Determined to have those scoundrels along?” Noyes asked, frowning to see Gonji’s affirmation. “Watch them closely. There’s a reward on every carcass among them you bring back. One cavalry column under Sergeant Villiers goes with you. They’re at the fountain. Here are letters of transit that will see you to the Burgundian marches. And a copy of my own troop’s orders. Here is a letter, under my own seal, to the duke of Burgundy—Duke Cordell de Plancy. He’s a doddering old fool these days, by all accounts. He’s allowed his son-in-law’s family free rein over the province. You’ll find it a unique system of nepotism, I think, even for France.”
Gonji returned Noyes’ nervous smile in a more confident fashion, then asked, “Lieutenant, exactly what is it that you expect your troop will help me achieve on this expedition to Burgundy?”
Noyes licked dry lips and shouldered back the numbing cold. He trembled a bit as he responded. “To stop Catholic and Huguenot alike from killing each other in the name of Christ. They still do that up there, we all know.” An edginess crept into the man’s eyes.
“And under whose aegis do I ride?” Gonji pressed. “By whose authority? His Holiness the pope’s? Or just out of a sense of Japanese…philanthropy?”
The lieutenant apprehended Gonji’s meaning. No political or military objection had been raised against the proposition of a foreigner’s leading an alliance of warriors into French territory. Territory where no one else dared to go.
Noyes exhaled a pluming breath into the frigid morning air. “Under the banner of the Knights of Wonder, of course. A noble band, operating beyond the pale of any sinister political intent.” He stretched erect in the saddle, as if to project some illusion of conviction.
Gonji bowed to him slightly. “And yet you’ve heard…rumors of the reason for my commitment to this journey?”
“Every man among us has heard tales of your shadow-companion. The Beast. The Deathwind. Tales of your road together liven many a campfire on maneuvers. Most of them cast you—and him—in a valiant light, ultimately. Whatever horrors have been laid upon your legacy. I’ll not set myself up as judge over any…being God has seen fit to mark as pariah. He has His reasons. I only know that you propose to spread the selfsame spirit of tolerance commanded in the king’s own edict. That is law. You seek to engender the spirit of obedience by your own means. I see no conflict therein with the king’s wishes. Burgundy refuses to heel. The king is too busy with more pressing affairs to chastise stubborn outland territories. And it is with undying shame that we recall the failure of the French army to effect such chastisement once before. God alone knows what powers will oppose you there…” His voice was driven off by the whipping wind.
Before they departed for the square, the young man who had made the attempt on Gonji’s life was brought before him, bound hand and foot. The samurai dismounted and faced him squarely, searching the man’s steady, intelligent gaze for any hint of malevolent power, any intuition of supernatural menace. To his mild surprise, Gonji sensed only self-righteous passion and misbegotten conviction in the man, as he listened to impassioned demands for justice, witnesses to character, and pleas for mercy.
“What is your name?” Gonji asked him, when the hasty military court had finished, though he had heard it several times already.
“Ravaillac,” the would-be assassin fairly spat. “Francois Ravaillac.”
“Well, Monsieur Ravaillac, would you care to tell me why you shot at me?”
Ravaillac swallowed. “You’re a danger to the faith. Your teaching is a twisted abomination that—that dilutes the pure faith of Catholicism.” There was the merest trace of trembling in his jaw as he turned to the pressing ring of soldiers and added defiantly: “Even as the king himself has compromised it to suit his political needs.”
Outcries of “treason” broke from the crowd. Gonji found himself admiring, if nothing else, the man’s courage of conviction.
“I am not a teacher,” Gonji said by way of reply to the man’s implication. “Others have…so sorry—s’approprier—that is correct?—adapted certain of my beliefs for a cause that is reasonable at its heart. Even you must agree that the spilling of blood among brothers is an evil thing.” He strolled with his hands clasped behind him as he spoke his thoughts. “I was brought up to take the life any man who would attempt to kill me as you did. Your act was a grave dishonor. These soldiers would at the very least see you brought to justice under the law of this land. But did not Iasu say that the most honorable act was to forgive one who has injured you?”
Gonji peered over his shoulder into the young man’s incredulously flickering eyes.
“Your friends say that you are only a student, driven to do the…inadvisable by overwork and fervor of belief. If I agree to allow you to return to your studies without preferring charges against you, will you promise to find a more useful channel for your considerable energies? For that is my judgment.”
Ravaillac’s friends and accusers alike were stunned at Gonji’s decision. The officials demurred but could not dissuade him, finally handing the student over to the magistrate on minor charges.
Gonji was pleased with the turmoil he had stirred up. He was motivated less by Christian charity than by a calculated effort at forestalling any more fanatical assassination attempts once word had spread. Still, when Ravaillac was led away, he could not help feeling a sensation of foreboding, an aura of violent destiny about the man. And failing to serve him up to justice as an example could have the opposite effect of emboldening other would-be assassins. Karma.
He rode to the square alone, pausing in an alley to set his weapons and armament just so, removing his sallet and tying his hachi-maki about his brow. The troop leaders brought the company to a semblance of attention as he inspected them. The destrier was skittish and unmanageable, repeatedly curvetting and pawing embarrassingly as Gonji fought to maintain a dignified mien. No pressure on traces or flanks appealed to the animal’s nature. Gonji cursed inwardly that he had allowed himself to become too distracted to even obtain a trustworthy steed for this ominous journey.
He walked the snorting horse before his charges, eyeing every warrior in turn. They were a motley lot, dressed in ill-fitting, unscarred armor, slung with mismatched and untested weapons. Too many eyes in their number reflected callowness, vapidity, or nervous bravado, where quiet determination and the stoicism of experience would have been preferred. There were many blackened eyes, broken noses, and contusions, evincing the sifting work of Perigor’s men. Gonji had mixed feelings about the value of that business: resistance to intimidation might not be sufficient proof of valor; and internal resentment in the ranks was a corrosive enemy. And there was still that annoying divisiveness among the Wunderknechten—Catholic vs. Huguenot—manifested by the French contingent’s dividing their number under wind-snapped banners of two conflicting designs.
He felt their eyes on him as he passed by, sallet in rein hand, sword pommel cupped in the other. He knew their familiar stares, from his distinctive eyes to his arrogant posturing to the sashing of his legendary swords.
Horses snorted in their pungent ranks, beclouding the hazy morning air. When Gonji reached the point in the rank where Dalbert sat, the voluble young warrior raised a fist.
“God’s own fiery will,” Dalbert declared shrilly, others taking up the cry in a cacophony of whoops and surly shouts.
Gonji looked deeply into Dalbert’s shining eyes, wondering what lay in those blue liquid depths, what inner wells of strength the man might be forced to call upon, hoping they ran half as deep as the Frenchman’s fount of platitudes.
He turned the company over to his subordinates again, finding in him no words of encouragement to speak. Sergeant Villiers formed them into a double column and led them northward out of St. Pons amidst much fanfare. A small orchestra blared stridently behind them in the frigid morning mist, well-wishers cheering and weeping and calling out to loved ones.
Gonji saluted Lieutenant Noyes and galloped past the column to mount their head, listening to snatches of their conversation and anxious laughter. Apocryphal tales of bravado and snarling boasts could be heard in the ranks, offered in voices just loud enough to reach their leader’s ears. Already some of them had begun to jockey for Gonji’s notice with their braggadocio.
The samurai brooded glumly.
It was all wrong. He was leading them—a corps perdu, even as Corbeau had said—toward the Place of Lost Hope. Ahead they would join Simon Sardonis, who had as usual foregone the embarrassment of the townspeople’s insensitive gawking. And guilt pangs assailed Gonji. To Simon’s desperate need he had brought the death-kiss of a fool’s inept planning.
But he suppressed it behind the rampart of conviction that what they did, they did for righteousness’ sake. Might of arms and force of will would see them through. Hai…
The yearning to return to Japan burned in him again.
* * * *
“You are not to blame for what happened in France,” Father Jan Sebastio grumbled. “At least not you alone.”
“Who, then, Kuma-san—Sir Bear?” Gonji roared back at him. “Who, if not I, perpetrated that abomination? Who outfitted that pitiful company of wretches and braggarts and highwaymen—”
“Oh, is that so?” Buey cut in. “And into what category do you put me and Carlos, eh?”
Orozco chuckled softly. “Easy, Buey. We could likely fit into all of them, depending on who’s judging.” His shoulders flexed with silent laughter, and he bent to sniff the scent of a spring blossom that bloomed on the trelliswork.
“Si, cierto—that’s probably true, smart-ass,” Buey fumed. “But at least we have a chance to change the way people think of us. But what about the dead? How do you label those lost souls in Burgundy, sensei?”
Gonji stiffened. The cloying aroma of lilies permeated the cool night breeze. Children’s voices, tinkling on the veranda at the far side of the gardens, purveyed an all too fragile sense of comfort and hope.
“Careful,” Sebastio warned. “The less seen of us the better. The doge is nervous about putting us up like this. We best move back into the parlor.”
Gonji nodded to the priest and then turned to the burly ex-Spanish lancer. “I am sorry, Buey. I spoke out of frustrated wrath. No one honors their memory more than I.”
The Ox seemed satisfied, mumbled apologetically about his own outburst. They began to ease their way through the pergola, back toward the palace. Their weapons were concealed beneath long traveling cloaks, which made them seem rather more like momentary night visitants than the sojourning guests of the doge that they were. But no man among them, save for Father Sebastio, would venture out without a blade since their flight from the tragedy in France.
Gonji had withdrawn again from association with the Knights of Wonder—indeed, from all companionship but for those trusted few who had survived the flames of Hell with him. Father Sebastio had arranged for them to stay incognito with the doge since their somber return to Genoa, and even the latter’s indulgence was strained and temporary. For the few days of their stay they were expected to maintain anonymity, and in Rome Gonji was now supposed to refer certain matters of the doge’s concern, incredibly, to the Holy Father himself.
“Are you wearing your pistol-proof armor tonight?” Orozco asked.
“Iye,” Gonji replied curtly, fending him off. “What about this ship you spoke of?”
“She’s secure,” Sebastio said. “The captain can be trusted. She sails in three weeks for Ostia. We’ll have to be long gone from here by then, of course. The contadini already whisper about our presence. The doge risks much by providing us sanctuary here.”
“No more than we risk by trying to save this little world from the evil it embraces so lustily,” Orozco declared, smiling and strutting haughtily. “I’ve become quite the goddamn philosopher since…Africa, or Arcadia, or wherever the hell we were before—”
“Hush,” Sebastio scolded him for his profanity.
“I say we go back,” Buey asserted without preamble.
“To France,” Gonji appended matter-of-factly, knowing the Ox’s mind.
“Si.”
“You’re both loco,” Orozco said, his lips twisted in revulsion over the recent memories he strove to suppress. “He’s dead. Face it, sensei—Simon Sardonis is among them now, and may God grant that he knows the peace of death.”
“Iye,” Gonji breathed sharply in reply, “I would know it if he were. He lives. And I made him a promise.”
Sebastio clucked behind them. “So now what?” he asked impatiently. “Do we forestall the Holy Father again? May I remind you, Gonji-san, that you have an obligation—giri. Your audience with His Holiness may lead to his understanding of the aims of the Wunderknechten movement. Already nearly every major sectarian hierarchy has spoken out against it in ignorant fear. Whether you like it or not, you’ve affected a great many people’s thinking in your widespread travels. God in Heaven, some of them even believe the Knights to be some sort of insidious military threat perpetrated by Japan itself! You must appear before the pope to set things straight.”
“If I can,” the samurai replied wryly.
“If they don’t remove your oriental head on sight,” Orozco added.
“Oh, that’s rubbish, Carlos,” the priest said, dismissing it with a swipe. “They are uneasy about Gonji while there are souls to be persuaded in the Japans. He has nothing to fear here.”
“I can’t say I’m much interested in this wayward, many-headed movement anymore,” Gonji said with a sigh.
Sebastio began to sputter querulously.
“I only want one thing right now,” Buey growled. “Something evil that I can recognize for what it is. That I can see and smell so that my belly churns again like it did in Burgundy. Something I can grab in these two hands and rend and tear until it is no more…” His teeth ground stridently.
Dogs barked in the courtyard, and voices harshly commanded them to silence.
“I shall see His Holiness, the pope,” Gonji said resolutely, “as I have promised, Kuma-san. Beyond that I can promise you nothing. I am weary of promises I’m hard put to keep.”
“Why don’t you suggest to Pope Innocent that he raise a Crusade against the Farouche Clan?” Orozco suggested. “I won’t go back there again with less than five regiments behind me.”
“Ridiculous!” Father Jan Sebastio declared. “Think what you are suggesting—that the Holy Roman Empire invade France! All for the sake of a…” He turned away from Gonji’s look.
“A werewolf,” the samurai finished.
Orozco hawked derisively. “Do you know how silly it sounds to fret over the politics of one lousy continent once one has seen the things we’ve seen? Evil conspirators duck back in their holes into strange phantom worlds and laugh at our piddling strife, while here we sit, cutting each other’s throats.” He spat into a bed of morning glories. “I left my loyalty to national pride in Toledo. I’ll never be a damned fool patriot again. Not after what we saw in Africa. Not after what they’ve done to Gonji.”
“Nevertheless,” Father Sebastio said, “we are, like it or not, bound by the politics and laws and social systems of this petty world, my cosmic-minded friend.
And we are—some of us—still Christians. If there are, as you say, worlds within worlds—if all you experienced was not some nefarious trick of the Deceiver—then every world will have had its own sacred revelation. I must maintain that anchor of faith for the sake of my sanity. Have you forsaken what you once believed in?”
Orozco tussled with the thought for a time. “No,” he answered humbly, resignedly.
“That is good,” Sebastio said gently.
“But I’m damned if I know how it all fits together,” the renegade sergeant of lancers grumbled.
“And some of us,” Sebastio went on, reengaging Gonji’s attention, “are still Wunderknechten—a noble cause, if a disorganized one.”
“A cause, hai, that is what I need again,” Gonji replied without taking the bait. “Meaningful duty. An idealistic quest born of ignorant innocence, unsullied by any concern over what European’s honor I offend—”
The priest tsked. “You’ll forgive me, but that is pompous and self-pitying nonsense, young ronin. I’ve heard many things that have made me swell with pride in accounts of your actions—lives saved, people influenced to respect their fellows. You’ve even performed a Christian act or two, if my informants be silver-tongued.” A gleam crept into Sebastio’s eye.
But Gonji grew sullen, ignoring him. “What have I done in the bitter years here? Where has my journey led me? I could have been a much-respected warlord in Dai Nihon. I might have sired offspring to keep my father’s line quick through his firstborn. Instead I chose to dishonor him, to quest after a perverse destiny. I sought the Deathwind and perhaps found that I am he. What have I done of lasting significance?”
