by Rypel, T. C.
Gonji bridled. “Simply not true,” he lied. “Nonsense cooked up to produce just the effect it has. Those bandits were dead already when I arrived. And I’ll thank you to whisper that back to the whisperers next time, neh?”
He deeply regretted the prideful notion that had caused him to reveal how he had slain the boy’s killers. Damn that chirruping Strom Gundersen!
“Too late,” Paille said, grinning, “you’re already included in both my chronicle and in-progress epic! Epic poetry—that’s my current aesthetic passion. Ah, the glory of days past!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll have a look at it before long, and I’ll have my blades with me,” Gonji advised, tapping the hilt of his killing sword.
“Ah, but those swords of yours will figure prominently in the epic. Of that I’m confident. I wish I had my manuscripts with me—oh! I do have something, the work of a friend—” He fished inside his tunic and produced a crumpled parchment. “—arrived last week—all the way from England. You’re a man of intellect. You possess discerning critical faculties. Tell me what you think—”
“Well, I’m no great critic of poetry—”
“Just listen,” Paille ordered, holding a hand in front of Gonji’s face. “It’s a sonnet—tacky, sloppily sentimental form—mercifully dying out, I think, but it goes:
‘No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Giving warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to—’
“What’s the matter?” Paille asked in annoyance, finally seeing Gonji’s head shaking.
“I don’t understand English,” Gonji said.
“Oh—well—let’s see—” Paille did a hasty translation of the sonnet into French, which Gonji strove to follow.
After a second reading, Gonji stroked his chin reflectively, then said, “Well...I think it’s quite good, although I’m sure the language suffers in the translation.” Paille made a small squeaking sound. “But is he saying that he should be forgotten when his present life has ended? No life should be forgotten.”
“No, of course not. This fellow should forget this sonnet business and apply himself to the stage. My brother tells me he’s quite an accomplished actor.”
“Your brother—Guy, with the one ear, or David, who smiles like a rabbit?”
“No-no, Gaston, the big strong one, who chose the stage against all advice.”
“Gaston,” Gonji repeated, rolling his eyeballs.
He recalled something he hadn’t thought of in years: his twelfth summer—the song of a lark—an indiscretion—the certainty of young death—
Gonji smiled. “Listen to this—
‘The soft white blossom—
Her eyes, markers of my grave.
My heart yearns for time
As shadows stretch and move:
The lark remembers my duty.’”
“That’s very interesting,” Paille declared. “What does it mean?”
“It is waka poetry,” Gonji replied proudly. “And that was my death poem—composed a bit prematurely, as it happens.”
As they neared the Ministry Paille questioned Gonji about his origin and background. The samurai spoke wistfully of Japan, of his father, the daimyo Sabatake Todohiro-no-Sadowara; of bushido and its seven basic principles: justice, courage, benevolence, politeness, veracity, honor and loyalty; of the samurai’s profound sense of duty; of Gonji’s repudiated heritage—but not the details of the duel over star-crossed love fought with his rival half-brother....
“This code of bushido is marvelously clean and simple,” Paille said. “But it can never be espoused here in eclectic Europe. Oh, no indeed. I’m afraid you’ll have to exempt yourself from its precepts here if you’re to retain your sanity. And as for duty—” he chortled “—as I’ve said, you’ve found it. You’re destined to be the great warrior-liberator who will help end monarchic tyranny. Your Western half has caused you to come here seeking fulfillment of that destiny.”
“No, monsieur wild-eyed poet, I’ve not come to find death in a radical social...upheaval—”
“Oh, good word, oui, your French is improving already—”
“—but,” Gonji continued, drowning him out, “but to seek a thing of legend called the Deathwind.” He explained the quest he had been set by a dying Shinto priest.
“Mmm,” Paille mused. “The Deathwind....”
“You’ve heard the legend?”
“Indeed, I know it well. Look about you. The Deathwind is our ever-present companion, the whispering breeze that serenades us when we’re alone in the dead of night, reminding us of our helpless, teeth-gnashing mortality.” Paille ended with a great theatrical flourish and flutter.
Gonji sighed. “What I need is a concrete explanation, something I can touch. Not more of your airy poetry.”
“If you have to ask what the Deathwind is, then perhaps you’ll never know—oooh!” Paille felt his tender jaw, which yet bore the bruise of Gonji’s punch on the night of the wyvern battle, when the fleeing samurai had tripped over the drunken artist.
“What happened there?” Gonji asked in amusement.
“Oh, the brigands jumped me the other night. Must have been three or four of them, but I escaped with only this souvenir.”
Gonji suppressed a laugh. “So you’re a fighting poet, then?”
“My purpose is to inspire others in the fight for freedom, but when the occasion warrants I can take care of myself.” He looked about cautiously. Then he produced a dagger from inside his tunic, winking at Gonji.
They stopped before the Ministry of Government and Finance, an imposing stone edifice with huge granite columns guarding its portals, which housed the Chancellery of the Exchequer and sundry bureaucratic offices. Children played on the steps without, waiting for parents on business. The Ministry was the nexus of commerce in Vedun, a short distance from the square and the bell tower and chapel, whose twin peaks fingered the steely sky. A large banner bearing Klann’s coat-of-arms now hung limply against the Ministry’s facade.
Gonji wondered at the curious appointments: the beast of fable and seven interlocked circles, two of which were blackened out. And as if the thought had spurred him, Paille began to blazon the crest aloud:
“Per bend sinister, Azure and Argent; in dexter, a basilisk (or something still less wholesome, perhaps) rampant-regardant, Or; in sinister, seven interlocked circles, two of the same Purpure; motto...incomprehensible.”
“You can blazon such devices, eh?” Gonji said, eyes sparkling with interest. He remembered the other coat-of-arms he had seen several days past. “Listen, Paille, do you know another from these parts, a green-and-red field, with a gold cross at the bottom—”
“Indeed I do,” the poet answered with arched eyebrows, “as do all in these environs. Of late it hung here in this very spot. The Rorka crest....” He set one foot on a hitching rail and puffed up his chest, then with eyes closed recited rapidly: “Per fess engrailed, Verd and Gules; in chief a lion, Argent, passant-guardant; in base a cross, Or (a hideously garish coloration, that); motto: ‘In Vita Sicut in Morte’—‘In Life as in Death.’ That is, presumably, at the breast of the Lord. ‘In Life as in Death’ indeed...,” Paille scowled.
Gonji shook his head sadly, for he had been sure it would be so: It was a patrol of Baron Rorka’s troops he had helped slay while in the employ of Klann’s 3rd Free Company.
“What do you suppose those blacked out, or purpled out, circles mean on the Klann crest?”
“Hard to say,” Paille replied. “Purpure is the royal hue, so it doubtless represents Klann. But two of the seven filled, the others not...?” He shrugged and turned his palms up.
A little boy brushed past them as Gonji tethered Tora, another child following quickly in yelping pursuit.
“The enfants perdus,” Paille muttered, watching them.
“Eh?”
“The children of forlorn hope,”
the artist explained. “These are the ones who are trampled under the hooves of royal ambitions. They look to you for deliverance, monsieur le samurai—will you fail them?”
Gonji frowned, but deep within he was warmed by the pride born of the champion’s mantle. His nickname swam on the eddies of his thoughts, that name he had earned farther west.
“Listen, Paille, you’re knowledgeable on lore and legend. Ever hear of the Red Blade from the East?”
“Mmm. Let me think...oui, I do know it. It speaks of a fabled warrior—a cossack, I think—who carries a saber of ruddy metal. Never bested in battle. Some say the blade is colored by the many—what’s wrong?”
“Forget it.” Gonji’s brow furrowed as he mounted the steps to the Ministry, resolving to carefully consider anything the glib Frenchman told him in the future before lending it any credence.
Paille stared after him a moment, wondering what he had said to alter the oriental’s mood. They were certainly a touchy lot. He shrugged and loped up the steps after him.
* * * *
Phlegor, the craft leader, signed the last bill of lading acknowledging receipt of the guild’s materials.
“You’re sure it’s all there?”
“Quite sure, Phlegor,” Lorenz Gundersen said with weary indulgence.
“You remember what happened last time the Jew brought the Viennese order.”
“And you were credited and sent a premium when the shipment was corrected,” Lorenz replied without looking up from the sheafs that now occupied his attention. He dearly hoped the discourtesy would send the feisty guildsman packing.
The Ministry was at the peak business hour. Stools and tables were twisted askew in the lobby. Voices chattered incessantly. Stale food and beverage smells clung in the informal air of the heavy late summer caravan trade season. Overworked secretaries argued with traveling chapmen and locals alike in small booths lining the walls. Flavio, the august Council Elder and his snowy-bearded adviser, Milorad Vargo, could be seen huddled over a desk through the doorway of a rear chamber. Boris Kamarovsky, the ferretlike woodworker, leaned against a foyer window, gazing about him dimly as he waited for his boss to finish signing for the recent trade goods shipment. It was humid after the recent rains, and the atmosphere lent itself well to an epidemic outbreak of irritability and headaches.
Phlegor seemed to thrive on such tense circumstances.
“Listen, Lorenz,” Phlegor said, leaning forward over the counter, “is that Jap still staying with you Gundersens?”
“Ja, for now,” Lorenz responded casually, applying the Seal of the Exchequer to a pile of documents.
“I don’t like the way he swaggers around here like he’s master of the city.”
Lorenz cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? I understand you were quite taken with him the night of that ridiculous brawl on the rostrum.”
“That was then. Sure, it was amusing to see Klann’s bandits take their licks. And he showed he could fight, even if it was only with his feet, like some damned fighting cock. But what’s he done since then, except strut around town eyeing up the women? You people haven’t mentioned the council meeting to him, have you?”
Lorenz stopped in his work. His lips perked, and he eyed the craftsman sidelong. “I’ll just pretend you never said that.”
“Hey, no offense! I just don’t trust strangers, that’s all. Especially heathens and infidels.”
“That’s your privilege.”
“I understand Flavio’s taken him on as a bodyguard,” Phlegor said loud enough to turn nearby heads from their business.
“That’s his privilege,” Lorenz said at length.
“Pretty rash, if you ask me.”
Lorenz bit his tongue. Then he said, “Weren’t you in favor of the hiring?”
Phlegor thought a moment. “Ja, I suppose...but that was the other night. I’ve had time to think about it since. Is he really going along to the castle banquet?”
“So I understand.”
Phlegor shook his head. He leaned close again. “What about that wildman who killed the big soldier and then jumped over the wall? Anyone know who he was yet? God, that was something!” Phlegor breathed an awe.
The Executor of the Exchequer exhaled deeply and flung down the Seal. Leaning back in his chair, he smoothed the wrinkles out of his doublet and peered up at the insistent craft leader.
“No, Phlegor, no one knows. But I’m sure you’ll be the first to find out, and then you can tell us all.” Lorenz’s voice reeked of the haughty sarcasm that was his trademark.
“Well ten-to-one he’s a friend of the monkey-man, and I’d like to know what they’re planning. As far as I’m concerned they’re just two more invaders trying to make a reputation at Vedun’s expense.”
Boris snapped to attention at the window. “Phlegor—here he comes now!”
“The Jap?”
“Da.” Boris smirked. “Still got his hair tied up on top of his head like a turnip. And guess who’s with him?”
“Who?”
“That crazy Paille!”
“Oh, Jesu Christi!”
Lorenz’s face dropped into a cupped hand, the elbow resting on the chair arm. “Oh no,” he grated in a low voice.
When Gonji entered the foyer and bowed to those in the lobby, Boris scrambled over to stand next to Phlegor without a look in the samurai’s direction. Several people returned Gonji’s bow nervously, the babble of voices diminishing to sporadic whispers.
Gonji spotted Flavio in the rear chamber, and the Elder waved him over. He removed his sashed swords with a slow, elegant motion and carried them, sheathed, in his right hand to Flavio’s office.
Then came Paille.
“Gundersen! My paints! Did they arrive with Neriah’s caravan?” The artist waved his order form over his head.
Lorenz gathered himself to fend the coming storm. “Not this time, Paille. Can’t you just begin on another section with the colors you still have—?”
Then the storm broke in all its aesthetic fury.
CHAPTER THREE
Local musicians had gathered in the square, and drumbeats counterpointed their lilting refrain as the banquet escort party was mounted.
A short column of Llorm dragoons, hefting lances and flying Klann’s colors on crisply snapping pennons, awaited the delegation in front of the rostrum. Council Elder Flavio already was there, seated astride a roan of sixteen hands which had been carefully groomed and caparisoned. Flavio himself sat tall and smiling in a long, colorful capote that looked too uncomfortable for the day’s heat but would be needed on the return ride that night. Flavio returned the well-wishes of the gathered populace with repeated nods and waves.
Beside the Elder, aboard a gray gelding, sat Milorad, the paunchy ex-statesman, happily affecting a courtly dignity he had little occasion to employ these days.
On Flavio’s right sat Gonji, erect and dignified, calm but expectant as he stroked Tora’s withers, trying hard to mask his excitement and curiosity over at last visiting Castle Lenska. Clean and polished cap-à-pie, he had even oiled his scabbards so that they glistened impressively.
Women and children spread flowers on the roadway to the postern gate. The city’s collective hope for peaceful coexistence with the invaders and the redress of grievances would ride with the delegates. The musicians played on, wilting in the midday heat. A muggy breeze lapped the city. More rain seemed in the offing.
A rumble and clink of mounted troops approached from down Alwin Street in the German quarter of the city, and a column of mercenaries wheeled out of the lane and trotted to the square, the richly adorned Captain Julian Kel’Tekeli at their head. It was the 1st Free Company, grinning and chattering in the ranks at the prospect of the castle banquet.
Julian passed close to Gonji and cast him the merest glance. This was the nearest they had been to each other since Gonji had hired on with the captain as an operative for Klann. Gonji suppressed a smirk as he observed the captain’s proud bearing, the preciseness o
f his every movement. Julian spoke briefly to the free companions, admonishing them to good behavior, then appointed his second-in-command to lead the column and himself clumped to the head of the leading Llorm squad.
Gonji looked the mercenaries over. They carried the usual array of mismatched weapons—swords, axes, and a few short bows—but it took him a while to notice today’s difference: there were no firearms in their ranks. Not a pistol in sight.
Then he spotted Luba, the big ugly trooper with the bald, shining bullet of a head whom he had knocked cold in the boxing match. Luba spat and worked his jaws in a silent insult as their eyes met. The samurai’s mouth twisted with wry unconcern, and he languidly turned from the man’s view.
They’d have their time of rematch, he knew, and when it happened, it happened. He dispersed all thoughts of Luba, then, relaxing and establishing a sense of inner harmony. He would need control and a keen mind today.
Garth Gundersen, the last of the delegates, arrived and lipped a quiet apology to Flavio for his tardiness. At his side rode Wilf, looking bright-eyed and anxious and, quite frankly, more like a delegate than his blacksmith sire. The young smith was scrubbed and scented and wore clean riding boots, shining breeches, and a new tunic. He eyed the delegates—especially Flavio—breathlessly as if still fostering the hope that he’d be invited along.
Garth, on the other hand, though tolerably presentable aside from the purpling eye and a bruise or two left over from his bout with the ill-fated Ben-Draba, wore a working-class jerkin and faded waistcoat, plus his favorite floppy cap; he seemed sulky and withdrawn, his speech monosyllabic.
Wilf rode up to Gonji and bowed, extending a hand, which the samurai took reluctantly. The young smith pressed into Gonji’s hand a blossom of a wildflower.
“Give that to Genya,” Wilf said in a strained whisper. “Tell her...tell her I’ll be coming for her soon.”
And with that he yanked his white steed around and lurched off through the parting crowd. Gonji half-smiled and nodded, pocketing the token. He repositioned his swords more comfortably and waited.
