by John Norman
“I do not understand,” I said.
“My judgment in these matters,” he said, “was sounder than either his or yours.”
“How so?” I said.
“I know something of men, of war, and leadership,” said Lord Yamada.
“You are shogun,” I said.
“The men are yours, the cavalry is yours,” he said. “Lord Temmu did not understand this, nor, apparently, do you. It has been so since the place called Tarncamp, far away. You gave men the sky, and the broad-winged tarn. You took soldiers and mercenaries and forged tarnsmen. You formed these men into an arm of war, a cavalry, trained it, and led it, even in a great sky battle across the sea. You brought it across Thassa, nurtured, sheltered, and protected it. You have flown with it, enduring the same hardships and risks, the same hunger, fatigue, cold, and danger as those you led. The men will follow no other.”
I did not respond.
“With Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” he said, “goes the cavalry; with the cavalry goes the sky; with the sky goes victory.”
“Two approach!” cried Akio, the fan snapping open.
“The long glass,” said the servitor, returning to the balcony.
Lord Yamada lifted it, peering through it.
“They are confirming the matter,” said Lord Yamada.
He watched the two tarns approaching in the distance, small against the yellow moon.
“Fortunately for Lord Temmu,” said General Yamada, “they are confirming that Tarl Cabot, commander of the cavalry, is alive.”
“And if they could not make this determination?” I asked.
“Then,” said General Yamada, “I think the holding of Lord Temmu would be destroyed.”
“That would be unfortunate,” I said.
“Yes,” said Lord Yamada, “as I wish to possess it.”
“It is strange,” I said, “that tarnsmen would so scout the palace of General Yamada, here, this night. What would be the likelihood that they might catch sight of me here, in this place, at this time?”
“The likelihood was quite high,” said General Yamada. “The rendezvous was arranged.”
“I see,” I said.
“They feared you would be slain. They were thus contemplating first the destruction of the holding of Lord Temmu, who betrayed you, and, second, the destruction of my holdings, for presumably having slain you.”
“I see,” I said.
“As you understand,” he said, “neither option was appealing. Thus I had only to inform them of your present satisfactory circumstances, and arrange the rendezvous that would confirm the matter.”
“How did you communicate with the encampment?” I asked.
“It was only necessary to communicate with the holding,” he said, “as there are tarns and riders at the holding, which could communicate with the encampment.”
“You know much,” I said.
“There are a variety of ways in which one can communicate with the holding,” he said, “flighted vulos, message arrows, signals from the ground, such things.”
“What if,” I asked, “the cavalry had accepted a new commander?”
“Do not even think of it,” said Lord Yamada.
“Then I would have been in your power,” I said, “and might expect to bear the brunt of the wrath of a shogun?”
“Of course,” he said, handing me the long glass.
“They are closer now,” said Lord Akio.
“Do you know them?” asked Lord Yamada.
“Wait,” I said.
“Do not fire,” Lord Yamada cautioned his bowmen.
The two tarns now wheeled away.
“Yes,” I said. “They are two officers, Pertinax and Tajima.”
I returned the long glass to Lord Yamada, who handed it to the servitor who had brought it to the balcony.
“Do you find the device equivalent to your ‘glass of the Builders’?” he asked.
“Very much so,” I said.
“Who are the Builders?” he asked.
“Makers,” I said, “artisans, manufacturers, engineers, architects, such things.”
“Doubtless there will be joy in the encampment,” he said, “when it is learned you live and thrive, and are enjoying our hospitality.”
“But I am still in your power,” I said.
“And,” he said, “now, too, is the cavalry.”
“I see,” I said.
“We shall be allies, and great friends,” said Lord Yamada.
“It seems clear,” I said, “that you are well apprised of what ensues in the holding of Temmu.”
“One attempts to keep informed,” he said.
“Doubtless there were spies even in Tarncamp and Shipcamp,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Doubtless some are highly placed,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“I have long suspected Lord Okimoto,” I said.
“Interesting,” he said.
“My friend, Tajima,” I said, “who held the saddle of one of the reconnaissance tarns recently about, suspects the daimyo, Lord Nishida.”
“He is certainly highly placed,” said Lord Yamada.
“I am sure of two,” I said.
“Oh?” said Lord Yamada.
“It was extremely clever of you,” I said, “to place the reader, Daichi, in the inner circle of Lord Temmu.”
“It took time,” said General Yamada. “Years were spent subtly enhancing the reputation of Daichi in the islands, with the result that Lord Temmu must have his services, at whatever cost.”
“He preys on the superstition of the shogun, and influences his moves and policies by supposed readings of the bones and shells.”
“Most of the readings are stupid ambiguities and obscure nonsense, things which might be interpreted in several ways, one of which is likely, from time to time, to bear some resemblance to something or other which might actually occur, but I take care, naturally, to supply the content now and then, to my advantage.”
“The last one was clever,” I said, “the business about the iron dragon, the fear of its flight, and such.”
“It brought you into my hands,” said Lord Yamada.
“It is strange to me,” I said, “that Lord Temmu, who is not a stupid man, should take such things seriously.”
“Not at all,” he said. “If the readings should seem to one uncanny, and fraught with prophetic accuracy, if they should, from time to time, seem to foretell the course of events, even with alarming precision, one might take them seriously.”
“But you are arranging and managing the events which are being foretold,” I said.
“But Daichi is trusted,” he said.
“Of course,” I said.
“You said,” said Lord Yamada, “you were sure of two.”
“But why the references to an iron dragon?” I asked. “That is a matter of legend. There are no such things.”
“Are there not?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Let us then not speak of them,” said Lord Yamada.
“Very well,” I said.
“You said,” said Lord Yamada, “you were sure of two.”
“Agents, spies?” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Daichi,” I said.
“Of course,” he said.
“Another,” I said, “is evident, but unimportant. She is a contract woman, under contract to Lord Nishida. Her name is Sumomo. My friend, and fellow officer, Tajima, discovered her on the outer parapet, apparently casting some missive to the ground below.”
“I am sorry to hear she was evident,” said Lord Yamada, coldly. “A good spy should not be evident. And I had not, until now, regarded her as unimportant. But I shall now do so.”
“Doubtless the missive,” I said, “if such it were, was received below.”
“She was clumsy,” said Lord Yamada, “to permit herself to be discovered in such a compromising act.”
“Doubt
less her services were useful,” I said.
“But now, no longer,” said Lord Yamada, quietly. “She is now known. She may be dispensed with. She shall be punished.”
“It is not as though your honor is touched,” I said.
“But it has been,” he said.
“How so?” I asked. “She is a mere contract woman, kept by Lord Nishida.”
“She is not a contract woman,” said Lord Yamada. “That is a pretense. Do you think I would entrust so sensitive a role to a contract woman?”
“She is not a contract woman?” I said.
“No,” he said.
“Some now know her as a spy,” I said. “It may be difficult to rescue her, to extract her from the holding.”
“Who knows what the bones and shells may say,” said Lord Yamada.
“I see,” I said.
“She has failed,” he said. “I will have her destroyed.”
“Surely not,” I said.
“I am shogun,” he said.
“Your honor is not touched,” I said.
“It is,” he said.
“How so?” I asked.
“She is my daughter,” he said.
I was silent.
“Do not be concerned,” he said. “I have many daughters.”
Chapter Fifteen
Lord Akio
“You do not mind that you are denied weapons?” asked Lord Akio, a daimyo of Lord Yamada.
It was my understanding that Lord Yamada’s daimyos, despite their own lands and holdings, were expected to attend on the shogun several months of each year. In this way they were separated from their own bases of power, and were, in effect, periodic, transitory hostages in the palace. If a daimyo failed to respond at any time to a particular summons, or did not choose to honor his shogun with his presence at expected times, he was regarded, de facto, as placing himself in a state of rebellion, the likely consequence of which would be his execution, unpleasantly consummated, the extirpation of his family, the acquisition of his fields, and the appropriation of his holdings.
“Why should I mind,” I asked, “when I am accompanied by Lord Akio, a skilled warrior, who will protect me?”
He shook the large, metal fan open.
“This is not a mere decoration, the accessory of an ensemble, a bauble of fashion,” he said.
“Still,” I said, “it is attractive, with its brightly colored panels, and well matches the tasteful robes of Lord Akio.”
“Are you familiar with such fans?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said.
“I have others,” he said.
“Which match other robes,” I said.
“Of course,” he said.
“I see,” I said.
“Do you think me a fop?” he asked.
“No, Lord,” I said. “It is common for nobles to bathe frequently, to dress well, and care for their appearance.”
He spread the fan.
“It is a shield,” he said.
“I am sure it would turn aside a thrust, an arrow,” I said.
It was not much different, in its expanse, from a small buckler, of the sort carried by the cavalry.
“It is, of course,” he said, “not simply a shield.”
“Oh?” I said.
“It is edged,” he said, calling attention to the razorlike brink of the device. “It can cut a throat, or sever a hand.”
“I see,” I said.
The small cavalry buckler, too, was edged, and, if one were close enough to a foe, might be similarly formidable. I saw no reason to call this to the attention of my companion and guide. On tarnback, of course, it served primarily as a weapon of defense.
We were wandering in the palace garden, a place where a silken print might have sprung into life, where nature and artifice sought to outdo one another. Here were lengths of carefully arranged sand, raked into rhythmic furrows, harmonizing with the contours of the path of colored stones. There there were unusual stones, brought in from the coast, shaped by centuries of tides; and all about were varieties of trees, large and small, some fruit-bearing, some ablaze with blossoms. From the limbs of some of these trees hung lanterns, now unlit, but swaying in the breeze. From the limbs of others hung slender tubes of wood on strings, which tubes, when rustled by the wind, would strike one another, emitting charming notes. We continued on our way, occasionally crossing a rivulet of water on a small, railed wooden bridge, between flowering shrubs and patches of bright flowers, some of which were terraced amongst steps of rocks. Colorfully plumaged birds occasionally fluttered overhead. The Night Singers were now afield, but would return in the evening to proclaim and defend their small territories. I was sure it was no coincidence that Lord Akio had chosen the path he had, for the Pani garden is not merely designed to appeal to the eye, ear, and scent, but to do so in a certain progression, this progression depending on the time of year. Such things, as the notes of a melody, are most pleasing when experienced in a certain order. Ela, I felt, there is so much here with which I have so little to do. How much here, I thought, must be wasted on, and lost to, a barbarian sensibility. In my crude way I found myself less rapt with delight than concerned with certain practical assessments, with, say, measuring distances, and calculating times. How long, for example, would it take to traverse, say, the corridor between the gate of the garden, if I could reach it, from the courtyard, or palace steps, and the cover of the garden, and between this cover, and the exterior wall? I considered the height of the walls. Quite high. No trees I noted were near enough to the walls to afford access to the summit of a wall. Too, I supposed that the garden walls would be similar to those of the courtyard itself, and, if this should be so, attaining their summit might constitute a dubious victory. From the sparkle of sunlight by day, and the glint of moonlight by night, I had determined that the courtyard wall, at least that portion which I could see from my quarters, was armed. Anchored in the top of the wall were pieces of broken glass, shards of pottery, and blades, and, strung about the wall, were dangling strips of metal which would be difficult to elude, and which, if not eluded, would produce a jangling of disturbed metal unlikely to pass unnoted. Something of this sort, I supposed, defensive arrangements, would be likely to characterize the garden walls, as well. On the other hand, within the garden walls I saw no sign of the warning apparatus consisting of suspended strips of metal. On the other hand, I would later learn, interestingly, that this lack of an obvious warning arrangement, first, was intended to encourage an approach through the garden to the courtyard, which would then facilitate the entrapment of intruders between the double walls, those of the courtyard and those of the garden, and, second, that there was, in a sense, a warning device in the garden, as well as in the more open, barren courtyard, nearer the palace, a warning device, however, which was armed, so to speak, only after dark. This consisted in the Night Singers themselves, whose song would be silenced if an unfamiliar individual entered the garden, and, when resumed, would be rather different, and would occasionally be interrupted with warning notes, should the individual change his position. Supposedly these small changes might be registered by guards, whether within or without the walls.
At the moment Lord Akio and I, other than a gardener or so, were alone in the garden.
“Behold,” said Lord Akio, with a snap flinging the fan into a circle, and then, with a thumb, locking the blades in place.
“So, now,” I said, “it is a circle, a wheel, of sorts?”
“A circle of terror,” he said, “a wheel of death.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Do you think I am unarmed?” he asked.
“You might turn a blow,” I said, “and, at close quarters, strike an opponent.”
“I can hurl this,” he said.
“It might be dangerous,” I said, “with its weight and sturdiness, functioning as a missile, a flighted, spinning blade, likely to take blood wherever it might strike.”
“It is not simply a matt
er of drawing blood,” he said.
“Surely, given its shape it would lack the penetration of a blade,” I said, “and, given its shape and weight, it would lack the distance and accuracy of an arrow.”
“All weapons have their limitations,” he said.
“And their advantages,” I said.
“True,” he said. “For example, our attractive friend here might not be recognized as a weapon.”
“Perhaps not,” I said.
“Which is a splendid advantage.”
“Doubtless,” I said.
“I once decapitated a bandit, who thought me unarmed,” he said.
“Oh?” I said.
“You are skeptical?” he inquired.
“Not at all,” I said.
“I think you are skeptical,” he said.
“It might be done, I suppose,” I said, “at extremely close range.”
“Behold,” he said, “do you see the tender of the garden there?”
“Surely,” I said.
The fellow had a long-handled, wooden-toothed rake with which he was dressing the sand near the path we had recently traversed.
“How far would you say he is?”
“Some ten paces, or such,” I said.
“Behold,” he said, drawing back the circular artifact, its rippled blades locked in place.
“What are you going to do?” I said.
“Demonstrate,” he said.
“Do not!” I said.
“It is a peasant,” he said, “one not even Ashigaru.”
“No matter,” I said.
“I do not understand,” he said.
“I beg your indulgence,” I said. “Do not.”
“I am skillful,” he said. “There will be little pain, unless I wish it so.”
“Please,” I said.
“Very well,” said Lord Akio. “You are a guest of the shogun.” But then he cried to the gardener, “Aside, aside, tarsk, stand aside!”
The gardener turned about, startled, facing us.
“Aside!” said Lord Akio.
Frightened, the man, clutching the rake, moved to his left. He was barefoot. He was clad in little more than a rag. He had his eyes on the device in the hand of the daimyo. I gathered he knew more of it than I. Perhaps he had seen it before.
