by John Norman
“That is true, noble one,” he said.
“Thus,” I said, “on a clear night, their silence would betoken their concern, and their concern might be occasioned by something unanticipated or unfamiliar in the garden, for example, an animal, or intruder.”
“It is true,” said the gardener, “that their sudden silence might be so motivated.”
“Their silence, then,” I said, “could be construed, by those familiar with such things, guards, servitors, even slaves, as a clarion of alarm.”
“It is true, noble one,” said the gardener. “I have work to do.”
“But on a night of rain,” I said, “as their songs desist, their silence would be unlikely to motivate an investigation.”
“One supposes not, noble one,” he said.
“It is interesting,” I said, “that the attack on the shogun should coincide with the rain.”
“Perhaps it was intended to do so,” said Haruki.
“It is conjectured,” I said, “that the assailant entered the garden through the palace.”
“It would seem so,” he said, uneasily.
“But he did not do so,” I said.
“How else could he reach the garden?” asked Haruki.
“The assailant,” I said, “was armed, and clad darkly. Do you not think it improbable that he could have ventured through a dozen corridors and thresholds and not be noticed?”
“The stealth of such assailants is legendary,” he said.
“Doubtless,” I said.
“Then,” said Haruki, “the garden having been entered earlier, from within the palace, the assailant conceals himself, and, like a sheathed knife, awaits his opportunity.”
“Surely you do not believe that,” I said.
“There is no other explanation, noble one,” said Haruki.
“There is one,” I said. “The garden, on a suitable night, was entered from the outside.”
“That is not possible, noble one,” said Haruki. “There is only one external gate, and it is guarded.”
“The assailant did not enter through the gate,” I said.
“Through the palace, earlier,” said Haruki.
“You know every hort of this garden,” I said.
“It is large,” said Haruki.
“The garden was entered, from the outside,” I said.
“It is not possible, noble one,” said Haruki. “The walls are high, and patrolled. Their crests are armed with glass, with blades and shards.”
“There is a secret entrance,” I said.
“It cannot be,” he said.
“I will show it to you, if you like,” I said.
“I know of no such entrance,” he said.
“Would you care to explain to the shogun that you were unaware of its existence?” I asked. “Perhaps he might believe you.”
“No,” he said.
“Do not touch the trowel at your belt,” I said. “I have no desire to break an arm or neck.”
He dropped his hand away from the trowel.
“The night of the attack was one of rain,” I said. “Following the attack, I secured a lantern and scouted the garden’s perimeter. It was easy, after a time, to mark footprints. Shortly thereafter I located the ring and trap, covered with branches and leaves, and the tunnel entrance.”
“Will you now summon Ashigaru?” inquired Haruki.
“No,” I said.
“I do not understand,” said Haruki.
“Some days ago,” I said, “the daimyo, Lord Akio, volunteering to demonstrate the effectiveness of a cast war fan, sought a target.”
“Yes, noble one,” said Haruki.
“He selected such a target,” I said.
“I know,” said Haruki.
“I dissuaded Lord Akio, and he, agreeably enough, if somewhat reluctantly, substituted a small tree.”
“I know,” said Haruki.
“As I understand it,” I said, “your life is now mine.”
“That is so, noble one,” said Haruki.
“I herewith, in all honor,” I said, “return it to you.”
His eyes widened.
“I seek no debtor or servant,” I said, “but a friend, an ally.”
“I will reveal no others,” said Haruki.
“Nor do I ask you to do so,” I said. “But it is my belief that others exist, and we may find them helpful, in pursuing, to an extent, common aims.”
“You are a guest of the shogun,” said Haruki.
“More his prisoner,” I said.
“You wish my help, in abetting an escape?” he said.
“Perhaps eventually,” I said, “not now.”
“I can be of little help, noble one,” he said. “I am a lowly man, a peasant.”
“You can come and go,” I said. “Few will notice you.”
“Your chances of escape are small,” said Haruki, looking about. “Ashigaru are about. Men draw in from the fields. The shogun is massing troops, for an attack north.”
“That is exactly the sort of help I need,” I said. “Information.”
“I know little, noble one,” he said.
“I do not ask you to reveal others,” I said. “But there must be others. In some way it must be possible to move messages about, perhaps even to a great distance.”
“Perhaps even to the house of Temmu?” said Haruki.
“Yes,” I said, “and if to the house of Temmu, perhaps others might transmit them farther thence.”
“To the nest of the demon birds?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“The straw jacket is unpleasant,” said Haruki.
“I am sure you have already risked that, whatever it is, and more,” I said.
“Beneath the trap is a tunnel,” he said. “It leads beyond the palace to the vicinity of auxiliary buildings, the dairy, the smoke house, store houses, some workshops, the pens. In the darkness, patrols might be eluded.”
“If I wished to hazard that egress,” I said, “I would already have done so. I want information and the means to convey it.”
“I am lowly,” he said, “a humble gardener.”
“The most lowly and most humble,” I said, “are often the most courageous.”
“Surely not,” he said.
“I think you are one such,” I said.
“The garden needs tending,” he said.
“How long have you served Lord Yamada?” I asked.
“Many years,” he said.
“I think there is little about the palace you do not know,” I said.
“I am an ignorant, simple man,” he said.
“Tell me about an empty grave,” I said.
“The child was ill-favored,” he said, “short-legged, thick bodied, homely.”
“But male,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“And thus,” I said, “was to have been strangled, as Lord Yamada has it with his sons.”
“So that none will rise to challenge him,” said Haruki.
“It was you who saved him?” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“You risked much to save such a child,” I said.
“There was once a beautiful young woman,” he said, “of poor family, of lowly and ignoble birth, of the peasants. She came to the attention of Lord Yamada, who included her, for her beauty, amongst his wives.”
“That,” I said, “is how you came to the garden?”
“Yes,” he said.
“You were her father?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I take it,” I said, “the male child, however ill-favored, was hers, and your grandson.”
“It is so,” he said.
“Still you risked much,” I said.
“I gave him to others,” he said. “He was taken beyond the wading fields. I do not know if he survived.”
“It was years ago,” I said.
“Many years,” he said.
“The child may have died, long ago,” I said
.
“True,” he said. “Life is hard.”
“In the dining pavilion,” I said, “there was talk of an avenger, one who might wear upon his left shoulder the sign of the lotus.”
“There are always such rumors,” said Haruki, “for years, meaningless rumors, rumors whispered in the darkness, rumors spoken about small fires while the rice boiled, the rumor of a spared son, a lost son, an escaped son, a returning son, one who would seek his father’s blood, who would do vengeance on behalf of his slaughtered brothers.”
“But the child bore on his left shoulder,” I said, “the birthmark, the sign of the lotus.”
“It is borne by many of the strangled sons,” said Haruki. “It is borne by Lord Yamada himself.”
“Such a sign, fraudulent, was borne by the assailant, he who would have set upon Lord Yamada in the dining pavilion.”
“I should have killed the child,” said Haruki.
“Why?” I said.
“It bears the blood of Yamada,” he said.
“But it was the child of your daughter,” I said.
“And so I spared it,” he said.
“What of your daughter?” I said.
“She gave Lord Yamada daughters,” he said, “but, as she was of lowly birth, these daughters were removed from her, and, when of age, contracted.”
“She is now alive?” I said.
“No,” he said.
“I am sorry,” I said.
“She was very beautiful, more so than many of the other wives, and was a favorite. It is thought she was poisoned by higher-born wives. Lord Yamada chose ten of these by lot, and had them beheaded. Had she been of high birth he might have slain all.”
“This was years ago,” I said.
“Many years ago,” he said.
“Sumomo,” I said, “is high born.”
“Extremely so,” he said.
“Perhaps her mother?” I said.
“No,” he said. “Her mother was not brought to the women’s quarters until years later.”
“You have heard of the projected fate of Sumomo,” I said.
“It is merciful under the circumstances,” he said. “The plunge to the pool of death eels.”
“You would prefer something more grievous?” I said.
“Certainly,” he said. “She is the daughter of the shogun.”
“I am in need of information,” I said, “and the means to convey it.”
“I know little,” he said.
“And you might find out much,” I said.
“I am lowly,” he said.
“Do not return to your work,” I said.
“As the noble one will have it,” he said.
“When do the generals of Lord Yamada march north?” I asked.
“Soon,” he said. “The distant daimyos are being summoned.”
“That information must reach the north,” I said.
“There are many patrols,” he said. “Runners might be noted. It is days to the holding of Lord Temmu, if that is the destination you have in mind.”
“That first,” I said.
“Even the path of the thousand arrows is impractical,” he said.
“True,” I said. The distances involved would exceed the utility of this device, which is often used to transmit messages between certain outposts or even between separated units, as in coordinating junctions or pincer movements. Obviously the expression, “path of a thousand arrows,” is something of a metaphor, as there would seldom be a thousand arrows employed. The procedure, of course, is to relay a message by a number of flighted arrows, the message secured from one arrow, and affixed to the next, and so on. As the chain which is no stronger than its weakest length, this device, too, can be unreliable, as the succession of arrows might be interrupted in any number of ways. The arrows are often brightly colored, and even beribboned. And sometimes whistling arrows are used, much like those which convey signals, initiate attacks, and such. Under certain field conditions, naturally enough, one prefers stealth and silence.
“I see no way to do this,” he said.
“Someone must have secured, trained, and positioned the assailant who failed in the attack on the shogun’s life,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“It is clear,” I said, “that Lord Yamada has agents in the camp of Lord Temmu.”
“Possibly,” said Haruki.
“Similarly,” I said, “Lord Temmu, and his daimyos, Lords Nishida and Okimoto, are highly intelligent men. Accordingly, it seems likely they would have agents in the camp of Lord Yamada.”
“Possibly,” said Haruki.
“I can name one,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“And such agents,” I said, “must have the means to communicate with their principals.”
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Expeditiously,” I said.
“Once,” he said.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“The cot of the message vulos,” he said, “was a day’s trek from the palace. They could not be kept here, or in the vicinity, as suspicion would be aroused.”
“That was wise,” I said.
“But the cot was discovered, and seized,” he said. “It was burned, and the message vulos and their keepers slain. I learned this from a peasant, come to sell a daughter, for her welfare, to a contract merchant.”
“Then a messenger, afoot, must set out,” I said.
“It will take time, it will be dangerous,” he said.
“Nonetheless,” I said.
“Who would you put in this jeopardy?” he inquired.
“I will hide in the tunnel, and leave after dark,” I said.
“You will be missed before you depart,” he said. “Ashigaru will be everywhere. You will be apprehended within the Ahn.”
“It must be risked,” I said.
“You are serious?” he asked.
“Surely,” I said.
“Perhaps,” said he, “you are not a spy for Lord Yamada.”
“It seems to matter little,” I said.
The gardener regarded me, intently.
“You try to look into my heart,” I said.
“It is hard to look into a heart,” he said.
“The homing bird,” I said, “is good for a flight in only one direction, back to its native cot.”
“Yes?” said Haruki.
“How are the message vulos of your destroyed cot replenished?”
“By hand-drawn cart,” he said.
“This cart,” I said, “will attempt a rendezvous with the local cot.”
“There are only ashes now,” said Haruki.
“That may not be known,” I said.
“Unfortunately, noble one,” he said, “as wise as your hope might be, that rendezvous was attempted, and failed, which intelligence I have also from the aforementioned peasant, a trap having been laid and sprung. The cartsman and the birds were apprehended.”
“Wait!” I said. “I am a fool!”
“How so?” said Haruki, warily.
“Are you assured the message vulos of the secret cot were slain, as well as their keepers?”
“It is thought so,” said Haruki.
“Perhaps some bloodied birds were found?” I said.
“That is my understanding,” he said.
“Of course,” I said.
“I do not understand,” he said.
“Lord Yamada is clever,” I said. “Would he not keep some birds, who would home to the holding of Temmu, that he might make use of them upon occasion, perhaps to mislead the forces of Temmu, say, putting them at their ease, while he plotted swift and devastating actions?”
“Surely there would be some sign enclosed with the messages, to certify them as genuine, to guarantee their authenticity,” said Haruki.
“Doubtless,” I said. Otherwise, given the possibilities of spies, birds could be brought from either holding, that of Temmu or that of Yamada, which might then,
with false messages, be released to return to either holding. One supposes, of course, that the signs, like signs and countersigns, like passwords and keyed responses, would be regularly changed. “Do you know the sign?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“But the keepers would,” I said.
“Of course,” he said.
“Perhaps they did not all die quickly,” I said.
“I see,” he said. “But we do not know the sign.”
“But if I am right,” I said, “the birds will be at hand.”
“In the cot of Lord Yamada,” he said, “will be found the birds come from the holding of Lord Temmu, and those birds who are to be transported thence, to return later.”
“And,” I said, “the apprehended birds, those captured from the secret cot, which will home to the holding of Lord Temmu.”
“If there are such,” said Haruki.
“There will be,” I said. “Is the cot guarded all twenty Ahn, how many keepers are there, how many guards? Might they not be called away, their attention diverted?”
“I shall make inquiries,” he said. “But what of the sign?”
“I do not know the Pani script,” I said. “I do not know the syllabary in which they transcribe Gorean. If I were to print in continental Gorean script, it would probably be enough. But I will write in another language, which two, I know, in the north, can read, a language which few, if any, in the dominions of Lord Yamada would be likely to know, even recognize. I will now to my room, obtain paper and a marking stick. The message will be ready shortly. You must show me the message cot of Lord Yamada.”
“You are too much watched,” said Haruki. “I will take the message.”
“Can I trust you?” I asked.
“The noble one,” he said, “has little choice.”
“We are likely to do this successfully only once,” I said. Indeed, it was not clear to me that it might be accomplished, even once.
“Inform the house of Temmu,” he said, “of the readying of troops, the summoning of daimyos, warn that the word of Yamada is not to be trusted.”
“I shall,” I said, “and I shall also attempt to devise an arrangement for further communication, one swift but not dependent on caged vulos.”
“Tarns?” he said.
“Of course,” I said.
“You might also,” said Haruki, “inform the house of Temmu of the projected fate of the beauteous Lady Sumomo. They should find that most agreeable.”
