by John Norman
“I see,” I said. To me that seemed a wise view. I was pleased to learn that this degree of enlightenment, or what I took to be a degree of enlightenment, prevailed in the islands.
“Too,” said Haruki, “villages are sources of wealth. One cannot tax bleached bones and ashes. Few will cast gold into the sea.”
“True,” I said.
“And it is possible that murdering many for the crimes of one, or a few,” said Haruki, “might occasion resentment.”
“That is conceivable,” I said.
“One might even, over years, dig a tunnel,” he said, “which might open into a garden.”
“Quite possibly,” I granted him.
“We are no match for gentlemen of two swords,” he said.
“I would suppose not,” I said.
“But even they,” he said, “must sometimes sleep.”
“But with a sword at their side,” I said. That would be the companion sword.
“That must be taken into consideration,” he said.
“You are locally known,” I said. “Why have you not left the tunnel?”
“Those who have departed,” he said, “did so individually. It is easier to conceal one man than two, or three. If one man is apprehended, that is preferable to the apprehension of two or three.”
“Why have you not left?” I asked.
“Soon,” he said, “those who departed will be little noted. They will be Pani amongst Pani, shadows amongst shadows.”
“Why have you not left?” I asked.
“You are not Pani,” he said. “If nothing else, your garb, and accent, would betray you.”
“I accept that risk,” I said. “Leave, while there are still Ahn to daylight.”
“We will leave together,” he said.
“No,” I said.
“You will need a guide, someone to introduce you into villages, someone to speak for you,” he said.
“I will be a handicap,” I said.
“Are you prepared to leave?” he inquired.
“Two are more likely to be apprehended than one,” I said.
“We will go now,” he said. “I think the interval has been sufficient.”
“Go,” I said to him.
“Follow me,” he said.
In the total darkness, touching the sides of the small tunnel, in which one could not stand upright, I followed Haruki.
Then we were at its far terminus, that which emerged in brush, not far from several of the smaller, ancillary buildings.
“I have one regret,” said Haruki.
“What is that?” I asked.
“I shall miss the garden,” he said.
* * *
We must, by now, be two or three Ahn from the palace grounds.
I would have preferred, in our projected escape, to have forced my way into one of the slave pens, one with which I was familiar. There would be, I had conjectured, two slaves there of interest, one to me, and the other, I suspected, in spite of what he might claim, to a friend of mine. Haruki, however, with an earnestness which seemed incongruous with his normal composure, had forbade this venture and I, however reluctantly, had acknowledged the wisdom of his counsel. First, the pens were guarded and locked shut. Second, there were several in the pens and the likelihood of removing an occupant or two without some sort of outcry or contretemps was unlikely. Thirdly, the slaves in which I was interested might not be in the same pen as before. The contents of that pen might have been rather special, being white-skinned slaves obtained for rice in the north, during the siege of the holding of Lord Temmu. Tajima, I recalled, had been annoyed at the lack of Pani slaves held behind those stout wooden bars. Presumably they had been gathered together and displayed for us with the supper of Lord Yamada in mind, white slaves who might be of interest to white masters. By now they might have been scattered about, transferred to any number of pens throughout the domain of Lord Yamada, where their labors might now be applied to the arrangement and care of the liquid meadows from which the shogun hoped to obtain his rice. Indeed, several might have been distributed amongst the shogun’s daimyos, for diverse purposes, field slaves, slaves to a daimyo’s wives, personal pleasure slaves to warriors, to officers, and even to the daimyo himself. And I recalled that Saru might even, for all I knew, be shackled at night in the palace itself. And, additionally, of course, adding a pair of slaves, and white-skinned slaves at that, would be unlikely to augur well for the success of our flight.
“Besides,” had said Haruki, “the march begins at dawn, and coffles might accompany the march.”
“Is that possible?” I said.
“Certainly,” he said.
I supposed that was possible. After all, there would be camp grounds to be cleared, fuel to be gathered, water to be carried, food to be cooked, clothes to be laundered, and troops to be entertained, and in the way of the slave, kissing, caressing, dancing, mat service, and such. And woe to the slave who does not do well on the mat. A free woman may disdain such things, or fail in them, even miserably, but a slave is to be pleasing, fully pleasing, and in the way of the slave. She is owned. She is a slave.
I considered the position of the moons, reflected in the water of the paddy, about my ankles.
“We are moving west,” I said.
“If all goes well,” he said, “in a day or two, we may circle about, and make our way north. We will travel largely at night. We will sometimes rest in selected villages, known to me, where we will be sheltered. When I deem the way is safe, some days from now, you may continue on, to the holding of Temmu or, if you prefer, to the nest of the demon birds.”
“You will not accompany me?” I said.
“There is no place for me in the holding of the hated Temmu,” he said, “nor in the aerie of demon birds.”
“I had thought,” I said, “that by now, for pasangs about, the countryside would have been scoured by hunters, intent on man quarry.”
“Much was done last night,” he said, “with torches.”
We had evaded search parties four times earlier, though each time in the vicinity of the palace.
“Do not forget the campaign begins at dawn,” he said. “Men must be marshaled. Daimyos have gathered. The drums and horns must sound. At such a time one does not commit hundreds of men, perhaps a thousand or more, to a search for a handful of peasants.”
“I see,” I said.
“We are not of great interest to Lord Yamada,” he said.
“I might be,” I said.
“True,” said Haruki.
“He might prefer to have me returned to the hospitality of his holding,” I said.
“He is unlikely to postpone the march of thousands of men for such a purpose,” said Haruki.
I supposed this was the case, given the exigencies of logistics.
“He is not certain of the cavalry,” I said.
“The noble one forgets,” said Haruki, “that the cavalry is likely to suppose you are still in the palace.”
“True,” I said.
“Accordingly,” he said, “Lord Yamada, has little to fear, at least at present, from the intervention of the cavalry.”
“But later?” I said.
“Perhaps not then, either,” he said.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“It is a thought I have,” he said.
“I must return, as soon as possible,” I said.
“It will take you days to reach the north,” said Haruki.
“Yes,” I said, angrily. To move directly north, of course, would considerably increase the risks of discovery. I feared that Tajima, in his flight, had made that mistake.
“I trust that the noble one, who is now to the west, and far from the road north, does not intend to shorten his journey by hastening east and joining Lord Yamada’s march.”
“Lord Yamada,” I said, angrily, “will have a start of days.”
“The noble one is correct,” observed Haruki.
“I would that I had
a tarn,” I said.
“That would be helpful,” said Haruki.
How the pasangs slipped away, beneath those mighty, beating wings!
“I looked about, I inquired,” I said. “I knew there must be two tarns, somewhere. Now I know they must have been housed close to the palace.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Haruki, wading ahead of me.
“When in the stadium the tarnsman made away with Sumomo, Lord Yamada issued orders that Tyrtaios, his servitor, was to be asaddle within Ehn, in pursuit. Indeed, on the palace road, Ehn later, I saw two tarns aflight, northward. Thus, the tarns must have been on the palace grounds, perhaps housed in the palace itself.”
“It is my understanding that such birds occasionally utter a loud, shrill cry,” said Haruki.
“Yes,” I said.
“You were in the palace, and on the palace grounds, for days,” said Haruki. “Did you hear such a cry?”
“No,” I said.
“Then,” said Haruki, “it is likely some means of communication linked the palace with a more distant point.”
“There are the laws of Priest-Kings,” I said. “Such devices are prohibited.”
“You have in mind secret, forbidden devices?” asked Haruki.
“Yes,” I said.
“I know little of Priest-Kings, or their laws, or thoughts,” said Haruki, “or that there are Priest-Kings, or that they think, but there are many ways to communicate quickly, to transmit even complex messages, explaining situations, issuing instructions, indicating directions, and such. In daylight, flags may be used, and mirrors, and at night, the movements of double torches, or the light of a single lantern, revealed, and shielded, alternately.”
“Yes,” I said, dismally, resigned, “yes.” How quick I had been to suppose illegal deceit and even perilous, surreptitious dishonesty, a betrayal of principles and understandings, a departure from implicit rules without which a game, even a mighty game on which might depend worlds, would be forsworn and treacherously subverted! But I recalled, too, that I had seen tracks on a rainy afternoon in the palace, and had sensed in a corridor the odor of wet fur, a particular scent, one I had never forgotten, one I had hitherto encountered, at various times and places, the scent of Kur.
“I am puzzled,” said Haruki.
“In what way?” I asked.
“Why do you think Lord Yamada has initiated this campaign?” asked Haruki. “Why has he acted now?”
“He believes the cavalry immobilized,” I said.
“I think there is a darker reason,” he said.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Lord Yamada is an extremely intelligent man, but also one of infinite caution.”
“It is my understanding,” I said, “that he arranges matters with care, and leaves little to chance.”
“I am a humble one, of limited understanding,” he said.
“Speak,” I said.
“I think,” he said, “something may have changed.”
“It is ‘your thought’?” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “Why does he march now? Why does he risk the intervention of the cavalry?”
“So, why?” I asked.
“I think,” he said, “Lord Yamada may have received assurances. How else can we explain what he is doing, given the ruination the cavalry might visit upon his troops and holdings.”
“‘Assurances’?” I said.
“He is doubtless wary of the cavalry,” he said, “but I do not think he now holds it to be the same dreaded, decisive unknown, on which the fate of islands might depend.”
“How so?” I said.
“It is growing light,” said Haruki. “We must seek shelter.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
In a Yamada Village We Await Nightfall
I sat cross-legged in the small hut, across from Haruki, fingering millet into my mouth. The village was one of several, most avoided, west of the road north.
It was the third day following our departure from the tunnel.
“Perhaps we will be betrayed,” I said to Haruki, looking about.
“I do not think so,” said Haruki.
“But this village is clearly subject to Lord Yamada, is it not?” I asked. I had seen the sign of Yamada, recognized from his banners, carved into the two gate posts.
“Yes,” said Haruki. “Indeed, it is one of his prime villages, one of his largest, and most prosperous villages.”
“But you have sought shelter here,” I said.
“Here, I suspect,” he said, “our presence might be the least suspected.”
“I fear betrayal,” I said.
“It is here, in such a village,” said Haruki, “where the burdens of the shogun are most sorely felt, that we are least likely to be betrayed.”
“I see,” I said.
“We occupy, and but briefly,” he said, “a small shed on the outskirts, as some others, not even within the palings. Officially the elders have no understanding that we are here.”
“It will soon be dark, and we must move, again,” I said.
“Does the noble one like his new clothing?”
“I have seldom been as grateful for the gift of a few rags,” I said.
“It is such things that peasants wear,” he said.
“I am pleased,” I said.
“When about,” he said, “have recourse to the hood, keep your head down, walk bent over, perhaps you have been injured, be humble, be timid, do not meet the eyes of others, be Pani, be peasant, let me speak for us.”
“I fear I am poorly disguised,” I said.
“Be of good heart,” he said. “We trek alone, and, amongst others, keep much to ourselves. Farther north, where we are unlikely to be sought, such precautions will not be necessary. Here, I think no more than a few marked your difference, your strangeness. Most do not even know we are here.”
“I am still uneasy,” I said.
“I know you have been troubled,” he said.
“I fear for a friend,” I said, “who is young and inexperienced.”
“The tarnsman?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “He is Tajima, an officer in the cavalry. With daring, and sustaining great risk, he fled with Sumomo, the shogun’s daughter, rescuing her but a moment before she would have plunged into the pool of death eels.”
“What is your concern?” asked Haruki.
“He fled directly north,” I said, “and so high that he might have been noted over a wide area. His line would be an easy one to mark and follow. His tarn would have been aflight before reaching the stadium, perhaps for Ahn. It may have been weary, perhaps nearly spent. It would be burdened. It would carry two. Pursuit, on fresh tarns, was soon mounted.”
“I see your concern,” said Haruki. “Please come with me.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To a nearby hut,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
We Will Depart from a Yamada Village
I swung open the small, rickety, slatted gate of the hut, awry on its wooden hinges, and peered within.
“It is hard to see,” I said.
“There,” said Haruki, “at the back of the hut, in the corner.”
“Yes!” I said.
A small figure sat there, her back against the wall, in a simple white garment, her legs drawn up. She was barefoot. Her ankles were close together, for they had been crossed, and bound. Her hands were behind her, where I surmised they, too, had been crossed, and bound. Her hair was undone, and behind her. About the upper part of her head, thrice wrapped, was a blindfold.
“Who is there?” she pleaded, softly, stirring, moving her head as though she would peer through the thick layers of cloth which swathed the upper portions of her face.
“Be silent,” said Haruki, “lest you be gagged.”
I gathered the female was to be permitted to speak only when it pleased her captors.
“It is Sumomo!” I whispered.
&nb
sp; “Perhaps, as of now,” said Haruki.
“‘As of now’?” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“How is she here?” I asked.
“By capture acquisition,” said Tajima, from the threshold. He carried, in one hand, a small lamp, a bit of tallow, with a wick, in a shallow bowl. In the other hand, he carried a small sack.
I felt flooded with relief and joy and were he another, and the time and place different, might have rushed upon him, to seize him in my arms, but I remained where I was, acknowledging his polite bow.
But I think he may have been as pleased as I.
“I recognized him, outside,” said Haruki.
This made sense to me, as Haruki might well remember him from the palace of Yamada, on the fateful afternoon and evening of the supper.
“How are you here?” I asked. “I feared you overtaken, slain or captured, two tarns, rested and fresh, in pursuit.”
“It seemed obvious that a pursuit would be mounted,” said Tajima. “Accordingly, I would, for a time, set a simple course, high and level, north, one easy to anticipate and follow, and then take the tarn down to reduce sightings and veer westward. Unfortunately, given the surprising promptness of the pursuit, which I had not anticipated, a matter of little more than a few Ehn, this stratagem failed of its intended effect. I could soon detect two far behind me but growing closer. So it continued for better than an Ahn. I could not lose them. The outcome of this matter, I feared, was clear. Shortly thereafter I took my mount into the cover of clouds, within which I would be briefly concealed, shifted my course, descended, landed, and freed the bird, which then, rising, would presumably seek its cot in the north.”
“You were then dismounted,” I observed.
“No more than you,” said Tajima.
“Perhaps the tarn would be again spotted and followed,” I said.
“That was my hope,” said Tajima, “that it would be again noted by the pursuers who might follow it, being led further and further from our position.”
It would be hard, from a distance, for a time, to ascertain that the bird was unmounted.
