by John Norman
“Yes,” I said, “that he might lead me to Yamada.”
“Yamada is in the great siege camp, at the foot of the holding,” said Tajima.
“Perhaps,” I said. “But, in the earlier camp, we did not see him, as Lord Nishida reminded us, nor did we have any evidence of his presence there, other than circumstantial, a banner, a command tent, and such.”
“He must be there,” said Tajima.
“Nodachi had been missing for days,” I said, “even before our return to the holding.”
“So?” said Tajima.
“If he thought Yamada with the march,” I said, “would he not merely have waited?”
“This man of whom you speak, this Nodachi,” said Haruki, “may have been mistaken.”
“True,” I said.
“Yamada must be with the march,” said Tajima.
“If that were so,” I said, “would not Yamada be dead, or the head of Nodachi flung to the ramparts of the holding?”
“Still,” said Tajima.
“One does not always lead from the front,” I said. “The wisest of generals often commands from the rear.”
“You think Yamada is there,” said Tajima, looking away, to the east, “in the palace?”
“I suspect so,” I said. “I suspect he will be at the center of command, while his generals can manage things at the periphery. Perhaps trouble brews amongst the peasantries, which might erupt in his absence, while on campaign. Too, if I am correct, that the iron dragon is housed in the palace, it is likely that he would wish to be in its vicinity, that he might the most conveniently put it to his purposes.”
“Still,” said Pertinax, “we have made little progress here. It seems access to the palace may not be practical. Lord Yamada might be with the march. We do not really know. We cannot even be really certain the iron dragon is housed in the palace, and, if it were, we could do little about it. And we know nothing of the whereabouts of Nodachi. Certainly Haruki, who has been about, inquiring unobtrusively, diligently, after strangers, after unfamiliar warriors, after any new, unknown master swordsman in local towns and villages, has little word on the matter.”
“I am not ready to return,” I said.
“We are with you, of course,” said Pertinax.
“But Haruki has been inquiring after a master swordsman,” said Tajima.
“True,” I said.
“If swords are sheathed,” said Tajima, “how does one know a master swordsman?”
“We furnished Haruki with a description,” I said.
“It might fit a thousand persons, or none,” said Tajima.
“But few who would fit that description,” I said, “would be likely to be a two-sword person.”
“True,” said Tajima. “But what if two swords are not carried, or are not obviously carried?”
Nodachi’s cast of feature and form of body suggested a peasant origin. His face was unreadable, like stone. I did not understand the nature of the mind that might lie behind that face. I was sure it was deep, and I knew it could be dangerous. I suspected he cared for little but lonely places, meditation, and steel. He killed swiftly, efficiently. No motion was wasted. I had never seen him smile or heard him laugh. His body, not well shaped, was short, thick, gross, broad in frame. His arms were long. His typical garb was frayed and ragged, mean and uncared for, his hair, as I knew it, was shaggy, long and badly cut, unusual for the Pani, even for the peasantry. He was apparently not concerned with his appearance. How he was in himself, I suspected, was important to him, not how he might seem to others. Outwardly he was plain, even ugly and shabby. It was hard to know what lay within. Certainly there was little in the appearance of Nodachi which suggested the refinement, carriage, and authority of the typical Pani warrior. The Pani tend to be class conscious, and I think few would have taken Nodachi seriously, until they had met his eyes. He was not as other men. It was said he was the blade’s brother.
“I am sorry I have failed, noble ones,” said Haruki.
“You have not failed,” I said. “For all we know, Nodachi may have returned to the holding.”
“Is there anything of note, gardener san,” asked Tajima, “in the towns and villages?”
“I do not think so, noble one,” he said.
“Anything?” pressed Tajima.
“Nothing of interest to the noble ones,” said Haruki.
“What?” I asked.
“A beggar,” he said, “a mountebank, a gambler, a madman, who will wager his head against a bowl of rice.”
“And thus he earns his rice?” asked Pertinax.
“It is said, one bowl a day,” said Haruki.
“What is the nature of this wager?” I asked.
“It is said word of it has carried even to the palace,” said Haruki.
“What is its nature?” I asked.
“I know this only by hearsay,” said Haruki.
“Speak,” I said.
“A grain of rice is placed on the forehead of a slave,” said Haruki. “The madman then strikes fiercely at the grain of rice, and divides it, without even creasing the forehead of the slave.”
“And if he fails to divide the grain or should injure the slave?” asked Pertinax.
“Then,” said Haruki, “his head is forfeit.”
“And he has been successful?” I said.
“I have heard so,” said Haruki.
“I would see this madman,” I said.
Chapter Forty-Six
What Occurred in the Market Square
“Please, no, Master!” wept the slave.
“Make use of this one,” said the peasant. “She is scrawny.”
“You do not mind losing her?” said a man.
“No,” said the peasant.
“I have not seen this before,” said a warrior, in the livery of Yamada.
“There is a trick here,” said another, in the same livery, though, I gathered, of lesser rank. “I shall discover it, and expose this fraud.”
“The mountebank approaches,” said a man.
Tajima, Pertinax, Haruki, and I were in the crowd, hopefully inconspicuously so. Tajima and Haruki were clearly Pani, and would be likely to evoke little attention or comment. Pertinax and I were hooded, but not in such a way as to suggest an intended concealment. While barbarians, so to speak, were not common this far south, they were not wholly unknown. It was estimated, given the hardships of the early spring, the rigors of the first siege, the threat of the second siege, the overwhelming superiority in numbers enjoyed by Lord Yamada, and the fearful advent of the iron dragon in the skies over the holding of Temmu, that better than two hundred mercenaries had defected to the banners of Yamada. These were employed variously, as traitors have their uses, particularly in missions Yamada did not care to entrust to Pani, whose primary loyalty might be to their daimyo and not to the shogun.
“Let me go, Master!” begged the slave, struggling, her wrist in the peasant’s grip.
She was pretty, but not collared. Most Pani slaves were not collared. Many, however, were marked. I did think she was pretty enough to collar. On the continent, almost every slave is collared. It is prescribed by Merchant Law. I did not personally, incidentally, regard the slave as scrawny. I would have said excitingly slender, rather like Nezumi, back, I trusted, at the encampment of tarns. I did gather the master was not wholly pleased with her.
“Please, no, Master!” she begged.
“Be silent,” he said.
We were in the Yamada market town closest to the palace itself. It was called Chrysanthemum of the Shogun. The performances of the magician, the gambler, or such, supposedly, day by day, had approached this point. As mentioned, two warriors, from the palace itself, were in the crowd.
The crowd was of a goodly size, and, day by day, village by village, town by town, it seemed the fame of the magician, or fraud, had spread.
“It is a trick,” said the warrior who had insisted he would expose the magician.
“We are here
to determine that,” said the other, who, I took it, was his superior.
The slave cried out with terror, broke away from the peasant, and tried to force her way through the crowd, even to falling to her hands and knees, and crawling, but she was in short order seized, held, and returned to her master, indeed thrown to the ground before him.
“Switch,” he said, and was soon handed a flexible, peeled, supple branch.
The slave was then beaten.
She had been displeasing.
She was sobbing, and her body, her arms and legs, bore the numerous snakelike marks of her master’s wrath. Even the brief rag she wore was creased in places, and parted in others.
“Put her on her feet, tie her to the post,” said a man.
The slave was yanked to her feet, and, sobbing, thrust back against a post, and, with several loops of rope, bound in place.
“Tie her head back, by the hair, against the post,” said a fellow.
She cried out with misery.
“Good,” said a fellow.
The magician, as we shall refer to him, for that seemed to be the description most often used of him, had viewed the scene with the slave impassively.
“No, no, no!” cried the slave, struggling against the ropes, shaking her head, as she could, wildly, back and forth.
“If she moves,” said a man, “and her head is split, the wager is done, and the magician wins.”
“Of course,” said a man.
“There is a trick here,” said the skeptical warrior. “She is a confederate of the mountebank.”
“No,” said the peasant. “Not so. I have owned her from the age of eleven. She is a work slave, in the fields by day, in the kennel by night. This is the first time she has been to the market.”
I thought she was rather slight for a work slave. Perhaps that was what the peasant had in mind when he had spoken of her as scrawny. Most work slaves are strong sturdy women. I would have guessed her to be something in the order of seventeen or eighteen years old. To be sure, women mature deliciously, and early. Throughout most of human history on Earth, women were commonly mated at the age of fourteen or fifteen. Few would have reached the age of twenty without being mated. On continental Gor, it might be mentioned, women are often companioned similarly, but less so in the high cities, presumably for cultural reasons. Males, on the other hand, mature much more slowly. Whereas much is obscure here, the selections involved seem to favor early maturity in the female which increases the length of her beauty, the length of her attractiveness, the length of her child-bearing years, and such, and to postpone maturity in the male until he is capable, in strength, agility, determination, coordination, cunning, ambition, tenacity, and such, to compete with other males for, say, position, territory, and women.
“Do not be afraid, slave,” said the skeptical warrior. “You are in no danger. It is a trick.”
He then scowled at the magician, whose face betrayed no emotion.
“Fraud,” he said.
The magician remained impassive.
“This is interesting,” Tajima whispered to me. “There are two warriors here, from the palace.”
“So they are curious,” I said. “We are all curious.”
“No common soldiers are here,” said Tajima, “no Ashigaru, no common warriors. They are both officers. See the accouterments. The sashes of rank. High officers.”
“So?” I said.
“They have a purpose here,” said Tajima.
“They are just curious,” I said.
“I think another is curious, as well,” said Tajima.
“Who?” I asked.
“The shogun,” he said.
“Get on with it,” said the skeptical officer.
“I have seen this,” said a man to the slave. “Put your head back, so your forehead leans back. Close your eyes. Do not move, not in the slightest, do not even breathe until it is done.”
“Are you volunteering the use of your slave for another, or are you yourself wagering?” a fellow asked the peasant.
“I have heard of this,” said the peasant. “I wish to see it. I am wagering, a bowl of rice against a head.”
The peasant drew a thread of copper coins from his wallet, removed from it a single, tiny coin, and held it up.
“For rice,” he said, “my stake.”
“He is rich,” said a man.
This was quite possible. There are rich peasants, and poor warriors.
“Remember to hold still,” said a man to the slave, whose eyes were clenched shut.
I think she needed no encouragement in this particular.
The magician then placed a grain of rice on the girl’s forehead.
“He has a sword!” said a man.
This had appeared from the robe of the magician. Surely it had been there, but not obviously.
“It is a companion sword,” said the skeptical warrior, scornfully. “It can be handled with the delicacy of a knife.”
“Begin,” said the peasant, stepping back, interested.
“Do not move,” again a man advised the slave. I myself doubted that she could have moved, even had she desired to do so. She seemed frozen with fear.
I scarcely saw the blade move toward the slave when it was drawn back.
“The stroke was short!” laughed the skeptical officer.
The magician then touched the grain of rice, lightly, and it fell into two pieces.
A cry of astonishment and pleasure coursed through the crowd.
“Brilliant stroke!” said a man, awed.
“Skilled fellow!” cried a man.
“He could peel a tospit in flight!” said another.
“Bring the bowl of rice!” cried the peasant.
A fellow rushed away, to seek a vendor.
“Fools!” cried the skeptical officer. “Can you not see how it is done? Are you all such dolts! The blow was short, the grain of rice was already split!”
“Ah!” said a man.
A murmur of disappointment coursed through the crowd.
“So that is how it is done?” said a man.
“Yes!” laughed the skeptical officer. “What ignorant fellows, you are, what dupes!”
“Take the magician’s head!” said a man.
“Rice thief!” said another.
The skeptical officer, and his companion, I think of higher rank, turned away.
“Is that how it is done?” a man asked the magician, disappointed.
“No,” said the magician.
The two officers, hearing this, or sensing the crowd’s reaction, turned back.
“No,” said the magician, again.
“I am Izo,” said the skeptical officer, angrily, “of the guard of the shogun. I am a warrior. Do you, mountebank and peasant, lowly one, despicable fraud, speak my words false?”
“I suggest,” said the magician, who looked up, I was reminded of the way a larl might raise its head, “the honorable one is mistaken.”
“Do you call Izo, of the guard of the shogun, a liar?” asked the warrior, his hand on the tasseled hilt of his companion sword.
The crowd drew back from about the magician.
“Come away,” said his companion, gently. “We have seen what we wished to see. We have learned what we wished to learn.”
“No!” said the skeptical officer.
“He is a simple mountebank, an innocent fellow seeking rice,” said his companion. “Spare him. Do not soil your sword.”
“My honor is not satisfied,” said Izo, the skeptical officer.
By now the fellow who had rushed away for the bowl of rice had returned, apparently with a vendor’s man, who held, cushioned by layers of cloth, a large bowl of steaming rice in two hands.
“Take that away!” said Izo.
“Do not,” said the magician. “It is mine. It has been fairly earned.”
“Admit here, publicly, you are a fraud,” demanded Izo.
“No,” said the magician.
“You ar
e a fake, a fraud!” said Izo.
“No,” said the magician.
“Come away,” said the other officer, to he whom I took to be his irate subordinate.
“I will fetch a grain of rice,” said Izo, “raw, uncooked, whole, not split, and place it on the forehead of the slave.”
“You may do as you wish,” said the magician. “I have earned the bowl of rice. I do not need another today.”
“See!” cried the officer. “He acknowledges deceit, and fraud!”
“No,” said the magician.
The officer turned away, disgusted.
“Fetch your grain of rice,” said the magician, quietly.
“No, Masters! Please, no, Masters!” cried the slave.
The officer had then turned back.
“Examine it, and place it yourself on the forehead of the slave,” said the magician.
It did not take long for a grain of rice to be brought to the officer, who examined it closely, and then, satisfied, holding it between two fingers, placed it carefully on the forehead of the miserable slave.
“Where is the magician?” asked a man.
“Gone,” said another.
Izo laughed.
“No, he approaches,” said another.
Izo turned about, annoyed.
The magician was indeed approaching. But now, gripped in two hands, he carried a different sword, the heavier, longer of the two swords often carried by a warrior, the field sword.
“Is the grain of rice acceptable, and placed to your satisfaction?” asked the magician.
“It is,” said Izo.
The magician now stood before the bound slave, on whose forehead had been placed the grain of rice. She had her head back, pressed against the post, and her eyes closed tightly. She was, I think, holding her breath. He regarded her intently, measuring the distance. He moved his left foot, in its sandal, a little forward. I saw the tiny ridge of dirt moved before it. The sword, held in its double grip, held in both hands, was raised, until both hands were literally behind his head. The blade was as still as an ost before its strike. Then, like the ost, so swift one could not mark its movement, but was only aware of it a moment after, it had struck.
Two tiny halves of a grain of rice lay parted on the girl’s forehead, and she cried out, suddenly, expelling breath, and had fainted in the ropes.
