Helm

by Steven Gould

  Leland stood and walked to the window. “But Marilyn doesn’t talk about dresses and hairstyles and dancing. She talks about medicine, physics, chemistry, and engineering.”

  Margaret said dryly, “Yes. She and her sister have always been a disappointment to me.”

  Leland spun around, shocked, before he saw the laughter in the woman’s eyes. She laughed at his outraged expression. “It’s not always the women who talk about style and fashion. You should hear Sylvan on the subject of raised collars. He’s quite eloquent.”

  Leland relaxed his face, almost smiled. “I should imagine his betrothed listens to him for hours.”

  Margaret shook her head. “She’s good for about thirty minutes, I’d say. Then her eyes glaze over like yours and she develops a headache. Poor girl. The last week she’s had over a dozen sudden migraines.”

  Leland grinned.

  “By the way, Warden. I heard the most astounding story this morning from one of the guards. It seems the scion of Cotswold drank too much at Marshall de Gant’s staff reception and started beating up Mildred de Fax’s aide. They say they had to sit on him for ten minutes before he quit thrashing. Weren’t you at the reception?”

  Leland felt his ears go warm. “I was, Gentle Guide, but this must have happened after I left. Surely it’s just a wild rumor. I’m sure Guide Sylvan would never do anything so rude.”

  Margaret looked at him strangely. “Well, I’m not quite sure of that, but you never know.” She paused, then said casually, “You can’t avoid Marilyn forever, you know.”

  “What?”

  Margaret lowered her eyelids. “Don’t try to pretend. I visited my old friend Cornelius this morning. He said you practically left a hole in the air when you realized Marilyn was also attending tea.”

  Leland gulped. “I had an appointment. Besides—I feel awkward around her,” he stammered.

  “Hah! Awkward! You act like an idiot!”

  Leland glared, confused.

  Margaret continued. “Don’t you see it? It’s plain as rocks to anyone else. You both sit in the same room trying so hard to ignore the other’s presence that it’s obvious that you both want—no, need to talk to each other. You each have things to say, ideas to express, images of such complexity that the only persons in the world who’ll understand them are the two of you. At least that’s how it looks to me.” She sat back in her chair. “But what do I know?” she finished with a smile. “I’m just a scatterbrained, loose-tongued old woman.”

  Leland stared at the wall, a sunken feeling in his stomach. “Have you said as much to Marilyn?”

  Margaret frowned. “No. She’s even more of an idiot than you. She’ll spend all day putting Sylvan down until I bring up your name. Then it’s off to go riding with him. Or off to look at the moon with him. Or off to show him the view from the south rim. Then she comes back with another one of her headaches.”

  Leland looked, if possible, even more dejected.

  Margaret nodded slowly. “It’s more than ideas you want to express, isn’t it?” she said.

  Leland put his face in his hands. “I don’t know. Gentle Guide, I turn eighteen next month. I never played those games. And what does it matter? She’s betrothed to Sylvan.”

  Margaret frowned. “Only seventeen? I could have sworn you were years older. Poor boy. An old man at seventeen.” She straightened. “Oh, well. After your father, you’re probably the smartest person I know, but you’re still an idiot.”

  She reached out and grasped his jaw, turning his head toward her. “Listen to me, idiot. Marilyn isn’t married yet. Betrothals aren’t always fixed, especially this one. I don’t know what’s got into my brother’s head, but don’t think things are set in stone. The only thing that stays the same is that things change.

  “If you and Marilyn don’t start talking to each other, I’m going to break both your skulls. Even if Marilyn does marry Sylvan, she’ll still need someone to talk to—someone as smart as she.”

  She released Leland’s face. “I leave it in your hands, idiot. If you drop things, don’t expect me to pick up the pieces.”

  Leland left his guards in Charlina’s front parlor, then followed Charly through a passageway in the back of the building that connected her residence with the dojo on the street behind.

  “This is only known to a handful of people,” she said, indicating the passage walls. “It’s about the only way Zanna and I can spend time together without half the Portal Guards camping in the front room.”

  “Have you seen her since you returned?”

  Charly smiled serenely. “Oh, yes.”

  “Nine months hasn’t…well, cooled your relationship?”

  “You don’t know Zanna.”

  He slipped out of her office at the back of the dojo and, following her directions, found the men’s changing room. It was almost as large as the practice floor at Red Rock Station, and even so, it was crowded.

  “De Laal, isn’t it?”

  He looked over to see a man tying on a hakama. “Yes. You look familiar, but I’m afraid I don’t place you…”

  “Ah, well, I saw you at Marshall de Gant’s briefing last night.” He bowed. “I’m Kuart, captain of the Pottsdam Engineers.” Pottsdam was the second largest city in New New York.

  “I remember now. Please forgive me.”

  “Nothing to forgive. Didn’t know you did aikido. There’s not that many of us in the military, and I thought I knew them all.” He gave another half bow and said, “See you on the mat.”

  One of Charly’s uchideshi was waiting for him outside the changing room.

  “Sensei is in her office. She asks that I bring you to her.”

  “Certainly.”

  They passed the entrance to the practice mat. It was a huge space, as large as the main hall back at Laal Station. Leland asked the uchideshi, “How big do your classes tend to be?”

  She bobbed her head. “We often have sixty or seventy people on the mat, especially since Sensei returned from Red Rock.”

  They came to a small room adjoining the practice mat. Inside Charly was sitting seiza, dressed for practice. Across a low table from her another woman, also in hakama, sat smiling.

  Leland bowed at the entrance to the room.

  “Please come in, Leland. Thank you, Kabeca, get to class.”

  Leland sat and looked at Charly’s guest and a shock hit him in the pit of his stomach. Marilyn? But it wasn’t her. The woman was older and her hair was lighter.

  “I would like you to meet Zanna, Leland.”

  Leland bowed low. “Honored, Guide.” This woman was likely to be the next ruler of Noramland.

  Zanna frowned. “We leave those titles outside these doors. I’m pleased to meet you, Sensei. My aunt has told me a great deal about you, but she didn’t mention aikido as one of your accomplishments. But then, she characterized you as a listener, not a talker.”

  “I enjoyed my conversations with her,” said Leland.

  “Does my sister know of your involvement with aikido?”

  Leland felt his face close. “When I first met your sister, I”—didn’t really have any involvement—“well, it didn’t come up. I haven’t told her. I don’t know if anyone else has.” He looked at Charly.

  “I didn’t. When she visited me during the trip, we mostly talked about Zanna and what’s been happening at the dojo here.”

  Zanna said, “I didn’t know until today. Do you want her to know? She does study here, you know.”

  “Today?”

  Charly and Zanna laughed. “No,” said Zanna. “She’s entertaining Sylvan this afternoon.”

  Leland shook his head. “I won’t hide from her, but unless the subject comes up or I run into her on the practice mat, I’d just as soon leave things as they are.”

  Zanna and Charly exchanged glances and Charly said, “Would you teach class, Leland?”

  No! “I’m reluctant, Sensei. I’ve never even been on this mat. It strikes me as presumptuous.”
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br />   Zanna nodded. “He’s very young, Sensei.” She seemed surprised at the offer.

  “Age, Kohai?” The phrasing was a mild rebuke, but the tone of Charly’s voice was a caress. “What of ability?” She turned back toward Leland. “I ask again, humbly.”

  DO IT.

  I’m afraid.

  FACE YOUR FEAR.

  “I would be honored, Sensei.”

  Charly nodded. “Strike the clapper, Zanna.”

  “Hai.” Zanna bowed and left the room. “Is there an uke I should use?”

  “Anyone wearing a hakama—but Zanna is good.”

  “If I break the future ruler of Noramland, I could be in a bit of trouble.”

  “Try her.”

  After a moment Leland heard the loud clear sound of a wooden mallet striking a suspended wooden block. Three times the clapper sounded. The background noise—the muted talking and the rustling sound of people stretching and moving—ceased.

  Charly stood, but instead of going to the door, the one that led to the hallway, she pulled aside what Leland had thought to be a wall hanging and revealed a doorway that opened directly into the practice area.

  They both bowed onto the mat, then Charly stayed at the edge of the mat and looked at Leland.

  He swallowed and stood, walking out into the area before the kamiza. He crossed over until he was just to the left of the center line, the “junior” side of the mat, and sat facing the altar. Again, there were the two pictures. Again, something inside him rejected the picture of the woman. He waited, his eyes on the Founder’s picture, O-Sensei—great teacher Morihei Ueshiba, dead for over five hundred years.

  Help me find my center.

  After a minute of measured breathing he bowed. Behind him, he heard the creaking and rustling as the rest of the class bowed. He turned to face Charly on his knees. They exchanged bows. Then he turned to face the class, two neat rows of dark blue or black hakama and white keiko gi jackets. He bowed and said, “‘gashimas.” The class called this back to him as they bowed, a rolling echo in the large room.

  He led them through warm-ups, then called for ukemi. He sat to one side of the kamiza and watched, thinking about what he should teach.

  After five minutes he clapped his hands and they lined up.

  Face what I fear? He gestured with his hand and said, “Zanna.”

  She jumped up and they bowed to each other. Then he pointed at his right temple. She nodded.

  He leaned slightly forward and she attacked with yokomenuchi, a hand blade diagonal strike to the side of his head.

  Leland entered deeply, irimi tenkan, stepping in as he met her wrist with his hand, then turned hard, striking at her face with his free hand.

  Her eyes went wide but she moved with it, her entire body flipping over to get her head out of the way, her back arching and her feet flying up in the air. She landed, slapping hard with her free hand, her other arm still captured by Leland.

  He released her and they repeated it on the left side. Then twice more.

  “Strike with kokyu. Uke has to believe they’ll be hit if they don’t move. But be careful!” Leland told the class. He bowed to Zanna. “Thank you.”

  She bowed back and grinned, then paused for a second as if she wanted to say something, but an older student stepped forward and tapped her on her back. “Oneigashimasu.”

  “Hai,” said Zanna, and they moved off together to practice.

  Leland looked over at Charly. She was still sitting at the edge of the mat, looking at him with a smile on her face. He wrinkled his nose and bowed.

  Leland used Zanna as uke throughout the class, concentrating on irimi variations against yokomenuchi. Her ukemi was good, though she was clearly stiff in the shoulder during shihonage, a throw and immobilization that takes the wrist over the shoulder of the same arm and down to the ground. “So stiff,” he said quietly. “Relax.”

  “Hai,” she said.

  He threw her down again. She got right back up. TAKES A LICKING AND KEEPS ON TICKING.

  What rank, do you think?

  A RECENT SANDAN, PERHAPS. Third-degree black belt.

  Later, over tea in Charly’s office, he asked the same question and was told, “She would’ve tested for sandan at the Noram summer camp two months ago, but I was in Red Rock and she wanted to test before me. How was she?”

  “Very good—a little stiff in the right shoulder.”

  “Yes—that’s an old injury and another reason why Arthur distrusts me.”

  “You broke her shoulder?”

  “Dislocated it. She contracted during koshinage and fell on it right before her shodan test. It pops out occasionally unless she’s careful.” She changed the subject. “How much longer will you be in the city?”

  “Ten days, perhaps. We’re late in the marching order.”

  “How often can you teach?”

  Leland shook his head. “More? You want more?”

  “Well, why not? Is there something wrong with what you have to teach?”

  Yes.

  YES…AND NO. HOW YOU TEACH, PERHAPS.

  You’re never satisfied.

  HAI. KEIKO, KEIKO, KEIKO.

  Face my fear?

  HAI.

  “I’d like to practice every day, but that’s difficult. Do you have a dawn class?”

  Charly paused for a second. “Every other day, but this would be a good time for a week of dawn misogi.”

  RITUAL PURIFICATION THROUGH PRACTICE.

  “I could certainly use that.” Leland exhaled. “Dawn works for me—it leaves the entire day free for my other duties.”

  “I’ll announce it in my classes tomorrow. We’ll start Sunday morning?”

  “Your choice.”

  “Sunday morning.”

  Like most cities, the capital of Noram had what would be called a bad neighborhood, an area of town that fed the darker appetites of Noram City’s inhabitants. Unlike most cities, the barriers between the good and bad neighborhoods were clearly and rigidly defined.

  The Lower City was not on the rock mesa that the Upper City was. It was below, butted against the north side of the rock cliff in an area of the plain that made poor farmland because of the small amount of sunshine it received. It was a twisty warren of buildings and streets made even more claustrophobic by the perpetual gloom and the overbearing presence of the rock tower above. Naturally it was most alive at night.

  Sylvan Montrose rode into the Lower City after the twenty-minute torch-lit ride down the switchbacks. He wore a cloak, hood pulled far forward to hide his features. His two companions, one riding in front and one behind, were equally anonymous.

  The streets were crowded at this time. There were patrons moving from tavern to bar to gambling house to whorehouse. There were shills trying to drum up trade for their respective businesses. The poor were out, as well, simply taking in the free spectacle of the streets. More than once, Sylvan fought down the urge to ride over some of the clods in his way, but the agent-in-place had been clear on this. Do nothing to attract attention. Reveal our identity, he’d said, and I’ll abandon you immediately. Your father gets far too much value from my services for you to jeopardize them.

  Sylvan thought this might change soon.

  They reached an inn and the guide turned into its stable yard. A boy came forward to take their horses. Money changed hands to keep the horses out of sight but ready. Then the three of them walked to the side entrance of the inn. They were met at the door by a small man who led them not down the hall to the common room but up a narrow stairway to the second floor. He knocked quietly on a door in what was clearly a coded signal, then he squeezed back past them to return to the floor below.

  The door opened and they entered.

  The agent closed the door firmly before pushing the hood back from his face. A man, seated in the corner where the lantern threw a shadow, stood and came forward into the light. Sylvan recognized the man as an officer of his father’s bodyguard.

  “What new
s?” Sylvan asked.

  The man’s eyebrows rose. “News? That’s as good as any a word to use for instructions.”

  Sylvan’s eyes narrowed. “Little man, I’m not in a particularly good mood. Stop wasting my time.”

  The man shrugged. “As you wish. Your father refuses you permission to kill the warden. His specific words were ‘Tell Sylvan that his life is less important than Leland de Laal’s. I have specific plans for that young man.’” The messenger smirked, clearly enjoying this. “Our steward instead wishes the warden kidnapped, but only if this can be accomplished without risk to the warden or our relations with Noram.”

  Sylvan swore so loudly that the agent raised his hand and said, “You want to be discovered? Keep quiet!” The agent turned to the messenger and said, “Was there anything else?”

  “Yes. The high steward wants to know if Leland travels with the Helm. Also if our young guide has bedded the gentle guide yet.”

  The agent turned expectantly to Sylvan.

  “There’s been no sign of the Helm.” Sylvan growled. “And no! I’ve never been able to get her alone long enough.”

  The messenger hid a grin behind his hand, but not very well. Beneath his cloak, Sylvan’s hand closed on his dagger. The messenger said, “Your father said to remind you that he isn’t that sure of Arthur’s commitment. Get the girl totally committed to you as quickly as possible. These Noram are sentimental. If she’s pregnant with your child, Arthur is less likely to back out.”

  “I’m working on it, little man! You may rest assured that it’s only a matter of time.”

  The messenger smirked again. “Years or decades?”

  Sylvan wiped the rage from his face. He smiled slightly. “Do you have any more instructions from my father?”

  “No,” said the messenger, suddenly less cocky.

  Sylvan turned away from him, toward the agent. “Are you ready to leave?” he asked.

  The agent nodded. “Yes, Guide.”

  Sylvan shrugged and lifted one hand to pull his hood up. Under cover of that motion he spun suddenly, steel flashing in the lamplight. The dagger went in under the messenger’s jaw and up into the brain. The man arched back, his arms convulsing. He gave a bubbling, muted cry, barely heard as it was literally pinned within his throat. Blood poured out of the man’s nose and mouth. More blood gushed down the dagger and onto Sylvan’s glove. One-handed, Sylvan held the man up on his toes until the spasming stopped, then he took a step forward, yanked the dagger free with a jerk, and let the corpse fall into the dark corner.