Gonji: Red Blade from the East (42 page)

* * * *

Luba watched him go, hating him deeply for the embarrassing defeat he’d inflicted before all Luba’s sword-brothers, who’d taunted him incessantly about it until he’d pounded a couple of them insensible. They wouldn’t forget it until he’d proven himself against the slant-eyes. Damn him and his animal fighting style!
Soon
, you bastard....

* * * *

The silent observer watched him the longest, crouched in the shadow of the rooftops, the pain of his wound firing him with vengeful anger, but his steely eyes betraying the subtler pain of disappointment, confusion.

He watched Gonji pass within a lance-length, saw him tense with warrior’s readiness as his horse nickered and bucked anxiously. Watched him and weighed his life on the balances....

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The day of the funeral dawned bleak and heavy with leaden skies and intermittent rains of a most appropriate, mournful sort.

Following a long, dreary procession past the catafalque that displayed the bodies of Mark Benedetto, Witold Koski, and Stavro Kovacs, the sopping mourners crowded about for the brief service conducted by Tralayn in the absence of clergymen from Holy Word Monastery.

Had they known the current circumstances of the monastery, Gonji thought, they might have found the present service cheery by comparison. As it was they were growing suspicious, fearing the extent of Klann’s influence.

When Tralayn had finished delivering her eulogy and leading the congregation in prayer, the bodies were sealed into their caskets and loaded onto wagons. The blind wagon master Ignace Obradek lent what Gonji thought was a bizarre touch by supervising the loading and leading the wagon cortege himself.

It was an eerie, emotional retinue that sloshed to the lowland cemetery beneath weeping skies, as the bell tower tolled its dirge.

After the dead had been laid to rest, Gonji joined Wilf and Garth for a midday meal. Strom was typically absent, having elected to eat with his sheep in the hills, while Lorenz had traveled to the castle with Milorad in an effort to gain audience with the king.

The widow of one of Rorka’s soldiers, named Magda, ate with them, along with her two small children. The remainder of the castle refugees had already found shelter elsewhere, and these three would be leaving for new lodgings provided by the city that afternoon.

They ate in virtual silence, listening to the pattering raindrops, lost in private thoughts. Wilf, in particular, seemed rather moody, and Gonji decided the young smith was rankled by the abrupt dismissal the other night.

About the time Magda and her children were leaving, Lorenz arrived and shook his head in mute answer to the question before it could be asked:

“No. I’m afraid Flavio’s heartbroken. I had told him what to expect; so had Milorad. But we went. And we never got past the barbican. Mord appeared at the gatehouse and ordered us away, saying that King Klann has no desire to see anyone from the city. And that was that.”

Gonji groaned inside. Disappointment was mounting for him lately. Either Julian had said to hell with his suggestion or this King Klann was one hell of a recluse. And that disappointment brought another to mind.

He had been hovering near Flavio as much as possible, trying to wheedle the bodyguard position out of him without being outright importunate. No go. Gonji was getting worried, having jumped the gun and already informed Julian that he had in fact been hired by the Elder. He decided that had best be the next order of business this day. The triple funeral had placed everyone in a pliant mood. Maybe the time was right to try Flavio again.

“All right if I tag along with you today?” Wilf asked as he mounted up. “There won’t be much work done this afternoon. I’ll try not to cramp your style.”

Gonji laughed. “Be my guest, friend.”

They trotted off to the city’s Ministry of Government and Finance.

At the Ministry they found Flavio, Milorad, and a few others seated around a long table, dolefully drinking ale and wine. By Flavio’s dour countenance, Gonji judged that Milorad’s bad news still echoed in the hall.

After a few tipped goblets and a hasty judgment of just the right moment of attack—Flavio having fallen into a rare public display of maudlin sentimentality—Gonji eased the Council Elder into a small anteroom and launched the first salvo:

“Master Flavio, you have yet to answer my desperate request—no-no, don’t dismiss me with a sigh! You’re denying me a chance at meaningful duty, something I thrive on, and you’re making a serious mistake by not following the military protocol bandits like this Klann expect. And look at my purse: a fox could make his home in here! My garments are running threadbare, and I’m forced to live off the good graces of others. That alone is nearly enough justification for me to slit my belly. No,
dozo
—please—I know you’ve suffered enough morbidity for one day—I didn’t mean that. But the fact remains that this Europe
is
killing me by small increments. I remind you again—pardon my indelicacy—that Tralayn’s eulogy today might have been a trifle shorter, and the cemetery poorer by one, had I not risked my life in the forest. But then you’d all still have no closure about the fate of the boy, Mark. But...I’m treading like an oaf again on fragile ground. Forgive me....”

So Gonji went, on and on. He decided that his gesticulation was worthy of the precision of a Noh player on the gentle stages of Japan; his delivery the match of any great European thespian. And in the end, whether by the Elder’s entrapment in his cups or the vindication of Gonji’s judgment, the samurai won out:

“You’ve just hired yourself the finest bodyguard in all Europe....”

Lorenz Gundersen arrived at the Ministry, and after momentary bewilderment and a brief argument over the wisdom of the appointment—Flavio choosing the event as an entrenchment against the recent challenges to his authority—he reluctantly paid Gonji a month’s advance on the handsome wage of a bodyguard to a chief magistrate.

Just as they were completing the business of Gonji’s hiring, the Llorm emissary arrived from Castle Lenska, bearing the surprising news of the impending banquet.

Excited turmoil and cheers of triumph shattered the mawkish, funereal atmosphere of the Ministry as Flavio read the order aloud in disbelief. Self-appointed runners dashed out to spread the news.

Two days hence King Klann would throw a banquet in Castle Lenska’s great hall, to which four officials from Vedun were invited. Two were specified: the Council Elder and, curiously enough, the city’s chief blacksmith.

Garth and Tralayn were sent for.

In the animated discussion that followed the reading of the order, Gonji saw Flavio’s puzzled expression and realized they must be sharing the same thought: Only hours ago Klann had rejected any meeting. Such apparent capriciousness by the king boded ill, to say the least. An alarm rang in Gonji’s head, a memory of something half-heard striving to surface. It was submerged again as he took keen interest in the delegate selection.

“I must go, and Garth has been requested,” Flavio was saying. “Certainly Milorad should be along, as our expert on politics and protocol. Lorenz, would you like to be the fourth?”

“No, not me,” the Executor of the Exchequer answered, brushing lint from his doublet. “I’ve been there and foster no special love for the place. Besides which, I’m quite busy here. It will have to be Michael.”

“Michael, hmmm.” Flavio seemed unsure, something troubling him. “Perhaps not. Perhaps Tralayn would be the better choice.”

“Not Tralayn,” Milorad advised. “Her acid tongue would surely cause strife.”

Flavio stroked his beard absently. Gonji cleared his throat twice before he gained their attention.

“Have you forgotten your bodyguard so soon? You promised I’d get to see this fabled castle,” Gonji said, knowing full well that Flavio had promised no such thing, but rambling on, “I think I ought to be the fourth.”

Flavio pondered the request.

“You wouldn’t have to take...those, would you?” Milorad asked, gingerly indicating Gonji’s swords.

“My swords go everywhere with me, my friend. And I am, after all, the bodyguard to the Elder.”

Flavio seemed to be weighing the issue on mental scales. “Would you give me your word that you’d incite no trouble?”

“Of course—unless someone tried to harm
you
.”

“The soldiers may not allow you into the castle.”

“Should they object, I’ll back out without protest.” Gonji’s sense of integrity winced a bit.

Flavio nodded and smiled. “It’s settled then. You may be the fourth member of the party.”

“Great!” Wilf cried. “You can search out Genya for me, find out if she’s all right. Master Flavio, you’re sure the order called for the
chief
blacksmith? I mean, I couldn’t go in my father’s stead?”

Flavio shook his head sympathetically. “I’m afraid it’s very specific.”

Garth and Tralayn arrived together, stepping in out of the steady drizzle. Garth slapped his wet cap against his leg. Tralayn, her jade robes covered now with a black mantelet, seemed to have defied the very elements: She appeared hardly to have been touched by the rain at all.

Both were informed of the sudden castle invitation and were similarly taciturn about its portent, Garth dismissing his required participation with a glum joke about the tippling habits of the castle blacksmith, and Tralayn disdaining the entire affair as an exercise in futility: “Except insofar as studying the enemy,” she declared, to Flavio’s discomfiture.

“Klann is
not
our enemy,” the Elder corrected.

“I said nothing of Klann....”

Just then Michael and Lydia Benedetto hurried in out of the rain, breathless at the news, both still dressed in their mourning garb. Michael struggled to maintain his dignity when told that he would not be attending the banquet, but his evident humiliation, coupled with his almost comic physical state—the broken nose now flanked by matching black eyes—caused most of those present to look away from him self-consciously.

Something venomous passed subtly between husband and wife when Flavio finished reciting his embarrassingly weak reasons for Michael’s exclusion: his need to rest and recover, to administrate in Vedun during Flavio’s absence, and so forth. And when the couple left quietly moments later, it was clear that there was tension between them.

When they had gone, Gonji felt the need to drive off the bleak spirit that had pervaded the group over Michael’s loss of face. He flamboyantly proposed a toast to Castle Lenska and the bright promise of the coming meeting with King Klann the Invincible.

There were cries of “aye” and cheers of genuine warmth and camaraderie, and cups thrust forward in the hope of peaceful coexistence and all manner of good fortune for the city of Vedun.

* * * *

And so it was that Sabatake Gonji-no-Sadowara sat again on that beautiful hillside overlooking verdant meadows and lush pastureland, neatly cultivated lowlands and lovingly pruned orchards, and was struck by a sense of wonder and a thrill of destiny in fulfillment. Had he really been in Vedun only a few days? So much had happened. He had risen from the rank and file to positions of influence in Europe before but...never so swiftly.

And am I now near to what I’ve
sought for so very long?
he wondered.

The conviction that he was defied rational arguments to the contrary. And such strong feelings had seldom betrayed him in the past. Soon, too, he would meet this elusive King Klann face to face. He would visit the fabled aerie of Castle Lenska the Unassailable—which had been so easily assailed. He would again no doubt descry the foul wyvern, the beast that dispensed filthy death from the skies. Would it remember him? Would it finish the job it had inexplicably eschewed on that first mad night in the city?

If it was to be, it would be. That was karma.

Wilf wearied of the two empty-hand and sword
kata
he had been practicing. He sat down heavily beside Gonji, breathing in gulps and sweating with the cleansing exertion, refusing to complain of his evident aches.

Gonji suddenly became aware that he was learning to love this sturdy young German shepherd with the affection he could never tender any of his tormenting half-kin. He thought of Tatsuya, the rival brother he had been forced to kill in the fateful duel, and of Reiko, and of love gone cold; then he felt the yearning warmth as he thought of the gentle, sloe-eyed mute girl, and of the fair-haired and willful councilman’s wife. Then came the nostalgic pang for cherry blossoms and
sake
and tea and the million details of social propriety that celebrated the beauty and mystery of life. For Japan, and repudiated heritage....

And then his new-found brother was speaking in respectful tones, almost as if having read his mind, recounting Gonji’s whirlwind escapades of the past several days.

“And now you’ve become personal bodyguard to Master Flavio,” Wilf concluded, shaking his head as if bedazzled, “included with the delegation to the banquet.”