Gonji: Red Blade from the East (21 page)

Life continued in Vedun, but it was impossible not to notice the tense undercurrent, the cautious whispers. Gonji knew he was being scanned closely as he rode by. They had marked him for one of the mercenaries. Some crossed themselves as he passed.

Vedun’s major inn, prosaically called The Provender, was an imposing stone edifice fifty paces wide at its front with a high mansard roof from which jutted the gabled windows of the upper floors’ hostelry. It faced the avenue and backed up nearly against the great wall’s eastern rise. A spacious and noisy place it was, full of the sound of good cheer. And the heady cooking and beverage aromas that rushed out its windows held great promise. Gonji’s belly rumbled.

As he reached The Provender he heard a dog bark along the back lane. A voice called out a gruff hush, and a Llorm regular shooed the dog away and ascended a pocked and chipped stairway to the southeastern rampart. The soldier carried a short quiver of bolts slung over his pauldroned shoulder, a crossbow leaning on the other shoulder as he paced.

Gonji wasn’t fond of crossbows; such contraptions, like guns, seemed to take the honor out of fighting. Any idiot could plant a bolt in an enemy at a hundred paces. A conventional bow required a great deal more skill to master, and to face an opponent squarely in single combat was the truest measure of a fighting man’s mettle.

Tethering Tora, Gonji dismounted, stretched the kinks out of his back and legs, and strutted to the door of the inn. He paused a moment and viewed the interior. Several raucous bandits roared and hooted as they exchanged ribald tales and threatened one another with half-drawn swords. One trio had broken into song, each strident voice vying for pre-eminence. The place reeked of mead and ale and wine, of sweating bodies and roast pig and mutton. The townspeople occupied wall tables and spoke in whispers as they observed the rowdy outsiders.

Gonji walked in and made for the bar, where he intended to lave his dusty throat in some wine.

“Hey, slant-eyes!” came an insult from a table of swarthy brigands. These appeared fresh from a tour on some rat-infested pirate scow. Vintage Navárez. Their heads half-wound into an ale-induced stupor, the loudmouth’s cronies found the insult unbearably hilarious.

Tough guys, Gonji mused, always tougher by the bunch.

He ordered wine and turned to face the floor, elbows resting on the edge of the bar.

“Has anyone ever heard of the Deathwind?” he yelled over the din in Spanish.

The reaction was slow but startling. Gradual silence combed the inn as all eyes fell on the oriental.

“In the northern lands he’s called Grejkill,” he elaborated.

A few townsmen who understood looked from one to the other and shook their heads, returning to their conversations. The soldiers took the opportunity to appraise this unusual stranger. A few muttered comments and derisive laughs passed, then a sharp and articulate voice cut through the buzzing chatter.

“Who wants to know?”

From the opposite end of the bar, the flawlessly attired Julian Kel’Tekeli, captain of the city troops, had addressed Gonji.

“A wayfarer who was told he might find such a person in this vicinity,” Gonji said pleasantly.

Julian set down his mug and strode across the room to face the samurai. The spotless brass of his breastplate couplings gleamed in the golden bars of sunlight that slanted through the windows. He was roughly Gonji’s height and build, and in dress and mien he was the antithesis of the soldiers-of-fortune he led. Blond and fair-skinned, he had an aquiline nose and a crown of tight curls that bespoke aristocratic stock.

Polished confidence met dynamic self-assurance as they locked eyes. The room suddenly seemed too small to contain them.

“All right, wayfarer, I’ve heard of your...Deathwind, who-in-the-northern-lands-is-called-Grejkill,” Julian said patronizingly. “You see, I
killed
him—that mean anything to you?” His pretentious inflection was tailored to bring a rise from Gonji. Instead the samurai followed suit, affecting a flippant air.

“So? I’ve heard that he’s—er,
was
—a most gifted being,” Gonji minced. “Did you bring back a souvenir of your adventure—his head perhaps?”

One of the drunks guffawed, and the captain’s ears reddened.

“I don’t need to prove anything to the satisfaction of a barbarian,” Julian taunted. “You remind me a great deal of one of my men. Are you looking for work?”

A stubby lout with a three-cornered hat called over, “Hey, Cap’n, he reminds me o’ Tumo!” This brought a resounding horselaugh from the soldiers.

Gonji had no idea what was meant, but he bridled at the apparent insult. “The culture in which I was raised is in every respect superior to this pig-swill paradise. And as for work, I’m currently self-employed.”

“Really?” Julian drawled, bone-white teeth gleaming. He indicated Gonji’s killing sword. “Can you use that?”

“It’s proven useful on occasion.”

“What’s this one for?” Julian reached out delicately and touched the pommel of the
seppuku
sword. “Killing dwarves?”

Another outburst of laughter rocked the inn. Several citizens had risen from their tables in expectation of violence.

“Someday a samurai may face a situation where he must take his own life, in order to die honorably,” Gonji explained, knowing it was wasted. “This sword is for suicide.”

“Indeed?” Julian feigned astonishment. “To die honorably? You look like an honorable man. Would you care to demonstrate for us?”

More laughter from Julian’s drunken jackals. Gonji glared hard at the man without reply.
He’s forcing the issue. I’m going to have to kill him.
He gauged his chances. No. No, it would be foolish to die like this. Anger welled up in Gonji over the nuances of personal honor he had compromised since leaving his homeland.

“Look at this! He carries a spare in case he misses the first time!” One of the soldiers staggered in the doorway. He had removed from Tora’s saddlebag the ornate
seppuku
sword which had been a gift from Gonji’s mother.

Gonji snapped erect and took two steps toward the drunk, both hands at the Sagami. Chairs careened to the floor as the entire mercenary party rose and drew their blades. A few reeled drunkenly. Gonji froze, eyes rolling over their number.

Julian bounded over to the drunk at the door, who had dropped the short golden sword and also drawn on Gonji. The man gritted his teeth and challenged the samurai to advance, puffy eyes shining irrationally.

“Let me have that, Stanek,” Julian said. “Apparently one can’t have enough of these.” He picked up the
seppuku
sword and examined it contemptuously. “But one should suffice.”

He snapped it cleanly in half across his knee.

Gonji’s blood boiled. He fought for control, spoke through clenched teeth. “That was a gift from my mother,” he growled, his mind flaring.
(kill him, ronin, kill him)

Say something about her, you bastard, and I’ll go to meet her with the blood of every man in this room.

A hint of caution crept into the corners of Julian’s eyes. He weighed his words carefully. “As military commander in this city,
I
will decide when any man will dispatch himself—or be dispatched.”

“Let me lay to him, Julian,” Stanek hissed, making tight circles with his blade. Gonji’s eyes snapped to the sobering drunk. One of the townsmen whimpered, and a few slipped beneath tables for cover.

“Stanek,” Julian said coolly.

The mercenary looked to the captain. Julian’s saber flashed from its scabbard and sliced through Stanek’s chin just below the lip. He yowled as blood poured from the gash.

For all his fury, Gonji was impressed: the movement had been barely perceptible.

As Stanek fell into a chair, stanching the blood with a rag, Julian spoke to him, his mouth twisted in a cruel smile, all the while looking at Gonji. “You always address me as
Captain
or
sir
, Stanek. I’ve told you before. And remember, Stanek, that I’m far superior in swordsmanship to any crass barbarian. You’ll remember that, won’t you, Stanek?”

The injured man blubbered an assent, and Julian stepped to the bar and grabbed a rag with which he wiped his blade clean. Gonji’s gaze followed him.

Suddenly two Llorm dragoons appeared at the door. They saluted Julian and spoke to him tersely in an unknown tongue. Without a backward glance the captain nodded and sauntered out the door, confident that his display had been properly intimidating.

It was over. Gonji relaxed and pulled a rasping breath. The adventurers grunted with satisfaction in Gonji’s direction and sheathed their blades, returning to their wassail. The samurai’s eyes fell on the broken
seppuku
sword. He retrieved the two pieces, striving to control the trembling in his jaw, then strutted out as proudly as he had entered. But his insides were in turmoil.

He rationalized that it would have been senseless to die over this matter. Too many questions, too many puzzles yet to solve. There would be plenty of time to settle uneven scores later....

Bah! Rationalization—damn it all! Was I wrong to allow this outrage to pass un-avenged? I know what my father would do right now—after he had ordered me to commit
seppuku
at once!

He swung up onto Tora and trotted off the way he had come, cradling the broken sword. No wine, no food, and a seething anger broiling in his belly. Gonji was mad as hell.

Now there was still another reason for staying around Vedun.

* * * *

Michael Benedetto and Garth Gundersen arrived at the secret cave on the western slope of the valley. Their faces betrayed their terror as Michael ignited the torch and shoved aside the vine creepers which filtered an eerie lambent light into the entrance tunnel.

Garth slung the sack of cutting tools over a brawny shoulder as the tunnel widened into a small cavern. As Michael thrust the firebrand ahead as far as he could reach, an effusion of dancing hues illuminated the naked and forlorn figure chained to the cavern wall by enormous manacles. Lacerated flesh and congealed blood ringed wrists and ankles. Puffy eyes squinted at the blinding flame.

Garth averted his eyes with a pained expression. Michael sucked in a noisy breath; then a torrent of words and tears tumbled out uncontrollably.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Gonji was in an ugly mood when he entered the bath house.

The business hours, posted in three languages, revealed that the women’s hours had just closed and the men’s now opened, which was just as well inasmuch as Gonji’s mood would have made no allowances for modesty.

Three townsmen in the outer hall avoided the samurai’s gaze and rapidly finished dressing. Disrobing, Gonji obeyed an impulse and took his swords with him into the steam room, where he glowered at two nervous men and the boy who attended the coals. The men decided that they’d had enough steam and departed, and the boy never looked at Gonji again after his initial glimpse.

Undoing his topknot and luxuriating in the steam, Gonji had time to sort his thoughts and cool his temper. The soothing action of the steam plied his body, and he began to feel better. After a dip in a cool bath and a rather unsatisfactory massage from a boy with shaking hands, who seemed transfixed by his body scars and the healing shoulder wound, Gonji was on his way.

Thus refreshed, he again tried the stable. This time he saw movement in the smith’s shop. With some relief he hopped off Tora and, with an affectionate pat to the steed, entered the building.

“Are you the smith?” he asked in Spanish of the slight young man who was chipping at a staff with a small axe. He was regarded with suspicion.

“I only speak German,” the man said sullenly. And he seemed mildly dismayed when Gonji repeated his question in High German.

“No, that’s my father,” came the insouciant reply. “He’s not in.” His voice carried just a trace of lateral lisp.

“What does one do around here with a shoeless horse?” Gonji asked, not unpleasantly. The sandy-haired head tilted above the shrugged response.

“Can’t you shoe a horse? Surely the smith’s son—”

“I can, but I’m on my way to the pasture. Got to keep an eye on my sheep.” His movements were rapid, indicating nervous energy.

“When will he be back?” Gonji probed, now a bit perturbed.

“Just as soon as you please, friend.”

Gonji turned to the speaker and almost had to laugh in spite of himself. The voice certainly didn’t fit the man. Here was the burly black-bearded fellow who had been at the square with the city leaders and the dead boy’s brother. Perhaps just a shade shorter than Gonji, the smith was proportioned like a bear, with a barrel chest out of whose great lungs emanated as soft and soothing a voice as that of any Shinto priest.

Gonji bowed formally. “Sabatake Gonji-no-Sadowara. Gonji, to you.”

“I’m Garth Gundersen,” the smith said, returning the bow uncertainly, “and these are my livery stables. This is my son Strom.” The smith’s son nodded slightly. Gonji’s bow followed in kind. “Uh, you’ll have to forgive Strom. He’s my quiet one, you know. Doesn’t talk well to people, only animals.”