Gonji: Red Blade from the East (24 page)

The Executor of the Exchequer brought what seemed an incongruous posturing of elegance to the dinner table in his father’s humble home. He exercised reserve, spoke and ate sparingly, and occasionally appraised the samurai with probing stares and proffered what seemed to Gonji keen observations. Of those who sat at the table, Lorenz alone had changed for dinner, affecting clean flannel breeches, a broad-cut silk shirt, and an ornately brocaded vest, probably Spanish, that seemed to Gonji the apex of decadent frippery, considering their modest surroundings. The others had begun their meal with a popular local guzzling wine, cheap and readily consumed in large quantities. Lorenz, however, had popped a bottle of rare German vintage from which he had offered them each a sample with the arch observation that they would likely find it a bit austere for their palates. Gonji—always anxious to show that he was at least as cultured as any European—was the only one among them to request a second go, although he did indeed find it puckerishly dry.

Lorenz Gundersen. Eldest son. Tall and gaunt, with skin too sallow from years of poring over books and papers while hidden away from the sun. Stylish and courtly, always in command of himself. Never in social error but with senses only too keenly attuned to the indelicacies of others. Smugly convinced of his own dominance. Aloof and preening. A cat—
hai
, that was it. He was a cat.

Brother Strom could only have been a squirrel. The smallest of the Gundersens, and possessed of a rodent-like nervousness that befit his size, Strom had skittered in late from the pasture and plunged into his repast with a lack of concern for anything but his belly. Mildly bothered by Gonji’s presence, he was taciturn, pausing in his zealous ravaging of the pork only long enough to see whether the stranger was watching, from time to time. Not a worry, save for the concerns of his own little world. When he spoke it was usually to Lorenz, to ask some detail of his journey. Clearly he favored the eldest brother, who treated him with patient condescension. And the two seemed allied against Wilf, Strom falling back into a self-assured what-do-
you
-know? attitude whenever Wilf disagreed with Lorenz. A feisty little squirrel.

As for Papa Garth, Gonji’s initial assessment still held. A big bluff bear who patiently nudged his brood in the desired direction. He ate lustily, laughed heartily, and, when the conversation took a somber turn, fell into almost reverential silence. On occasion he would cast grave looks at one of his sons—usually Wilfred—if it seemed that he bordered on impropriety (or, Gonji thought, was about to advance information best withheld). Still secretive, however gracious. It occurred to Gonji to ask of the smith’s wife, but he dismissed the notion as indiscreet. The Gundersens’ home was notably lacking in feminine touches, and Gonji assumed that Garth was probably a widower.

“I want to know what’s happened to Genya,” Wilf persisted, gazing into his goblet. His eyes were glazed. Probably one round over the line.

Lorenz made a scornful snorting sound that punctuated Garth’s long sigh. “I think there are more important problems at hand right now, dear brother.”

“
Nothing’s
more important to me than—”

“Like who’ll keep the bandits and poachers away from the flocks,” Strom said to no one in particular, vapidly scratching his head. “And the werewolves.”

Lorenz tilted his head toward Strom and rolled his eyes. “There aren’t any werewolves, witless one. Not around here, not for a long time.” He twined his long white fingers around his cup and sniffed the bouquet of the wine.

“Wilfred,” Garth said, low and serious, “the girl can take care of herself.”

“What do you mean by that?” Wilf said, sluggish and surly. “She’s young and helpless and—”

“There are
so
werewolves,” Strom cut in, eyes flicking to Gonji for the merest instant. “What about that time when Junie and I—”

“Shut up!” Wilf cried out. “Enough of your werewolf talk, fool!”

They began bickering. Garth slammed a massive hand on the table, the dinner utensils snapping to attention.

“That’s enough from both of you,” he said, flushing a bit. “We’ve had enough violence done in Vedun today,
verstehst du
? Do you understand?” Both nodded and withdrew into sullen private thoughts.

“Who else besides Mark?” Lorenz asked after a space.

“Herr Koski,” Garth replied. “And Kovacs the lorimer.” He crossed himself and lipped a silent prayer.

Wilf frowned. “Lottie’s father?”

Garth nodded solemnly. “She was taken to the castle. He resisted....” His voice trailed off.

Wilf slumped back in his chair, looked at Gonji from under a creased brow. “One of Genya’s friends.”

“Why was Mark killed?” Lorenz asked.

Garth shook his head helplessly. “He was...in the woods alone. Gonji found him.” The sons looked at Gonji for elaboration, but the samurai was searching the smith’s face. A shadow—something—had briefly flitted across his eyes, tightening, deepening the lines between the bushy black eyebrows.

Guilt?

Garth’s eyes flashed with a recollection. He said to Gonji, “But didn’t you say there were three other bodies near Mark’s?”

“Is that so?” Wilf asked eagerly. “Who were they?”

“Ja,”
Lorenz put in. “Could they have been from Vedun?”

“How did they die?” Wilf added in a rush.

Garth leaned forward, arms folded on the table edge. Strom peered at Gonji distractedly, more concerned about the broadening welt of a mosquito bite he rubbed on his ankle.

Gonji strove to clear away the fuzziness the wine had brought to the fringe of his consciousness. He glanced around the table, alternating between the four pairs of eyes fixed on him and the knife with which he scraped at the remains on his plate. Tell them, or no? Can I trust them, or will they go whining off to Klann, begging his favor in exchange for this information? Ahhh, hell....

The wine, the warmth, the companionship—however uncertain—emboldened him.

“They were three of Klann’s mercenaries,” he said in measured, casual tones. He hefted his cup and gently swished his wine. “I didn’t know the boy was dead at first. I thought I might be able to save him. They were beating him.” He set down the cup, eyes narrowed.

“I had to kill them.”

Gonji studied their reactions: Garth lowered his face resolutely, as if he had expected the pronouncement. Strom held the samurai’s gaze for a moment, then looked away, mild disgust curling his lips. Lorenz seemed perturbed, confused. Wilf spied their expressions and spoke first.

“They deserved it if they killed Mark,” he said gravely. He turned to Gonji, eyes glinting with a sudden inner flame. “Three at one time?” he asked, louder than necessary in perverse, vulgar admiration.

“Wilfred!” Garth growled in reprimand. “Do you rejoice over three men’s deaths, whatever they stood for?”

“Ja!”
Wilf cried in triumph. “I’m not sorry I said it!”

“Oh, Wilfred, be civilized,” Lorenz remonstrated.

“Why?” the apprentice shouted, thick neck muscles bunching as he leaned toward his brother. “Are
they
civilized? Someone’s got to take care of them.”

Lorenz waved a hand at him in scorn, head tilting in courtly superiority.

“Well spoken, friend Wilf,” Gonji said, aware of the reproachful looks of the others. “But your father is right, too. It’s one thing to laud skillful swordplay and another to trade on the memory of killing.”

“You have a way with words—for one so quick to employ the sword,” Lorenz said incisively.

Gonji bridled at his tone. Then, as if to make amends, Lorenz tipped his cup in Gonji’s direction and drank, as if toasting him. But Gonji ignored the gesture, clamping his tankard down on the table. He caught Lorenz’s flinch and sensed that the advantage was his. He leaned forward.

“And how would you have proposed to rescue the boy?” the samurai asked sharply.

“
Ja
, brother,” Wilf advanced, “would you have bargained with them like you do with chapmen?”

“Wilfred,” Garth warned, “enough of this talk.”

Gonji wasn’t satisfied with dropping the matter as it stood. “Believe me, diplomacy didn’t work with these men.”

“You mean you faced them? It wasn’t an ambush?” Strom asked, scratching his tangled mane with a circular motion.

Gonji’s ears reddened. He felt his skill at arms being questioned here. “They all drew swords before I did.”

Strom and Lorenz eyed each other incredulously. Then the shepherd whistled softly, executed a bewildered shrug, and excused himself from the table. The valor of the deed was clearly lost on him.

“I think we’ve had enough of this, everyone—
bitte—please
,” Garth pleaded. They all relaxed, and the room fell silent.

Wilf leaned back in his chair, drinking and muttering to himself. Garth rose with an indulgent smile and lumbered off after another jug of wine, while Strom reclined on a bench in a shadowy corner and began trilling an eerie tune on a reed pipe. Lorenz absently fished about in a cowhide traveling bag filled with odd trinkets brought back from his journey.

A gust of chilly wind plied the shutters and filled the room with its big breath. Crisp, clean evening air. Itinerant breezes that had traveled to the ends of the earth and back, carrying in their wake vibrant memories, hopes and dreams and youthful fancies that fluttered through the mind and roused the slumbering promise of summers long past.

A fickle, taunting wind, Gonji decided. He pushed himself back in the sturdy oaken chair and waxed reflective, listening to the song of the wind.

And it cried. Cried for lost hope, purposeless footsteps, and untold tales of tragic love whose burden only the wind could carry. And it whispered in warning.
Hai
—tonight the wind was driven. In flight. Running before some nameless predator.

Shaking his head and stretching, Gonji forced back the stupefying warmth of the wine and the meal. Not good to be so complacent. He wiped the oily grime from his face and felt an urge to run with the wind, sharpen his senses and thews. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would go off into the hills and train: a long run, a session of strenuous exercise and
kata
, and practice with his weapons. The shoulder wound pained him, and he massaged it bemusedly, then eschewed the small comfort this brought in favor of the patience and body control that came with ignoring it.

A raven called in the distance, and several dogs began barking in a far-off quarter of the city. Strom’s piping wafted plaintively skyward; somber, wistful tones.

Garth refilled the wine cups all around, hesitating when he came to Wilf, who thrust forward his cup until it was tipped heavily with deep red wine. Garth’s lips twisted disapprovingly, and he shook his head.

Gonji looked at Garth and smiled a gentle, knowing smile. “He’ll get over it,” he said softly.

“You think so?” Wilf growled, fixing on Gonji unsteadily. “What do
you
know about it? You’re a soldier, a warrior—” He stared at the table a moment, picked up a knife and scraped at the cracks between the planks. “Women are easy for you.”

“Wilfred,” Garth murmured, low and threatening.

“It’s all right,” Gonji assured, hand upraised.

“—what do you know about caring for someone—loving a girl until you can’t stand it inside—
do you know what I mean
?” Wilf s eyes reached out to Gonji imploringly. They were brimming with tears, and as the first big drop coursed down his face, Wilf slammed down the knife and roughly brushed it away. He slumped back in his chair, sloshing wine on his knee and the floor.

“She’s alone...helpless,” Wilf continued, glaring angrily at the floor as if it were the face of a fallen enemy. “And if they harm her...I’ll
kill
them—I’ll find a way to kill them all!” He downed the wine in one huge gulp.

Strom ceased his piping. The room lay quiet.

“Hai,”
Gonji said gently, “I know how it feels.”

The others eyed him curiously. He had spoken in Japanese.

* * * *

Twilight shadows stretched and yawned and a purple sunset crept over the rim of the world as Michael Benedetto pounded along the west road toward the gates of the city. An aching upheaval still roiled in his chest. Everything he had known and depended on, all his hopes and dreams and hard-won disciplines seemed to crumble before the corrosive wave that had swept over Vedun.

His brother was dead, foully murdered. The future of the city was in doubt, and with it would collapse all that he had prepared for. Bile surged in his stomach; his brain pounded with forces that strove to tear it apart. And for all his training and sincere efforts at devotion to his faith, all that remained now was utter hatred and its attendant harpies—confusion, vengefulness, and terror. Heartfelt terror. He fancied himself a child again, running irrationally from clutching shadows and unseen horrors.