Rebels of Gor (36 page)

“Surely you understand,” he said, “that the justice of the house of Yamada cannot be gainsaid.”

“I am your guest,” I said.

“I shall mitigate her punishment,” said Lord Yamada.

“I am grateful,” I said.

“It shall not be the long death,” he said, “but something public, something which will make clear to many, daimyos, warriors, Ashigaru, retainers, many, to all, the justice of the House of Yamada. She shall tread the narrow board of the high platform of execution, thence to plunge into the deep pool of death eels far below.”

“She is your daughter!” I said.

“I have many daughters,” he said. He then sipped his tea, and, a bit later, indicated to the nearest contract woman that his small cup might be refilled.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I Converse with Haruki

The Night Singers were abroad in the fields.

It was late morning.

“Your name is Haruki,” I said.

“Yes, noble one,” said the gardener, startled. He was standing, pinching off the tips of new branches on the Blue Climber, a vinelike plant with large blue bracts amongst its common leaves, and small yellow flowers, clinging to the railing of the small bridge in the shogun’s garden. This minor pruning stimulates new branching.

“I would speak with you,” I said.

“I am a gardener,” he said. “I am unworthy.”

“Recently,” I said, “an attempt was made on the life of the shogun.”

“I have heard so,” he said.

“That is lamentable,” I said.

“It is surely so,” he said.

“You are skilled in reading weather,” I said.

“One cares for the garden,” he said.

“You can read rain,” I said, “perhaps as much as four or five Ahn, even before the clouds gather.”

“I garden,” he said.

“It rained on the night of the attack on the shogun,” I said.

“I recall it so,” he said.

“The Night Singers, returned, were quiet,” I said.

“It was the rain,” he said.

“The attack took place in the dining pavilion,” I said.

“I have heard so,” he said.

“But from the garden,” I said.

“That cannot be,” said Haruki.

“I was there,” I said.

“I do not see how it could be,” said Haruki.

“On clear nights, in this time of year,” I said, “it is my understanding that the garden is alive with the songs of the Night Singers, songs of demarcating territory, of courting, and nesting. It is also my understanding that when these lovely guests are wary, uncertain, apprehensive, or frightened, they do not sing.”

“That is true, noble one,” he said.

“Thus,” I said, “on a clear night, their silence would betoken their concern, and their concern might be occasioned by something unanticipated or unfamiliar in the garden, for example, an animal, or intruder.”

“It is true,” said the gardener, “that their sudden silence might be so motivated.”

“Their silence, then,” I said, “could be construed, by those familiar with such things, guards, servitors, even slaves, as a clarion of alarm.”

“It is true, noble one,” said the gardener. “I have work to do.”

“But on a night of rain,” I said, “as their songs desist, their silence would be unlikely to motivate an investigation.”

“One supposes not, noble one,” he said.

“It is interesting,” I said, “that the attack on the shogun should coincide with the rain.”

“Perhaps it was intended to do so,” said Haruki.

“It is conjectured,” I said, “that the assailant entered the garden through the palace.”

“It would seem so,” he said, uneasily.

“But he did not do so,” I said.

“How else could he reach the garden?” asked Haruki.

“The assailant,” I said, “was armed, and clad darkly. Do you not think it improbable that he could have ventured through a dozen corridors and thresholds and not be noticed?”

“The stealth of such assailants is legendary,” he said.

“Doubtless,” I said.

“Then,” said Haruki, “the garden having been entered earlier, from within the palace, the assailant conceals himself, and, like a sheathed knife, awaits his opportunity.”

“Surely you do not believe that,” I said.

“There is no other explanation, noble one,” said Haruki.

“There is one,” I said. “The garden, on a suitable night, was entered from the outside.”

“That is not possible, noble one,” said Haruki. “There is only one external gate, and it is guarded.”

“The assailant did not enter through the gate,” I said.

“Through the palace, earlier,” said Haruki.

“You know every hort of this garden,” I said.

“It is large,” said Haruki.

“The garden was entered, from the outside,” I said.

“It is not possible, noble one,” said Haruki. “The walls are high, and patrolled. Their crests are armed with glass, with blades and shards.”

“There is a secret entrance,” I said.

“It cannot be,” he said.

“I will show it to you, if you like,” I said.

“I know of no such entrance,” he said.

“Would you care to explain to the shogun that you were unaware of its existence?” I asked. “Perhaps he might believe you.”

“No,” he said.

“Do not touch the trowel at your belt,” I said. “I have no desire to break an arm or neck.”

He dropped his hand away from the trowel.

“The night of the attack was one of rain,” I said. “Following the attack, I secured a lantern and scouted the garden’s perimeter. It was easy, after a time, to mark footprints. Shortly thereafter I located the ring and trap, covered with branches and leaves, and the tunnel entrance.”

“Will you now summon Ashigaru?” inquired Haruki.

“No,” I said.

“I do not understand,” said Haruki.

“Some days ago,” I said, “the daimyo, Lord Akio, volunteering to demonstrate the effectiveness of a cast war fan, sought a target.”

“Yes, noble one,” said Haruki.

“He selected such a target,” I said.

“I know,” said Haruki.

“I dissuaded Lord Akio, and he, agreeably enough, if somewhat reluctantly, substituted a small tree.”

“I know,” said Haruki.

“As I understand it,” I said, “your life is now mine.”

“That is so, noble one,” said Haruki.

“I herewith, in all honor,” I said, “return it to you.”

His eyes widened.

“I seek no debtor or servant,” I said, “but a friend, an ally.”

“I will reveal no others,” said Haruki.

“Nor do I ask you to do so,” I said. “But it is my belief that others exist, and we may find them helpful, in pursuing, to an extent, common aims.”

“You are a guest of the shogun,” said Haruki.

“More his prisoner,” I said.

“You wish my help, in abetting an escape?” he said.

“Perhaps eventually,” I said, “not now.”

“I can be of little help, noble one,” he said. “I am a lowly man, a peasant.”

“You can come and go,” I said. “Few will notice you.”

“Your chances of escape are small,” said Haruki, looking about. “Ashigaru are about. Men draw in from the fields. The shogun is massing troops, for an attack north.”

“That is exactly the sort of help I need,” I said. “Information.”

“I know little, noble one,” he said.

“I do not ask you to reveal others,” I said. “But there must be others. In some way it must be possible to move messages about, perhaps even to a great distance.”

“Perhaps even to the house of Temmu?” said Haruki.

“Yes,” I said, “and if to the house of Temmu, perhaps others might transmit them farther thence.”

“To the nest of the demon birds?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“The straw jacket is unpleasant,” said Haruki.

“I am sure you have already risked that, whatever it is, and more,” I said.

“Beneath the trap is a tunnel,” he said. “It leads beyond the palace to the vicinity of auxiliary buildings, the dairy, the smoke house, store houses, some workshops, the pens. In the darkness, patrols might be eluded.”

“If I wished to hazard that egress,” I said, “I would already have done so. I want information and the means to convey it.”

“I am lowly,” he said, “a humble gardener.”

“The most lowly and most humble,” I said, “are often the most courageous.”

“Surely not,” he said.

“I think you are one such,” I said.

“The garden needs tending,” he said.

“How long have you served Lord Yamada?” I asked.

“Many years,” he said.

“I think there is little about the palace you do not know,” I said.

“I am an ignorant, simple man,” he said.

“Tell me about an empty grave,” I said.

“The child was ill-favored,” he said, “short-legged, thick bodied, homely.”

“But male,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“And thus,” I said, “was to have been strangled, as Lord Yamada has it with his sons.”

“So that none will rise to challenge him,” said Haruki.

“It was you who saved him?” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“You risked much to save such a child,” I said.

“There was once a beautiful young woman,” he said, “of poor family, of lowly and ignoble birth, of the peasants. She came to the attention of Lord Yamada, who included her, for her beauty, amongst his wives.”

“That,” I said, “is how you came to the garden?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You were her father?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I take it,” I said, “the male child, however ill-favored, was hers, and your grandson.”

“It is so,” he said.

“Still you risked much,” I said.

“I gave him to others,” he said. “He was taken beyond the wading fields. I do not know if he survived.”

“It was years ago,” I said.

“Many years,” he said.

“The child may have died, long ago,” I said.

“True,” he said. “Life is hard.”

“In the dining pavilion,” I said, “there was talk of an avenger, one who might wear upon his left shoulder the sign of the lotus.”

“There are always such rumors,” said Haruki, “for years, meaningless rumors, rumors whispered in the darkness, rumors spoken about small fires while the rice boiled, the rumor of a spared son, a lost son, an escaped son, a returning son, one who would seek his father’s blood, who would do vengeance on behalf of his slaughtered brothers.”

“But the child bore on his left shoulder,” I said, “the birthmark, the sign of the lotus.”

“It is borne by many of the strangled sons,” said Haruki. “It is borne by Lord Yamada himself.”

“Such a sign, fraudulent, was borne by the assailant, he who would have set upon Lord Yamada in the dining pavilion.”

“I should have killed the child,” said Haruki.

“Why?” I said.

“It bears the blood of Yamada,” he said.

“But it was the child of your daughter,” I said.

“And so I spared it,” he said.

“What of your daughter?” I said.

“She gave Lord Yamada daughters,” he said, “but, as she was of lowly birth, these daughters were removed from her, and, when of age, contracted.”

“She is now alive?” I said.

“No,” he said.

“I am sorry,” I said.

“She was very beautiful, more so than many of the other wives, and was a favorite. It is thought she was poisoned by higher-born wives. Lord Yamada chose ten of these by lot, and had them beheaded. Had she been of high birth he might have slain all.”

“This was years ago,” I said.

“Many years ago,” he said.

“Sumomo,” I said, “is high born.”

“Extremely so,” he said.

“Perhaps her mother?” I said.

“No,” he said. “Her mother was not brought to the women’s quarters until years later.”

“You have heard of the projected fate of Sumomo,” I said.

“It is merciful under the circumstances,” he said. “The plunge to the pool of death eels.”

“You would prefer something more grievous?” I said.

“Certainly,” he said. “She is the daughter of the shogun.”

“I am in need of information,” I said, “and the means to convey it.”

“I know little,” he said.