by Rypel, T. C.
“Oh, no—no, I’m sorry. It was an awful thing, terrible. I was so shocked I guess I—That was Mark Benedetto, brother of a young councilman, Michael. Thank you for having the compassion to bring his body here. It’s...but poor Michael and Lydia—” His voice trailed off, troubled private thoughts showing on his face.
Gonji studied him closely.
“You must also be hungry,” Garth observed after a space. “There’ll be roast pig and fresh bread at the Provender about now.” There was genuine concern in the smith’s eyes, and Gonji nodded gratefully but then scowled.
“I’ve been there,” he said. “Eh, let’s just say that the welcoming committee and I aren’t fast friends.”
“Oh,” Garth breathed. He brightened and slapped Gonji on the shoulder. The oriental had long since grown accustomed to these physical displays of Western affability, but he still liked them not at all. “Then when my sons return you’ll join us at our meal,” the smith offered cheerfully.
Gonji bowed. “You are most kind.”
“Not at all. You say you’re on a quest. What is it that you seek so far from home?”
Gonji smiled. “I’m not really sure, I suppose,” he said wistfully. “Only a name perhaps, or the seed of someone’s thoughts, breathed into the wind to plant itself wherever it might be carried.” He listened to the dwindling echo of his words, the poet in him smiling with satisfaction at their sound.
“It’s something of a story,” Gonji began. “You know, as the firstborn son of a powerful daimyo, a warlord, I’m heir to lands and troops and money....” An ironic headshake. “I was assimilated into my father’s disciplined culture from infancy. But from my Western mother I inherited...other things. I was always noted for my restlessness of spirit, my adventurous ways. It seemed I was always being punished for some new indiscretion I couldn’t understand in my heart. Oh, I learned my lessons well and think I possess my father’s fighting skill, but I often hurt him with my waywardness.
“And then there were the bitter rivalries with my half-brothers, his sons by his concubines. (the lie again—the simplifying lie!) They were always jockeying for the preferred position. Catching me in indiscretions. Currying my father’s favor. They knew one of them would become heir in the event of my—how do you say it? dispossession?—or death. I was always looking for ways to confound them, to show them up with my superior education and training.”
“I know something of that,” Garth interjected. “My son Lorenz—coming back today from business in Buda—such a thing for him to come back to—” He waxed grim, but the mood passed quickly. “But what I meant to say is he tends to show off his learning to the others at times. It can be a problem for a father.”
Gonji sighed and shifted position. “Well, my father had his share, and I hope yours don’t have the same end.” He paused, looked hard at Garth. “Let’s just say there were violent circumstances at last, and I had no choice but to follow my wanderlust.
“Before I left the Empire, though, I visited an old Shinto priest, my former teacher and a good friend. He used to tell me that someday I would meet with one who was very much like me—a misfit in spirit and birth, one who pondered the mysteries of the universe as I did. On this last occasion I found him on his deathbed. Before I could relate what had happened, he nodded as if he understood. Then with his last breath he set me toward the West and told me to seek out this being who might guide my destiny, someone he called...the Deathwind.”
Gonji had made this last disclosure purposely dramatic, and he caught the subtle tensing of the smith’s muscles.
“Have you ever heard the name?” Gonji asked.
Garth wiped the sweat from his wide brow and spoke casually. “Ja, maybe. It’s a legend sometimes spoken of by superstitious folk. Has it really traveled so far? Even your homeland is hardly more than a legend here.”
“No one there ever spoke it to me but this single dying priest. For ten years since, I’ve followed its trail. I’ve traveled through hostile mainland territories, barbaric wastelands, backward mountain regions—I even succeeded in acquiring a legendary name of my own along the way—the Red Blade from the East. Ever heard it spoken?”
“I don’t think so.”
Gonji was disappointed. “No matter. Anyway, I continued pushing west, learning languages, probing into folklore, soldiering in many armies, teaching battle skills.” He sighed expansively. “The name Deathwind was meaningless to most I met. In some northern places people who had heard it had another name for it—Grejkill, the Beast with the Soul of a Man. But they said no living person would or could guide me to it.
“In Burgundy I told my tale to a party of monks on a pilgrimage. They argued among themselves before admitting that they knew something of the Deathwind legend and sent me backtracking eastward.
“A few weeks ago I happened on a mad hermit, bald and blind in one eye. He tried to kill me with his staff when I brought up the Deathwind. That, eh, sort of convinced me that I was nearing my destination.” Garth hissed a breathy laugh at this, and Gonji smiled. “I had to disarm him and swear on my honor that I had been sent to seek out this elusive being by priests. And I didn’t lie: This Deathwind seems to have revealed himself only to holy men. But the hermit sent me here, to Vedun.”
“I’m sorry you’ve come to a dead end.”
“Not a dead end maybe,” Gonji responded. He recalled something. “Do you know a man named Simon Sardonis?”
Garth stiffened, and the impact of the name was unmistakable. He affected indifference as his eyes met Gonji’s. “I don’t think so. Is he supposed to be from around here?”
“I don’t know. I was given a message to convey to him by a...mutual acquaintance.” He searched the smith’s face for a reaction. It came in the form of a howl of pain as Garth leaped back from the forge, shaking his burned hand.
“Ah, what a clumsy oaf!” Garth cried. “Danke, danke—thank you,” he said as Gonji brought him a cloth with which to wrap it. “A smith gets a lot of these.”
Garth tested his hand, to his satisfaction. Gonji refilled his mug and seated himself at the edge of a workbench. The smith went back to work on Tora. A moment later a flicker of remembrance lit Gonji’s face and he went to his saddlebags, fishing out the broken halves of the gift sword.
“Do you think this can be repaired?”
Garth stepped from the forge and examined the pieces. “I think so.”
“It has a great deal of sentimental value to me.”
“If you’ll pardon me,” Garth said, “this is a brittle grade of hastily forged steel. I don’t think a warrior should depend on it much.”
“This isn’t a fighting weapon,” Gonji corrected, the apt observation not escaping him. “It’s an ornamental piece given to me by my mother shortly before she died.”
Gonji pulled his spare katana from the saddle and unsheathed the weapon for Garth’s inspection. “Now this,” the samurai said proudly, “is a weapon.” He turned the blade over to Garth.
The smith made a couple of smooth arcing passes through the air with the curved blade and nodded. Gonji studied his movements.
“Ja,” Garth said with no little admiration, “it’s beautifully balanced. It seems to cut the air with its own energy. Nicely cast...fine grip...and a magnificent edge. But—so light. Will it hold up under stress?”
“They’ll slash through armor for a strong enough fencer, and they seldom need honing. They have no match in any land I’ve seen. And that’s a rather ordinary blade, commonly owned by samurai. But this—” Gonji pulled the Sagami. It sang out of its sheath and hummed mystically as he made a blinding series of patterned strokes. “This is a Sagami,” he said reverently, “forged by one of the greatest swordmakers in all the world. A whole year in the forge. In every respect a rare and wonderful blade! The tale of how I came to own it is an adventure in itself. I carry the other because I keep telling myself such a sword is fit to be admired, not used in common battle. But it’s become part of my a
rm. And as for its strength—”
“Is our home under attack, or have we just taken on new help?” came a caustic voice.
Neither Garth nor Gonji had seen the small crowd that had gathered across the street and watched the sword exhibition in the open-fronted shop. Now both turned to face the street. Four horsemen sat in the center of the group, which nervously pressed in for a better look.
“Ah, Lorenz!” Garth cried, rushing outside. Gonji lowered his sword and held it loosely in his right hand. He walked slowly out under the canopy before the shop, trying his best to look noncommittal. Anxious faces followed him like forest animals distrustful of an intruder in their domain. The Italian wagoner stood staring at the front, eyeing him up and down. Most of the rest avoided his gaze. He wondered what bothered them most—the sword? the topknot? his eyes? It made him itch.
The smith entered into a lusty welcome for Lorenz, another of his sons, who had returned from his business venture. He was a tall slender man with hair the color of a fox’s and the delicate features of an actor. His cunning blue eyes matched the azure chapeau tilted just so over his brow, and his light mantled cloak lent him a look of cool dignity. On one finger he wore a huge golden ring mounted with a signet of office. He greeted his father courteously as he dismounted. The laughter they shared was strained, and from his terse responses and shifting edginess it was clear that Lorenz’s thoughts were focused with those of the others.
On Gonji.
For his part Gonji was trying to look nonchalant. He was succeeding about as well as a viper in a rabbit warren. He felt the hard, steady gaze of one of the other riders. A glance was enough to announce the man as yet another son of Garth; a generation hence he would be the smith if he wasn’t careful about his weight. He was about Gonji’s height but bigger boned and bulkier of muscle. A strapping young man with carelessly handsome features and a wavy brown mane. His dark eyes flickered alertly, fired now with the same passion that set his lips twitching. He had been working over the reins in a sweaty, calloused palm, and when he finally cast them down and swung from his mount, all eyes turned to him.
His eyes were on Gonji.
The angry young man pounced up to his father and brother. Garth held up a hand and stopped Lorenz in mid-sentence, but before he could speak, the other son’s words tumbled out hotly. From the first word Gonji recognized that it was he, not Lorenz, who had spoken from the saddle a moment ago.
“Well, if no one else is, I’m going to talk about it!”
“Wilfred,” Garth cautioned. The crowd held its breath.
“What’s he doing here?” Wilfred growled, pointing at Gonji. “Why is everybody so calm? What are they planning for us? What’s happened to the servants at the castle—?”
“Wilfred!” Garth cried sternly, silencing him. Gonji stared at the ground and slowly eased the Sagami back into its scabbard with a slick two-handed motion designed to serve as an eloquent warning. Garth took a step forward and imposed his gentle strength between the two men. He still absently clutched the spare killing sword.
“Calm yourself, Wilfred,” Lorenz said evenly. “We don’t even know what’s afoot here. Father?”
But Garth ignored him. “This man is our guest, Wilfred. Only a traveler. He knows nothing of this invading army. I expect you to act with courtesy, do you understand?”
Wilfred drew a shuddering breath. “I—I’m worried about Genya. I rode to the castle, and they—”
“What business had you at the castle?” Garth asked under a darkened brow.
“I wanted to know—” Wilfred barked. “—had to know what was happening to the Baron’s servants. I’m afraid for Genya. They wouldn’t let me near—what’s going to happen to them? Do you know?”
“All in good time,” Garth comforted. “There’s nothing we can do now. The council will make an effort to—”
“And in the meantime?” Wilfred said anxiously. “What am I supposed to think until we know, eh?” His eyes flitted about, finding no comfort in anything before them.
“You speak as if you were the only one affected by this matter—”
“All I know is what’s inside me, what I’m worried about,” Wilfred said on a tremulous breath.
Gonji recognized the pained understanding on Garth’s face, understanding of the confused fears of youth.
“Everyone’s frightened, my son. Michael’s brother is dead.”
“Mark—dead? How?” Lorenz asked, moving closer.
Wilfred’s eyes widened. “How?” he echoed. “These bandits?”
Garth raised a huge hand. “No one is sure. But this man brought in his body. We owe him a debt.”
They all looked suspiciously at Gonji, who at the moment was glad the subject was brought up. It gave him ample opportunity to affect a hurt look at their unkind attitude. He rubbed his beard casually and lapped up their embarrassment.
Lorenz and Wilfred both lowered their heads. Garth took note of the leering crowd again and stepped toward them. “I have a guest here. And my son has just returned from a journey. We have much to talk about. Don’t you all have work to do?” The gentle voice had swollen to a command tone that surprised Gonji.
The onlookers dispersed, some casting nervous glances at the sword in the massive fist before they left. The darkly glaring wagoner was at last alone, leaning against the corral and twisting a piece of hemp around his hands.
“Paolo,” Garth said to him, “I think your boss is waiting for you.” Paolo turned with reluctant insolence and saw that the blind old master of the wagonage was running a hand over the spokes of the wheel as it rotated on a shaft, clucking to himself and shaking his head with evident dissatisfaction. Sullenly, the apprentice moved off.
Garth returned the katana to Gonji. “My sons,” he said, “this is Gonji—eh—”
“Sabatake,” Gonji finished, bowing formally. Lorenz returned the bow in courtly European fashion. Wilfred wavered awkwardly for an instant, unsure. Then he instead strode up to Gonji and offered him his hand.
“This is Lorenz,” Garth said, puffing up proudly, “our city’s Executor of the Exchequer. The brainy one in the family—”
At this Wilfred’s eyes rolled sarcastically. His hand clasped Gonji’s tightly.
“—and, of course, Wilfred, my unruly assistant and the athlete in the family,” Garth added with the helpless amusement a father reserves for his problem child.
“Ja, the humble smith’s apprentice,” Wilfred said through a set jaw as he squeezed Gonji’s hand in a viselike grip. And abruptly Gonji found himself matching hand strength with the powerful youth. They searched each other’s eyes and clenched mightily. Then as if by some command both released at once, sharing a healthy mutual respect for each other’s thews.
“Call me Wilf,” Gonji heard him say softly. The samurai nodded and smiled.
“You’ll have to forgive my brother’s outburst,” Lorenz advanced, a touch of haughtiness in his tone. “He’s a trifle love-struck at the moment.” Gonji saw Wilf’s ears redden.
“It’s easy for you to make fun, isn’t it, ‘brainy one’?” Wilf chided.
“Enough,” Garth ordered wearily, apparently used to this sibling rivalry. “Gonji is a traveler from the fabled Far East,” he continued, eyes twinkling.
Lorenz had been wiping away trail dust from his face with a kerchief. He stopped and raised his eyebrows. “Such a long journey,” he said to Gonji. “And your race certainly has distinctive features.”
With that he walked back to his horse with indifference, as if the meeting had already been forgotten. Gonji’s eyes followed as the official climbed aboard his steed, rejoining his two mounted traveling companions. The samurai pondered whether he had just been insulted.
“We’ll have much to discuss later,” Lorenz declared. “For now I’m off to the Ministry to see what’s become of the place under this...new regime.”
“Ah—one moment,” Garth said with a halting gesture. He obtained from Gonji the gold doubloo
ns so that he might exchange them for talers. Lorenz took them without comment and tipped his hat in parting.
As he wheeled off Garth called after him, “Some bread, Lorenz! Bring back bread for our supper! And Wilfred start the meal, won’t you? Gonji will be eating with us.”
He smiled and nodded to Gonji, who bowed politely and strode toward the street, where he leaned against a hitching post and sipped wine, letting the warmth settle in him, arrest the tension. He strained to hear what was said behind him.
“We can talk later?” Wilf had asked his father. “About all this...about the castle...about Genya?” He had spoken quietly but urgently. No audible reply had come from the smith, but Gonji could feel the anxiety between father and son. It plumbed up memories of his own youth.
Hai, Gonji thought, I’ll be very interested myself to hear what you plan to do about these dregs. About Klann and his army of jackals. He could sense Wilf’s sulkiness, his anger over the sudden change that had swept through his city like the wind that presaged a summer storm. He listened to the clanging illusion of a return to normal life as Garth resumed Tora’s shoeing.
He experienced a spreading warmth that reached beyond the cheery suffusion of the wine in his belly, feeling rather good for the first time in days. Perhaps he had even made a friend. He ran his hand lightly along the hilt of the Sagami, feeling its vibrant energy, much like the sense of well-being that comes from the feel of one’s own rippling muscles.
Two young women walked by, peering first into the shop, then at Gonji. Seeing him watching, they turned their heads away, but their slightly seductive carriage belied their affected demureness. The nearer one sneaked a glance at him, and he gave her a quick wink. Her head snapped back to her path coyly, and Gonji chuckled at the game-playing and eternal optimism of youth, undaunted in the most threatening crisis. As he watched them move into the distance, he found himself yearning for the company of a woman.
He felt eyes on him and a second later locked moody gazes with Paolo, who still stared over from the wagonage while he half-heartedly plied his trade. In no mood for a staring match, Gonji ambled back into the shop.