by Rypel, T. C.
Michael reclined on a cot, a wet cloth over his broken nose. The city surgeon, Dr. Verrico, attended him. Beside him was Michael’s wife, Lydia, bearing a pan of water. All eyes were on Gonji. He stepped forward and bowed deeply to Michael and a bit shallower to Lydia.
“May only honor descend on this house,” Gonji said softly in Italian, “and may the spirits of your ancestors receive your brother’s spirit into their care.”
Then there were sporadic cheers, the tension dissolving, and Gonji found himself surrounded by congratulating well-wishers, whose back-slapping he found distasteful but well worth tolerating. He hadn’t been the center of such a display for a long time, and attention was, to say the least, not displeasing to him. But he continued to act with decorum, sensing that the group was in the palm of his hand.
“Welcome, Gonji,” Michael said in a nasal tone, removing the cloth to reveal his swollen nose, “and thanks for your part in the fight. I understand you did somewhat better than I, shall we say.”
“It was great!” Phlegor, the temperamental tradesman, advanced. “You looking to hire out your skills, maybe?”
“And who has empowered you to hire on behalf of the council, guildsman?” Flavio said jestingly. Then he addressed Gonji: “Thank you, friend, for your words of defense on behalf of the city.” They exchanged bows.
“Lydia, make our new guest comfortable—some wine, please,” Michael instructed.”
“Lie still there, or we’ll be removing that useless nose of yours,” Dr. Verrico urged, shaking his head.
“Why don’t you?” Lydia teased. “It’ll be a good lesson to him. A man of reason—fighting like that.” She tossed her blonde head pertly. For the first time Gonji took note of Michael’s stunning wife. “Everyone may as well settle in,” she added in a businesslike, though not inhospitable, fashion. “I’ll start the cook on an impromptu banquet—come in, come in!”
There were shouts of approval as the house filled up rapidly. People pushed in, paid respects to Michael and Flavio; then many rushed over to comment on Gonji’s amazing unarmed fighting skill. Gonji had been granted a place of honor near the center of the noisy parlor. Only slightly less popular was the obscure corner in which Garth Gundersen had seated himself, nursing his puffed lip and hideously discolored eye. Gonji felt uneasy, for Wilf was sitting here with him, toasting him repeatedly, while his father fended off the congratulations of strangers. But while Garth deplored his own lack of self-control in becoming involved in the fight, yet he was finding it difficult to suppress a grin.
“And was that a friend of yours, Gonji, who snuffed out the bastard commander?” Phlegor yelled over the muttered conversations. Supportive shouts broke from the party, as the subject on everyone’s mind was at last broached. “Cholera, that was something!”
Gonji was shaking his head, his answer drowned out.
“Hush!” Lydia commanded, surging out from the kitchen. “Such vulgarity! Is that meet talk for a proper house? Anyway, you pronounce it poorly—it’s ‘ho-LETT-a’.”
Penitent murmurs and downcast eyes, amid the embarrassed chuckling. Gonji smiled at the obvious respect tendered the councilman’s wife. He admired such feistiness in a woman.
“They say he got away,” someone said.
“Tsuh?”
“I hope so—what an incredible fighter, almost not human!”
“Did you see him jump to the top of the wall?”
“No, he ran up the side—”
“The soldiers are scared.”
Gonji chuckled. “Don’t count on them staying that way. This town would need a few more men like that before....” He let his voice trail off, shackling the thought, and took a swig of wine. “But he wasn’t a local?” he continued after a pause. “You’re all sure of that?”
“No—nein—nyet—”
“Well, I have my own theory as to who he was,” Gonji advanced tellingly.
Kegs of ale and mead, ordered from Wojcik’s Haven, the nearer inn, arrived and were dealt out with zest. A festive mood prevailed, and Gonji was warming to it, feeling accepted by the group.
A rumble of wagons sounded outside. There were calls of “Neriah-Neriah” aimed at Flavio, and the Elder rose to greet his friend at the door.
A short, portly balding man in traveler’s cloak and skullcap, with a prominent nose to rival Vlad Dobroczy’s, came bounding up the steps without. He began jabbering to Flavio as if resuming a conversation that had only momentarily been interrupted as the two embraced. This was the merchant Jacob Neriah, Flavio’s old friend, passing through Vedun with a caravan of goods for the eastern trade centers. He spoke breathlessly, and not a little like a chipmunk might.
“Friend Flavio!—what demons mark your skies?! What is this army that dogs my path, eh? Another power to which I must pay taxes? Oh, oh, oh! Things were so much simpler when we were young. There was good profit for the honest chapman, and he could keep what he earned. Isn’t that so? Now I come to do business with you, and before I get here the Hapsburgs take their tithe, the Turks extort tribute, and the Magyars steal the rest! Then highwaymen and beasts of the night devour my companions—what’s an honest man to do?! Ohhh, my head weighs heavy with my travail. On one side of the sea I ward off demons with the Torah, on the other I fend vampires with the cross of Christ—Yahweh, forgive my duplicity!”
There was hearty laughter at the chatter of the much-liked Neriah. As bread and fruit were passed out to the gathering, Flavio filled him in on the occupation of Vedun, to much head-shaking and hand-wringing by Jacob. At the grim news of Mark’s death, the merchant muttered a Hebraic prayer and sat with Michael awhile to commiserate.
The aroma of broiling fish wafted in from the kitchen. Gonji watched Lydia move about the room with serving bowls and pitchers, gliding with the grace of a gentle air current. Once when she passed near him he took in the subtlest hint of the lilting fragrance she wore, so fresh and natural that it might have been only the working of his imagination. He tried hard not to stare.
“And what do you think we ought to do about these bandits?” a stranger asked him.
“Eh? Oh, the occupying army....” He thought a moment. “Mmm—I’d say the security here is a bit too unsound for me to be bleating about that indiscreetly.”
“Wise words for all of us to consider, methinks,” Flavio cautioned over his goblet.
“Ah, but you do think something ought to be done,” Phlegor persisted, grinning knowingly.
Gonji sighed. “Interests must be protected, defended. Mercenary armies are notoriously...acquisitive, shall we say.”
“There are words of wisdom for you, Flavio,” Phlegor said.
Michael and Jacob joined the group as Dr. Verrico took his leave of them. Garth, too, quickly rose to leave when it seemed he’d be asked to join the discussion.
“This is a bad business, Flavio,” Jacob observed in a low voice as they drank, grouped in a loose circle. “I’ve seen dead soldiers wearing the Rorka crest—”
At this Gonji raised an eyebrow: the patrol he helped dispatch? Likely. He shrank a bit.
“—and in Bratislava the treasury was sacked, by bandits who sound much like these you have here. The bishopric was attacked, so they say, by fiery beings that burned the guards where they stood. And then an ogre of some sort broke into the treasury and made off with the city’s gold.” Jacob Neriah shook his head.
The men who had been at the previous night’s council meeting exchanged furtive glances, none of which were lost to Gonji.
“It’s true,” Gonji advanced. “I’ve followed in their spoor for some time. Seen villages sacked, and even—” He cut himself short just as he was about to speak of the monastery. The memory of the horrors he had seen there, of his guilt and shame, were still too poignant. A moment later he was glad he had withheld the intelligence.
“What about Holy Word Monastery?” Wilf asked. “Do you suppose Klann’s been there?”
“Hard to say,” Flavio opined. “It’s
well hidden in the mountains. Yet Father Dobret is late three days now for his monthly visit. No other monks have come to celebrate Mass or distribute communion. There are sick needing the last sacrament—perhaps the roads in the valley and the mountain passes are a-swarm with Klann’s troops and the monks fear to travel here.”
The concern over the monastery clearly ran so deep that Gonji was relieved that he hadn’t driven their spirits further underground with word of the slaughter. They’d find out soon enough, he supposed.
“I think it would be in your best interests not to let yourselves be intimidated by these soldiers,” Gonji said at length. “Go to your jobs singing boldly. They thrive on aggressiveness and are uneasy among people they can’t intimidate. Tell them legends of local protective spirits—you all heard what I told them today about the Deathwind. You saw their reaction. They have monsters to aid them, so you make up your own to keep them in their places. When they have bad fortune, blame it on the local beasts of fable. Play on their superstitious fears. Will you be going to meet with Klann soon?”
“For the present he has declined any such meeting,” Flavio said.
Lydia reached Gonji with the serving platter of steaming fish.
“Domo arigato,” he said, smiling, as she finished serving him. “And what does the councilman’s wife say of the men and monsters that have invaded her city?” He sat with his plate in one hand, the other propped on his knee, an eyebrow cocked archly, less interested in her answer than in simply hearing the beautiful woman speak.
* * * *
What a swaggering rascal, Lydia thought. And I don’t like the way he looks at me at all. An infidel, thinking only of his loins. A soldier-for-hire, and all such men believe themselves irresistibly attractive to women....
But she considered the question seriously, pondered the incredible things she had come to know since their return from Italy. She snorted sharply, daintily, in her curt-dismissal manner.
“Men are men, and should be dealt with as such. Monsters and giants are to be avoided—like steep cliffs and poisonous mushrooms—” She arched her eyebrows unconcernedly, a lovely, beguiling disdain. “—steer clear of them and they won’t bother you. There’s nothing supernatural about these things. They’re all very natural, just from the dark side, things that plague man because of his fall into sin, that’s all. Michael knows the theology much better and can explain it to you, isn’t that so, Michael?”
Michael sat with his head back, groaned something. Lydia worked as she spoke, setting pewter plates before the raptly attentive men.
“Someone has learned to bring this big...bird or whatever under his power. It’s as simple as that. There are all kinds of creatures about that we can’t possibly know of; and those we know of, but can’t understand. It’s all in God’s hands. Nothing happens but that He ordains it. And it’s certainly nothing to fight about—like children!”
This last was intended for her sullen husband, but as he again whined his rationale for entering the fight, she removed the old cloth from his swollen nose and slapped on a freshly wet one. He moaned in pain.
“Now—this house is in mourning, and we’ll have no more violent talk. We’ll fight the soldiers by not fighting. We’ll show them kindness that will shame them.”
Lydia padded off to the kitchen, hoping these wayward men had learned something from her counsel.
* * * *
Gonji smiled as Lydia disappeared, finding himself admiring her for her sturdy practicality and conviction—even if he knew her to be wrong. She seemed a very special woman.
Two men at the fringe of the conclave had been bickering in quiet hisses for a space. Now their argument became more impassioned, fired by the notice the others had taken. The two were similarly of medium height and broad-shouldered construction, but there the similarity ended. Karl Gerhard, a fletcher and hunter, had hair the hue of ripened wheat atop a long, fair face perpetually set in sadness. Aldo Monetto, a biller—who always carried one of his axes in his belt by way of advertisement—was dark and bearded, round-faced, a small mole highlighting the corner of his left eye. His features danced with constant mirth and zest for life.
One had to listen to them a long while before understanding that these two were best friends:
“I’m not going to ask him—you ask him, dummkopf!”
“Speak Italian! It’s obvious he prefers Italian. And I’m not going to ask him. It’s improper.”
“Oh—now it’s improper, after you tell me to ask him—”
Gonji held up a hand. “I wish someone would ask me already!”
The two looked at Gonji, then at each other. Finally Monetto advanced uneasily, “We’ve heard...that you had to fight several men single-handedly to retrieve Mark’s body. Is that so?”
Gonji’s heart leapt to his throat. He reached inside his kimono and scratched pensively as he shot Wilf a menacing look. Wilf gulped and shook his head. All stared at Gonji. Michael seemed about to say something.
“Where did you hear this?” Gonji asked.
“From Wilf’s brother Strom, out in the hills today,” Gerhard replied.
Gonji slumped in his seat. “Does your father keep spare muzzles on hand, Wilfred-san? That brother of yours doesn’t say much, but when he does he makes sure it’s confidential information.”
“I don’t think you said not to speak of it.”
“Well, if I didn’t, it must have been the wine.” He saw they waited for further clarification, continued: “Hai, it’s true. There was no other way for me to bring in the boy’s body—and I would appreciate your keeping this to yourselves please, eh? We’ll have a talk with Strom, for whatever good that will do. But now I must cover tracks quickly, and so I must be frank—
“Master Flavio, I want you to understand that I’m an educated man. I’m not the savage some of you think, not like these dregs who’ve invaded you. I was schooled in the arts and sciences of my homeland, and in some on this continent. I’ve been in the employ of kings here—their private employ. I understand propriety and protocol, better than most do. I have business here and wish to stay on for a time. Among other things I seek the secret of this legendary Deathwind I’ve spoken of, and I’ve been led to this territory by Christian priests. But the way things are happening I’ll soon be ripe with worms if I don’t have a justification for my presence here. This army is small, ill-trained for proper search and interrogation. They have their hands full just holding the province. They’re stretched out thin, judging by what I’ve seen. But sooner or later....
“Anyway, here’s my proposition: I need money and I need time here, and that can only mean a job. I’ve been the bodyguard to emissaries and ambassadors. I’m asking you to hire me as your bodyguard, for any reasonable fee you name.”
Flavio was already shaking his head sadly against the positive urgings of some of the others.
“I wouldn’t dog your steps,” Gonji promised. “But certainly in affairs of state you might want protection from...accidents, neh? Eventually you’ll have an audience with Klann at the castle, and I want very badly to see this storied fortress from the inside.”
“We might need a military man’s views on the troop disposition and strength,” Wilf sagely observed.
“That’s right.”
“A bodyguard,” Flavio was echoing into his goblet. “All this planning for violence. You don’t seem to understand, this is a Christian settlement. It’s wrong for those of us who embrace the cross to actively plan for violent engagement.”
Mutters of protest.
Lydia approached them. “Papa Flavio is right—enough of this talk.”
Gonji cast her a disdainful look. He found himself perversely glad to be opposed to her, in view of the futile attraction he felt for her.
“Violence is not unknown to the followers of Iasu—of Jesus,” Gonji said. “And it has always been my opinion that much of what I’ve heard could have been avoided. A bodyguard is hired to keep one out of trouble. Michael co
uld have used one today.”
There were voices raised in agreement.
“I think it might be a wise idea,” came the gently commanding voice from the doorway that hushed the others.
There stood Tralayn the prophetess, imposing in her flowing robes, framed as she was in waning sunlight. Her emerald eyes regarded Gonji, a thin smile on her pale lips. She entered and tendered greetings to each in turn, according to his state. By her very detachment and self-importance she seemed to Gonji an awesome personage. It was no wonder these people held her in such high esteem. She could be a formidable enemy in the wrong circumstances.
Michael came up to Gonji, a curious set to his face, when the prophetess had finished her greeting.
“Thank you,” he said, “for bringing us Mark’s body.”
“Do itashimashite—you’re welcome,” Gonji replied. But he felt no sincerity in the councilman’s thanks, merely social propriety. Something was ill between them.
Then Tralayn approached Gonji, returned his bow, and, after introductions, indicated that she wished to speak to him alone.
Careful, Gonji-san, he thought. That smile masks the crackling mind of a brilliant manipulator.
“I’ve been told,” she began pleasantly, “that we have a mutual acquaintance—Simon Sardonis.”
Gonji’s heart was racing. “Hai. And we alone seem to know of him, although, judging by the message I bear him, he ought to be a fairly well-known personage here.”
“Who gave you this message?” Her sparkling green eyes cut straight to the soul.
“A friend who’s concerned about him.”
“He has few like that. But you were directed to convey the message through me, isn’t that so?”
Gonji’s mind whirled. She was making an assumption there, and how could she be so sure? He could feel the proximity of something great and important. He dearly wished not to alienate this woman of mystery. Yet he said, “I think I’d like to tell him for myself.”
She paused. “He’ll not see you.”
Then he felt it screaming inside him, that exuberant sensation of destiny floating within reach just waiting to be grabbed. He allowed his suspicions, his unconscious calculations, to float to the surface. Then, bringing his sudden trembling under control, he impulsively stabbed out in the dark.