Which avoids the question of what terms we use for things like abominations. This is a man to quibble over the naming of things, I think.
“That . . . remains to be seen,” he said.
“Indeed, and I advise you to send to the place yourselves,” she added calmly. “Judge for yourselves; I’m a stranger, and I don’t mind if you verify what I say, that’s only reasonable, sure and it is. Go yourself, rav.”
Meshek spread his hands palm-up. “There was a . . . a breaking. Suddenly we could enter; though we were afraid, of course. And we found the buildings burning, and the two ladies and the child. Leaving was . . . was normal. The shadow of fear no longer lies over that place. If that is right, we can use it. The buildings are gone, and I’m glad of that, but the water is good even now in summer, we filled our skins. That is no small thing.”
“And the child of that evil?” the Rabbi asked.
Reiko had been mostly silent: these were not her people in the sense that they were Órlaith’s. Now she leaned forward with her hands on her knees and spoke, slowly and clearly:
“I freed Kiwako from that . . . place. And she is under my protection, and that of the Empire of Dai-Nippon . . . of Great Japan. Does this create any problems, good sir?”
He looked aside. “No. If she goes with you.”
“She does.”
Órlaith turned to the Shofet. “Whatever you decide, Judge Raanan, we must return to our friends, and soon.”
She smiled and spread her hands and turned them palm-up. “Duty calls. If we must walk, we will.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
ERETZ BNEI YAAKOV/PARTICIPATORY DEMOCRACY OF TOPANGA
(MOJAVE DESERT/TOPANGA CANYON)
CROWN PROVINCE OF WESTRIA
(FORMERLY CALIFORNIA)
HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL
(FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA)
AUGUST 22ND/HAOCHIZUKI 22ND/AV 29TH
CHANGE YEAR 46/SHOHEI 1/5084TH YEAR OF THE WORLD/2044 AD
Meshek ben-Raanan pulled up his camel and the others followed suit; the animals didn’t wear bits, but instead a hackamore bridle with the reins linked to nose-plugs. His head went up as he looked at either side of the canyon ahead of them, silent and dark in the dense heat of midafternoon, and Órlaith saw his eyes narrow thoughtfully.
“Your friends are watchful, nisicah,” he said, amusement and respect in his tone. “It’s well-done for them to be so ready for us, though we certainly left a plume of dust getting here.”
Órlaith chuckled, and pulled back the bnei Yaakov–style headcloth she was wearing to show her face and hair.
“Watchful they are, seren,” she said, feeling relief like a cramp unwinding in her gut. “Also alive, which is often the same thing. I’ll tell them the good news.”
Then she tapped the long thin stick on her mount’s rump and gave a hut-hut; she was still riding Son of a Whore most of the time, and the animal regarded her as a nuisance . . . but by now as his nuisance. It would be a long time if ever before she had the instinctive command on one of these beasts as she did on a horse, but a few days had made her competent enough that her escorts weren’t hovering near in fear of a disaster. Now she and Reiko drew in a little way ahead of the main body, halted again—prompting a peevish make-up-your-mind-bitch burble from Son of a Whore—and stood in the saddle and waved.
“All’s well and better than well!” she called, the agreed signal that she was acting un-coerced; Reiko simply gave a brief order in her own language.
What looked like a pile of dirt and waxy shrubs stood up, and turned out to be Morfind Vogeler with her bow in hand. She shook back the camouflage cape and turned to wave to someone on the rim of the split in the rock, grinning enormously as she did. Two samurai rose from behind a rock, one with a naginata and the other holding a higoyumi; they both bowed deeply.
The grin had an unfortunate effect on Morfind’s scar, but the bnei Yaakov coming up looked at it with knowledgeable and sober respect; they all knew what the mark of an ax looked like.
“Not bad,” Meshek said, looking around their camp. “Not bad at all, for wetlanders.”
He managed to convey surprise that outsiders hadn’t stood in the full sun sucking on their thumbs until their brains fried, and the irony was so subtle she wasn’t altogether sure whether he was joking or not, even with the Sword by her side.
There were twenty-one of the nomads in this party, a considerable commitment of their resources, and she’d been impressed anew with their efficiency. The Shofet had judged that a score were enough to handle the great train of camels necessary to move all of Órlaith’s party, along with baggage animals and spares. The twenty-first was Shulamit bat-Raanan, who’d turned up riding one camel and leading another after trailing them unobtrusively for days.
Órlaith grinned again at the memory of the volcanoes-and-earthquakes family quarrel that had followed, with Meshek and Dov and Shulamit all face-to-face and windmilling their arms as they shouted commands, imprecations, invocations of filial duty and citations of previous outrages, eventually going back to the time someone had dumped a roadrunner into a chicken coop and before that propped up an—admittedly dead—rattlesnake just where you were going to be suddenly face-to-face with it when you sat down in the jakes. Their tribesfolk had all looked elsewhere, some a little shocked, others trying very hard not to snigger.
In the end her brothers had relied on age and family authority, and Shulamit had countered with the simple fact that they could either let her come along or spend much time and several men sending her back tied to a saddle and constantly trying to escape.
Meshek’s eventual quietly ominous Father will deal with this had left his sister unwontedly silent for most of a day, but she’d pitched in with the chores without a word, and had helped with Kiwako as well. Right now she was not far behind her brothers, virtually squirming in her saddle with excited happiness as the exotic foreigners showed themselves.
Egawa Noboru came trotting forward. When Reiko looked at him and gave a single slight nod and touched the hilt of the sword that was no longer Kotegiri his usual stoic self-control split for a moment in a grin, and he pounded his fist into his thigh. Then he went to one knee with his right fist to the ground and ducked his head for an instant of proud delight.
Órlaith tapped Son of a Whore’s knee with the camel-stick.
“Ai, hoosh-hoosh-hoosh,” she said, and the beast knelt and went to its belly in the usual jerky front-first manner.
She dismounted in time to touch the stick to his nose and say a firm no as he looked around with idle anticipation for someone—best of all, someone who smelled strange—to bite, and/or shower with smelly green mucus. Somewhat sulkily he settled in to chew his cud instead, his huge dark eyes a guileless statement of innocence.
Heuradys hit her like a blizzard and they hugged and pounded each other on the back, the knight’s ironic reserve vanished for the moment. Greetings ran down from there through the grins and back-slaps of the clansfolk to the fist-to-chest salutes of the Associates to Macmac crawling on his belly to beg forgiveness for whatever sin had made her leave him behind, and then throwing himself into the air like a hairy wiggling porpoise in a dance of joy before trying to sniff inappropriate places to make sure she was all right.
John gave her a salute too, though he was grinning hard and looked a bit haggard. Thora and Deor were behind him. A clansman she recognized as Ruan Chu Mackenzie of Dun Fairfax was holding hands with the bard.
“Are we ready to move out?” Órlaith asked, looking up at the sun for an instant; it was around six, and about three hours to twilight. “After a quick meal—we’ve got plenty of supplies with us. These beasts can carry better than three hundred pounds each, and we’ve got scores.”
“Though I prefer a bit less weight,” Meshek said, as he came up with his siblings. “For a long trip. Peace be upon you al
l, warriors of the High Kingdom, and of Dai-Nippon.”
The introductions were polite but brisk, and matters soon went to technicalities despite several of her party bursting with curiosity; Meshek wanted to see what he’d be putting on his packsaddles personally.
Thora Garwood added some specifics—the main task would be taking down the tarpaulins, if they decided to bother—and went on:
“And it’ll be a pleasure as well as a relief to leave. The sand here gets into everything.”
Slightly to her surprise John blushed up to his earlobes, and Heuradys snorted amusement. Órlaith made a mental note to tease her brother later. The slightly leathery Bearkiller was very handsome in an austere way, but she wasn’t at all like the dewy-eyed beauties he usually tried for, and that was apart from being a decade and change older. Then again, Thora Garwood struck her as a woman accustomed to getting what she wanted.
“We can leave the bicycles,” she said instead. “With the bnei Yaakov and their camels we’ll go cross-country and save a fair bit of time not sticking to the old roads. But the horses . . .”
They trooped over to the picket line set up in the shade. The seren walked along it thoughtfully, gentle but firm with the four mounts when they shied at the smell of camel on his robe.
“These are fine horses, and in better condition than I would have thought,” Meshek said, straightening up from feeling the fetlocks of Morfind’s dappled Arab. “Nevertheless, if you try to take them with us, they will die; this land is not kind to their breed. And they would slow us before then.”
Morfind’s teeth ground. As they did, Susan Mica stepped up behind her and laid a gentle hand on her arm.
“Lirimaer, he’s right,” she said.
It carried conviction; her horse-lord people regarded their mounts as dear companions as well as wealth and symbols of position. Faramir sighed wordlessly from her other side. Her shoulders slumped. Probably nobody but Faramir and Órlaith understood when she muttered in Sindarin:
“Or he just wants to get his sand-thief hands on some good horses.”
The beasts had already lost some condition; they were also rolling their eyes and snorting and occasionally pulling at the picket line at the unfamiliar scent. Órlaith had heard that camels frightened horses unaccustomed to them, and evidently it was true.
“He is right,” Thora Garwood said.
She cocked an eye at the mass of bnei Yaakov. “Not the first time Deor or I have ridden a camel, either. For this sort of country, they’re better.”
Meshek nodded, glanced at Órlaith, and spoke: “I’ll have a reliable man bring the horses on slowly. There are enough water-holes for that, if you know where. Sachar, you’re good with horses, you see to it.”
He cocked a sardonic eye at his sister. “And we have someone to do your share of the camp chores as well as her own.”
“Ken, seren,” the man replied, roughly as you command, captain.
The bnei Yaakov loved to argue, but she’d noticed that when it came to military matters they obeyed with discipline that even Bearkillers would have approved.
Órlaith uncrossed her arms. “And now, time’s wasting. Let’s grab a bite and go!”
• • •
Reiko lowered and sheathed the Grass-Cutting Sword. “Raise your heads,” she said to her followers’ deep bows as they knelt before her.
Many of them were frankly awestruck, despite the self-control that governed their lives; they were mostly very young, after all.
Though no younger than I, she reminded herself. The effect of Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi is more . . . more subtle when it is at rest than that of the Sword of the Lady; we are a more subtle people, and older. Still, it is strong. How strong I can only sense, as if the flow of great rivers or the fall of mountains awaits my command. No wonder it was hidden away at the Shrine in the ancient times! Carrying this always at your side would tempt a God, and I am the descendant of Amaterasu, not the Immortal One Shining in Heaven Herself.
Ishikawa Goru was looking at her—when he dared to raise his eyes at all—as if she was one of the Great Kami come to Earth. Egawa was—if you knew him well—struggling against the smile that kept trying to break out.
She looked from one face to another in the fading alien light of this strange desert.
“You have followed me a very long way, my warriors,” she said as they knelt facing her.
Her eyes rose to the sunset, lurid copper and jade-green and midnight blue in the west. Beyond lay home . . .
“Through storm and battle, across oceans and this strange wasteland of thirst and rock. None of you turned back, none flinched. Those who met death met it gladly, falling with their faces to the enemy and their swords in their hands. Through their courage and discipline, and yours, the Sacred Treasure has been restored to us. I know you all, as you know me. You will not be forgotten, not by me, and not by Dai-Nippon so long as our people and our nation endure. As the names of the Seventy Loyal Men and their commander will be spoken for centuries to come, so will yours.”
Egawa flung his arms in the air. “Tenno Heika banzai!” he barked.
She knew he had always measured himself against his famous father, and driven himself to meet that standard. It was probably just dawning on him that he had now displayed equal merit. With an inner smile, she knew his sons would feel the same pride and the same burden.
“To the Heavenly Sovereign Majesty, ten thousand years!”
The samurai and the surviving sailors took it up in a crashing chorus: “Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!”
And now they are mine, she thought. Mine in my own person, not simply by the right of the title I bear. Whatever happens, I think that will endure.
“Now you are dismissed to prepare for our departure,” she said with a snap in her tone. “The road home will be as long and as hard as the one we have traveled!”
She could feel Egawa’s energy crackling from him as he came forward and went to one knee briefly.
“You have secured us the transport, even, Majesty,” he said, looking at the herd of camels farther down the canyon.
“The Montivallan Princess arranged it.”
“These are not much like the camels I saw in Korea, they have only one hump, but I assume they will serve.”
“They are of another breed, more suited to hot deserts,” Reiko said. “They can carry far more weight than a horse; even with a rider they bear over a hundred and fifty pounds on that packsaddle behind the one where the rider sits, and we have some just for baggage.”
“So we are freed from supply worries even in this desolation,” Egawa said, nodding with a professional’s appreciation of logistics.
“And over any substantial distance in this type of terrain they are faster than horses as well—more enduring. They can go for up to three days without water and they will eat anything that grows.”
Egawa began to reply, then halted as Kiwako scampered up and hid behind her, holding Reiko by the sash and peering at him dubiously around her body with a pouting lower lip. His gaze was equally pawky.
“The gaijin infant looks like a fox spirit, with those eyes and that hair,” he grumbled. “What does the Majesty intend with her?”
“I am not sure, General,” Reiko said honestly. “But she was . . . was essential to what I accomplished. Indeed, without her warning at a crucial instant in the place where the Grass-Cutting Sword lay, I might well have died. She will return with us; I will see that she receives a civilized upbringing and education, and provide for her future. She is still a wild thing, and very young; allowances must be made for her behavior until she learns better. She is to be guarded from all harm, and treated gently with no more firmness than is absolutely necessary; I strictly charge you with this and you will so inform your subordinates.”
“Hai, wakarimashita, Heika,” Egawa said, bowing.
He
understood the concept of a debt of honor perfectly, of course, and that it didn’t matter if you liked the one you owed it to.
“It will be done, Majesty.”
Since several of them including his second-in-command were right behind him, it certainly would be. She smiled as she stroked the child’s head, and at his slight expression of enquiry went on:
“I was thinking of debts of honor,” she said, and turned to bring out a long wrapped bundle from her kit. “Kneel, General Egawa.”
He did, his eyes widening as she extended it horizontally in her right hand.
“Receive this. Kotegiri is no more; now and forever it is part of something greater. But it is fitting that one of our party at least should carry a Masamune sword, here in this foreign land. Bear it as it deserves, and hand it on to your descendants in their time!”
His hands trembled slightly as he undid the wrapping. That stopped when he saw the blade within. She had had time to give it some care, and its stay in the dry desert had done it little harm. The few small chips in the edge and slight etching where salt blood had lain had been incurred long ago, in Japan. Very long ago.
“Yes,” Reiko said to his unspoken question. “It is the Honjo Masamune.”
Receiving a blade from the Tenno’s own hands was a signal honor. This one was a product of the great master-smith, each surviving one of which had its own name and history. Even in that select company the Honjo was unusual. For many centuries it had been in the possession of the Tokugawa Shoguns, the Generalissimos who had been puppetmasters to so many Emperors. To give it to a general in her service was a public statement of unconditional trust.
“But, Majesty, the Honjo Masamune was lost when . . .”
It had been lost at the end of the Pacific War, taken like many others of the famous nihonto blades by a mysterious American soldier known only by variations on his name—Cody Biltmore, or something which had sounded vaguely like that to Japanese officials as ignorant of English as he was of Japanese. Egawa’s eyes flashed to the sword by her side. Then he raised the gift wordlessly across his palms as he bowed his head.
The Desert and the Blade Page 67