by T. C. Rypel
And what does he have to do with him? That...king of fools.
* * * *
Paille was speaking to Gonji, dashing his reverie.
“Eh?”
“I say, friend Red Blade,” Paille repeated, clearing his throat in mock peevishness, “would it tax your Far Eastern sensibilities too severely to hear me out for a moment? I said that since my recovering from our night of crapulence I have been perpending our course of action, and it has occurred to me—”
Then Paille was unrolling a bundle of sheets on which were crude drawings. He began to declaim concerning da Vinci, and certain of da Vinci’s military inventions and designs, and something about using some of the wagon fleet as both a diversion and an offensive weapon. But although Gonji bobbed his head in a show of earnest sympathy and interjected an encouraging word now and again, his mind was focused on the far wall, where Michael Benedetto and Garth Gundersen now approached Simon. Sheepishly, in that polite, light-footed manner that both belied his burly frame and made him much coveted as a friend, Garth stepped backward gingerly a few steps and then turned softly to leave the pair alone.
Gonji watched Garth move off across the cavern, floppy cap in hand, then recalled something that had been troubling him.
“Oui-oui, Paille,” he said apologetically, “that sounds well worth looking into, but you’ll excuse me one moment, neh? Eh...continue showing the other captains. I’ll be back.”
Paille sneered. “So, my moment is up, eh, monsieur le samurai? Well, don’t blame Paille when all your plans crumble around your ears....”
Gonji intercepted Garth.
“My friend, we’ll need your sound military mind here awhile,” the samurai said, “whether you’ll be taking part in the action or not.”
Garth thought for a moment, bowed wearily and moved into step with Gonji back toward the table. But Gonji halted them suddenly.
“Garth, listen—something.... I’ve been thinking that I dreamed, or you told me—” He fumbled with his hands in perplexity. “Anyway, I keep thinking of you when it comes to mind—what is ‘the tainted one’?”
Garth’s jaw sagged. “Ja...don’t you remember—the Chronicle of Tikah Vos?”
“Ah, so desu—your parchment scroll.”
“The reference to the one Klann-child of the seven that was born...malformed...strange—something. In my years with Klann I never knew him to speak of it.”
* * * *
“Was it necessary to make so violent an entrance?” Michael asked Simon nervously. “Some of the people were—”
“Upset by the sight of the monster that’s come to them,” Simon finished. He averted his eyes self-consciously, staring down at the un-accusing beverage casks along one wall.
Michael winced. “No-no, Simon, that’s not at all what I meant.”
“What, then?”
“I meant...I meant that bringing an enemy’s corpse in here like that...so cold-bloodedly—it—it bespeaks a vengefulness, a call to bloodletting for its own sake.”
“Vengefulness,” Simon repeated hollowly. He peered up at Michael, his eyes suddenly filled with a pitiable mixture of pain, alienation, and moral confusion. “Isn’t that what you came to me and pleaded for after your brother was murdered?”
Michael stumbled back a pace, head hung low, a harpy of guilt clawing at his soul. He moved slowly to the bench where Lydia sat, expressionless.
“What’s wrong?” she asked gently.
He sighed. “Me, I suppose.”
Her brow furrowed, but she let the comment pass. “So—Simon has come back. I suppose I should have expected it.”
“If he had been welcomed as a man long ago,” her husband said in a voice fraught with self-accusation, “instead of as a thing.... If he had been accepted the way my poor brother accepted him, then maybe it wouldn’t have been necessary for him to come now. For this. Maybe Flavio would still be alive. And a lot of other people with him.”
She pondered his words. Her lips parted, but she said nothing.
* * * *
A curious surprise came to them in the cavern an hour or two later. One that refueled Wilf’s passion to get a crack at formidable Castle Lenska.
Most of the gathering had cleared to the surface. There remained a clutch of city officials, headed by Milorad and Anna Vargo, who sat on benches and clucked and fretted over the city’s immediate future. Grouped around the long table were the militia captains: Gonji, Michael, Garth, Anton, Roric, Wilf, Monetto, Gerhard, Berenyi, Szabo, and Nagy. A few pairs of militiamen had been sent up to begin apprising their assigned sectors of the alert plan. The military leaders finalized their company and squad rosters and planned the synchronized raids and pitched defenses calculated to seize back the city from the occupation force with a minimum of risk.
It was decided that if the evacuation through the catacombs and the wagon dispatch could be brought off carefully, there was a fighting chance at recovering the city. However, the grim realization of the heavy reinforcement column that was sure to hurtle down from the castle (in addition to the cretin giant and whatever else Mord might be able to raise against them from the nether-worlds—which subject was tactfully sidestepped) left the leaders rather glum.
To smother their despair, Alain Paille showed the sketches of his “armored wagons,” borrowed from da Vinci’s designs. A small thrill of optimism gripped them when they viewed the cross-sectional drawings of large commerce wagons plated in the inside with steel from the foundries and cut through with loopholes for firing at enemies. They were topped by portable cupolas for the drivers and their accompanying crossbowmen or pistoliers, and drawn by teams of armored destriers.
“Not terribly fast, given all the weight I calculate,” Paille judged, “but they’ll move. And motion will be of paramount importance, eh?”
“Rolling drum towers,” Roric described them, holding up his younger son for a better look.
“Very nice,” Gonji agreed warily, “but the practicality of their fashioning remains to be seen, neh?” Some of the optimism fled the band.
Through it all Simon sat apart from them, listening to their planning but contributing nothing. Wilfred began to wonder at this mystery man’s role, a bit miffed at his aloofness. The young smith decided he rather disliked the man and distrusted his seeming lack of dedication. After all, what vested interest had Simon in the fate of Vedun? Who was he? What did he stand to gain? And why had his identity and purpose been withheld by some of those Wilf most trusted and loved: his father, Michael and Lydia, and even Gonji?
That was when they were treated to the surprise.
One of the bushi, a provisioner, emerged from the tunnel that led to the chapel. Breathless, about to say something—But Strom Gundersen’s voice called out from the flickering lamplight of the tunnel:
“Hey, do ya mind?”
All heads in the cavern turned. Strom and Lorenz, who had ascended earlier with their alert list, returned now.
And each held by one arm...Lottie Kovacs.
Strom grinned slyly, his squirrely brown eyes searching out his father.
“Lottie!” came shouts and whispers in several voices.
Wilf gaped. “Lottie’s back,” he breathed, rushing forward to the slender blonde woman, mystified.
Anna Vargo was the first to observe social propriety, moving to the girl in her arthritic pain to hug her tearfully and offer her condolences. Others followed, leaving Wilf on the fringe, beside himself with curiosity and excitement.
“Lottie,” Wilf broke through at last, “Lottie, how did you—?”
“I smuggled her in,” Strom declared proudly, “true, Lottie?”
A small smile creased the girl’s narrow, doleful face. “Igen, Strom was very brave.”
“But what about—?”
“Hold it,” came Gonji’s paralyzing shout in High German. The samurai strode forward, scowling. “Will someone tell me what’s going on here?”
Wilf realized that they had been sp
eaking mostly in Hungarian, keeping Gonji in the dark. He grinned and waved off the sensei’s suspicion. “It’s Lottie Kovacs, Gonji—Genya’s good friend. Her father was the lorimer murdered on the day of the occupation,” he appended with a respectful head bow. But his enthusiasm returned instantly. “But how did you get away from the castle? What did Strom have to do with it? What about Genya? How is she?”
“Slowly, Wilfred,” his father cautioned. “Give the girl room to breathe.” Garth ambled toward Strom, eyeing his youngest son’s puffed posturing curiously.
Lottie flicked her gaze over their looks of anticipation, blanching noticeably when she saw Gonji stroking his beard, his dark eyes riveting her. “I—uh...it was the night the king left for Vedun, for the banquet. I just...couldn’t stand the place any longer. I arranged to be smuggled out in a dray leaving the bakehouse for Vedun, under some empty grain sacks. I was fortunate. There was no search. But I knew I couldn’t press my luck. A search might be made at the main gate to the city. So I...I slipped out in the hills. Saw Strom. I knew I could trust him, but I feared to try to enter the city. I thought they might be searching for me. Strom hid me in the hills. He insisted on helping me steal into the city when I had the courage to try. We did so tonight. When the late herdsmen drove in their flocks, we mixed with them. That was very brave of you, Strom.” She smiled distantly at him. The shepherd was red-faced and beaming.
“What about Richard?” Wilf found himself asking. “Why didn’t he try to escape with you? ‘Bun-brains’ had no stomach for it? And what about Genya?” he added in a rush, not allowing her to answer.
Lottie nodded mechanically, staring at a fixed point on the far wall. “Yes, Richard and Genya were to escape with me. But they were...detained. I...I couldn’t wait. Couldn’t bear another night in that place. So I left...without them.”
Wilf made a gesture of understanding, but a look of unease gripped him.
“Wilf,” Gonji said evenly, “tell me everything she said. Omit nothing.”
Wilf blinked. He translated her tale slowly, an aura of hostility descending over the gathering. He saw the critical looks some were leveling at Gonji. Saw the steely eyes of Simon, the eyes of a watchdog. While he spoke, Wilf noticed that Boris Kamarovsky stood at the tunnel entrance, observing nervously. Since the time Gonji had chased him and Strom from the training ground, Boris had never approached within fifty feet of the oriental.
“Strom,” Gonji called to the shepherd, when Wilf had finished, “why didn’t you bring the girl through the northern hill tunnel, if you were already concealing her in the hills?”
“Hey,” Strom grunted, spreading his hands in appeal. When he spoke to Gonji, his eyes fluttered and grew large and liquid, defensive. And his eye contact always engaged a point somewhere on the ceiling above the samurai’s head. “I don’t even know where the north tunnel comes out,” he said. “And everybody told me the catacombs weren’t safe anymore, true?”
Wilf saw Gonji’s thoughtful expression, wondered at the samurai’s suspicion. What Strom said was certainly possible. He had had no opportunity to learn of the exit of the tunnel in question, and the catacombs had been regarded as rather less than savory since the battle with the great worm.
Garth moved to his youngest son, a bit miffed at Gonji’s tone. “You could have told someone, nicht wahr?” he advised with a forced chuckle. “Not like the Strom we know, eh, Lorenz?”
“Ja,” the Exchequer agreed, smiling and cocking an eyebrow, “he usually tells me everything he’s about, if not you, Father. What’s going on in there these days, dunderhead?” He indicated Strom’s skull, but the shepherd waved him off.
“I just wanted to do something to help, by myself,” he explained, “without maybe getting other people in trouble. Hey, everybody’s always telling me I talk too much, and now you all change your minds when I keep something to myself, nicht wahr?” Oppressed and bristling, he pulled away from them, eyes darting in childlike hurt.
But Garth approached him and smiled, clamped a thick hand on his shoulder and nodded paternally. “A fair display of courage, my son. You’ve made me proud this day.”
Strom grinned, his mood brightening.
Lydia tsked and moved forward. “Lottie, dear, you look much the worse for your ordeal. You’ll need a bath, and some suitable dress—”
Anna joined her in fussing over the escapee, and it was quickly determined that Lottie should stay with the Vargos, at least until the evacuation.
At Wilf’s side, Monetto kidded Gerhard in a hushed tone.
“Your old flame, eh?” Aldo jerked a thumb at Lottie.
A wry twist reshaped Karl’s long face. “That was a long time ago.”
“Last year,” Jiri Szabo reminded him.
“Ah, she never even looked at him once,” Berenyi joked impishly. “What girl wants a hunter when she can have a ‘bun-brains’?”
Karl snorted. “Ja, she made her decision. She’d rather have tarts on her table than fresh meat every day.”
Lottie left presently with the Vargos.
Strom and Lorenz returned to the surface with Boris, and the meeting of leaders broke up. Gonji asked Garth to send for the itinerant merchant, Jacob Neriah. The smith, still rather vexed at Gonji’s suspicious treatment of his youngest son’s valor, replied sullenly that he would do so.
Wilf monitored their chilly exchange, saw Gonji stare after the departing steps of the group that included Lottie, and worried over Gonji’s strange turn of mind since their tilt with the worm-thing. How long would it be before he began suspecting even Wilf himself of being the traitor who obsessed his thinking?
* * * *
Jacob Neriah descended to the cavern with much amusing ado about his shame at having had to pass through a Christian chapel. Flavio’s dearly beloved longtime friend was nonetheless serenely resigned to the city’s commandeering his wagon fleet, if it would help wreak vengeance against the Elder’s slayers. He stayed but briefly and reentered the chapel tunnel with an appeal to Yahweh for forgiveness.
His visit had been comforting to Gonji: The likeable merchant had been the first person he’d seen treat Simon Sardonis with polite disinterest and the same social grace he would tender any man.
When he had gone, only Gonji, Paille, and Simon remained.
“I’ll be taking my leave now,” Simon said, moving for the doorless portal to the main cavern.
“Where will you be?” Gonji inquired.
Simon ignored the question. “When you’re in need of me again, I’ll be about. Bon soir.” But when he reached the doorway, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. “I hope you realize at what cost I’ve fulfilled this request of yours.”
Gonji bowed to him solemnly. “Domo arigato, Simon-san.”
“Whew,” Paille breathed when he had departed. “What in the hell did that mean?” He un-lidded his flagon and took a draught, sloshing wine over his tunic.
Gonji smiled wanly. “He’s very frank in front of you, Paille. I think he’s comfortable with madmen.”
The artist sneered. “And other Frenchmen, as well he might be—what was that all about?”
“I’m afraid this was all quite new to him. I doubt that he’s ever been in the presence of so many people before. At least...not so many who mean him no harm.”
Paille wagged his head. “Of what possible use will this...Deliverer be? I mean...he’s a powerful warrior, but—”
“I suppose we’ll all find out soon enough,” Gonji replied, leaving it at that. Gonji’s whole body by now ached with every movement. His feet were swollen, his eyes red and sore, and his back, legs, and arms felt anvil-beaten. “I need sleep.”
“Later, then. I’ll confer with the founders first about this wagon armament business.”
“Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Sleep?” Paille snorted. “I loathe those little snatches of death—especially when there’s work to be done.” He peered into the darkness beyond the main cavern doorway. “Well, at l
east his French is excellent, which is more than I can say for some of us here. He reminds me, somehow, of my brother Jacques....”
Gonji slumped heavily onto a bench. “Paille,” he said, a gleam in his eye, “why do you stay here?”
Paille’s eyebrows arched. “Why, that’s a silly question, monsieur. I have my work, of course, and the cause of freedom, which must be—”
“Stop that claptrap, and speak German or Spanish—”
“Monsieur!”
“With your talent you could find more lucrative work in the great cities. And it certainly isn’t for friendship that you stay in a place where they regard you as an eccentric, at best.”
An uncharacteristic wistfulness softened the artist’s mien. “Flavio,” he said simply. “He commissioned a painting from me, you see, while I was working in Italia. Wrote me the fondest letter of compliment I’ve ever read. I decided I could do no better than to work near such a kindly patron. I would fain tell you otherwise, were it so. Such sentimentality abrades my cynical image, but—”
Gonji’s indulgent smile hardened him again. Embarrassed to have so bared his soul, Paille said: “Go to sleep, you look terrible.”
And with that he left Gonji alone.
The samurai checked on the cavern sentries and then stretched out on a pile of blankets to sleep. Found that it eluded him. The gently lapping waves of his drifting thoughts broke against shoals of guilt.
What was the last estimate of Klann’s strength? Six hundred. Plus Mord’s unknowable power, wavering or not....
Gonji pondered what he had told them all of the evacuation on the night after the full moon, and his sense of duty assailed him over his deceit. There would be hell to pay, he knew. But it must be done this way. The interest of surprise must be served, at whatever price in the chaos that might result. But the worst of it might be the dreadful consequences of Simon’s learning that he had been lied to.
On the full moon Mord would receive a fresh imputation of satanic power....
Hai, it had to be this way.
That was karma.
At the end of the Hour of the Dragon, just as sleep overcame him, he snapped awake with a strained cry and drew steel. Wilf stood over him, ashen and goggle-eyed.