The wives and children – who had found their husbands and fathers ‘not quite themselves’ – were among the first to be left behind, and then their armed escort was replaced by samurai from the Inner Household; a group of young, expressionless look-alikes, dressed in loose flowing short-sleeved robes, drawn in at the waist by a wide sash into which the scabbards of their long and short swords were inserted.
Cadillac and Roz were still dressed in the clothes and armour they had acquired at Sioux Falls. Having found enough bits and pieces to fit him, Cadillac had declined the offer of fresh clothes at both O-shawa and Osa-wego – all of which were on the small side. Tojo and Akori had accepted his request to be allowed to retain their uniforms. He and his ‘wounded’ companion, said Cadillac, were bringing a report direct from the battlefield, and they wished to present themselves to the Regent, bearing the scars of that bloody conflict out of respect for their fallen comrades.
As senior military officers, Shinoda and Mitsunari were allowed to bear arms inside the palace, but when entering the presence of the ruling members of the family they served, protocol demanded that they carry their helmets tucked under their left arm, and their two sheathed swords in their right hand.
The small procession halted outside the two large sliding screens that led to the audience chamber. Six guards stood outside. After bowing to Tojo and Akori, one of them knocked on the wooden frame. The right-hand screen slid open a few inches to reveal another guard inside. Whispers were exchanged. The screen slid shut, then a moment later, both were drawn back revealing a large room covered in spotless tatami, with a raised dais at the far end.
Tojo and Akori entered the room, exchanged formal greetings with the Regent Aishi Sakimoto, then took their places on the low platform behind the six family council members already seated on either side of Sakimoto. Cadillac and Roz strode forward on his signal to enter. Six archers and six swordsmen were positioned around the edge of the room. The quartet of look-alikes stepped inside and the screens were shut by the guards in the corridor.
These people certainly believed in protection. Some of it was a sign of status, but it wasn’t just that. Cadillac had visited the palace of Domain-Lord Min-Orota and it had been the same story. Like Min-Orota, Sakimoto and the people around him were at the top of their particular tree but at what price? They lived behind eight-foot-thick stone walls, guarded night and day, haunted by suspicions and the constant fear of assassination. What a way to live!
Bowing low from the waist, Cadillac offered formal salutations, explaining that he also spoke for his wounded companion. On receiving the nod from Sakimoto, he and Roz dropped to their knees on the special mats provided. Cadillac laid his helmet on the left hand side of his mat and the two swords on the right, parallel with each other and with their hilts in line with the front edge of the mat. Roz, following his lead, did likewise.
Sakimoto expressed his satisfaction at their safe return, but his brusque manner made it clear that their state of health was of minor concern. What Sakimoto wanted to know was how one of his top generals had apparently managed to lose an entire expedition.
Cadillac was only too happy to oblige. Having already tested his story on the Cheboygan Resident, Cadillac had added more colour and drama to the weaker passages and was only too happy to step into the limelight with some spell-binding of his own.
Sakimoto, like the rest of Cadillac’s audience, was impressed, but not to the point where he forgot the bottom line. When the person he thought of as Samurai-General Shinoda finished his story with a bow, Sakimoto eyed him pensively then said: This is, without doubt, a startling tale. And since it accords in many respects with other reports – albeit it from highly unreliable sources – I do not intend at this stage to question the veracity of the information you have laid before us.
‘But I think it is right to question the state of mind of a person who brings such a story to me. You and Samurai-Major Mitsunari…’
Roz bowed as Sakimoto’s eyes rested briefly upon her.
‘… are the sole survivors of a military expedition numbering some two thousand men, carried into action aboard five of our largest wheel-boats! Someone less charitably disposed towards you than myself might be tempted into thinking that this story of "Mute magic" was concocted to conceal a degree of incompetence bordering on the criminal!’
‘On the contrary, sire,’ said Shinoda with a deep bow. ‘We seek to hide nothing. Those who in the past dismissed Mute magic were ignorant, misguided fools! It exists! And we have brought you proof of its terrible power!’
‘I see.…’ Sakimoto exchanged cautious glances with the six members of the family council seated with him on the dais. ‘And what shape does this proof take?’
‘Ourselves, sire.’
Shinoda and Mitsunari went forward on their knees and touched the tatami with their foreheads. When they resumed their sitting position, Sakimoto and the other dignitaries found themselves looking into the painted faces of two grass-monkeys – wearing samurai armour!
Hhhh-awwwwhhh!!
The sixteen swordsmen and archers who formed the Regent’s personal bodyguard leapt to their feet, hands on the hilts of their weapons, arrow notched to bow-string, their spear-point tips aimed at the intruders’ hearts.
Mastering their surprise, Sakimoto and his fellow-councillors stood up and backed slowly to the rear of the dais. The two grass-monkeys remained sitting calmly on their heels, hands on their thighs, heads raised, their eyes locked fearlessly onto Sakimoto and the other nobles.
For Army-General Miyame Yama-Shita it was all too much. Drawing his sword, he stepped forward off the dais to confront Cadillac and Roz. ‘You vile insolent dogs! By what right do you presume to wear the dress and the swords of noble samurai?! And how dare you look upon us in this fashion! Lower your eyes this instant or – !’
The threat died on his lips and was replaced by a roar of pain. The hilt of his sword had become red-hot! He could smell his flesh roasting! Throwing his long-sword down, Miyame clutched his right wrist and stared unbelievingly at his charred and blistered right hand. The pattern covering the decorated hilt was seared deep into his palm! ‘Kill them!’ he shrieked.
‘NO!’ bellowed Sakimoto.
The archers paused uncertainly, the swordsmen froze, blades half out of their scabbards. The two grass-monkeys no longer knelt on the mats. They had vanished. In their place stood Domain-Lord Hirohito Yama-Shita, arms folded, his thin, cruel mouth set firm, eyes blazing with unnatural brilliance.
‘Do you threaten me, your liege-lord?’ he cried.
Sakimoto and everyone else in the room fell to their knees. This was no wraith-like apparition, this was solid flesh and blood. Hirohito returned from the nether-world to life!
‘M-m-my I-lord!’ stammered Sakimoto.
As he spoke, the pair of grass-monkeys appeared at the far end of the room. And then another, and another, and another, until the entire room was ringed by painted samurai, leaving the Yama-Shita family council and their bodyguard completely surrounded and outnumbered three-to-one! Worse still, every man-jack was rooted to the spot, trembling like palsied ancients!
Hhhh-awwwwhhh!
Then Lord Hirohito vanished. In his place were two more grass-monkeys, standing on the mats from which the original pair had vanished. Were they the same? It was impossible to tell! Sakimoto felt physically sick. His mind was reeling, but by a supreme effort of will he managed to maintain a dignified posture.
The one who had been Shinoda raised his hand and snapped his fingers. The grass-monkeys lining the walls of the room vanished. ‘You are powerless against our magic,’ he said. ‘We come in peace, to meet with you as friends and allies to help you avenge the great wrongs visited upon the House of Yama-Shita by the traitorous Toh-Yota!
‘But we do not come as slaves! We are the emissaries of a new breed of Plainfolk who demand not only to be treated as equals but also the right to converse in your language. If the House of Yama-Shita is willin
g to receive us on those terms, and with the hospitality you would accord your fellow domain-lords, command your men to leave this room. We have many weighty matters to discuss.’
Aishi Sakimoto thought he would burst a blood-vessel. Army-General Miyame Yama-Shita nearly did. Never in their lives had they dreamt of being addressed with such disdainful authority by a grass-monkey – and in Japanese to boot! Their own sacred language, which outlanders were forbidden to use under pain of death! A death which began by having the offending tongue clamped and pierced several times by a white hot iron before being torn out of the offender’s head!
It was outrageous! But what could they do? First they had been faced by Shinoda and Mitsunari, then two grass-monkeys who could disappear and reappear at will, then multiply in the twinkling of an eye to become a small army! And now, where were the two faithful samurai? Or had they never been there at all?
Oh, yes … this was indeed magic – of a very powerful kind!
And that was not all. Shinoda/Monkey #1 had uttered a magic phrase: ‘… avenge the great wrongs visited upon the House of Yama-Shita by the traitorous Toh-Yota’. Words like that, falling from the lips of anyone, were music to Sakimoto’s ears. It would be worth enduring some small indignities just to hear what these painted upstarts had to say for themselves.
And when they revealed all, who knew what might happen then? A stout-hearted man, protected by the most powerful incantations of the palace priests, might find a way to destroy their malevolent powers by means of a poisoned draught or a knife-thrust delivered in the dead of night.
As this idea passed through Sakimoto’s mind, a slim dagger materialised out of thin air and buried its point into the tatami, a few inches in front of his toes. Sakimoto jumped back. Beside it appeared a blue and white porcelain cup, filled with a dark liquid. Staring down at it, he saw the image of a grinning skull reflected in its surface.
‘You disappoint us, sire. Is that how noble lords of the Yama-Shita plan to reward those who come to their aid?’
By the Great Divine One-ness of being! These devils could read his unspoken thoughts as well …!
Having blown their hosts out of their split-toed cotton socks with an unparalleled display of magic, Cadillac proceeded to whet their appetites with a promise to reveal a secret that could – if properly exploited by determined men – topple the Toh-Yota.
Sniffing the air like a hunting dog, he declared that he could sense the evil presence of the Toh-Yota within the palace walls. At the moment, its form was too elusive to define, but if – beginning tomorrow – his hosts would permit Rain-Dancer and himself to examine any area of the palace they felt drawn to, he promised to root it out. When found, it would prove that the Toh-Yota – who for so long had buttressed their sovereignty by claiming to represent the soul of the nation – had cynically betrayed the traditional values it sought to uphold by using devices powered by the Dark Light to maintain its grip on the reins of power.
The magic had been awesome enough, but this unexpected charge was absolutely staggering and, potentially, so explosive, no one in the Yama-Shita family regretted having to swallow their pride and treat these two grass-monkey witches as equals.
‘The Dark Light is so feared it has become a mystery that many cannot comprehend,’ said Sakimoto. ‘This proof you speak of … will it be something that honest men can approach and recognise without placing themselves in mortal danger?’
Cadillac laughed. ‘It is only the Toh-Yota who are in mortal danger! The proof I intend to place before you will win over your most faint-hearted ally. Summon them now to a secret council and allow me to address them. I promise you they will not leave here without having pledged to raise their battle flags alongside that of the Yama-Shita!’
Aishi Sakimoto needed no further prompting. After ensuring that his two extraordinary guests were comfortably housed in a pavilion that nestled amongst trees and rocks in the landscaped gardens of the palace, he despatched coded messages via courier-pigeons to the neighbouring Ko-Nikka and Se-Iko, to the Hi-Tashi and San-Yo in the far south of the country and the Fu-Jitsu and Na-Shuwa in the north.
After a brief but intense period of reflection, he decided to issue two more invitations: to the Su-Zuki and the Min-Orota.
In the lists drawn up by Progressives and Traditionalists whenever coups were discussed, the Su-Zuki were classified as neutral but favouring the Shogun. It would be vital to win their support before any military action could succeed.
The Min-Orota – led by Lord Kiyomori – occupied another strategic position. They were allied to Toh-Yota by marriage, but that hadn’t stopped Domain-Lord Kiyo getting together with Lord Hirohito Yama-Shita in a bid to resurrect the Dark Light. The bid had failed. The plot had been uncovered by Ieyasu, Lord Hirohito had been killed and Kiyomori Min-Orota had seized the chance to save the necks of his own family by naming names.
It was a sordid betrayal but Hirohito had known the risks he was taking in trying to win over the Min-Orota. Kiyo was widely regarded as a devious son of a bitch, but given the circumstances, his swift dash back into the Shogun’s camp was the mark of a political realist. Kiyomori Min-Orota was not a supporter of lost causes. In Ne-Issan, very few people were, for the simple reason that most people on the losing side of any overt political power struggle ended up as a small heap of grey ash inside a stone pot.
But now, with the appearance of these two powerful witches, there was a possibility that Fortune was about to smile on the Yama-Shita. The deaths, defeats and humiliations which the family had suffered over the last two years might yet be put to good account. And when the battle lines were drawn, Lord Min-Orota, who over the same period had signalled that he was anxious to effect a reconciliation, would not want to be on the losing side.
Sakimoto had no doubt he was still as untrustworthy as ever, but even potential traitors had their uses. The final reckoning could come later.…
Far to the south, in one of the several luxurious enclaves which made up Cloudlands, Steve followed Karlstrom across the tracks of the main depot of the railway that was the First Family’s private plaything. A gleaming 4-6-2 locomotive stood outside the engine shed. Steam curled from the funnel and the huge reciprocating valves that powered the gleaming steel driving shafts.
Karlstrom paused and watched fondly as another engine shunted slowly past. ‘Amazing, aren’t they?’ He crossed the last two tracks. ‘This one’s a real beauty.’ When they drew level with the cab, Karlstrom stood aside and motioned Steve to climb aboard first.
Reaching the footplate, Karlstrom unhooked a two-way radio and spoke to the yard marshal’s office. ‘This is Baker-King plus one aboard Southern Belle on Stand Five. You got any clear track for me?’
‘Stand-by, Baker-King. Affirmative. We’re switching you out of the yard onto the north-eastern section. You’re clear up-line as far as Beaumont.’
‘Roger. Thanks, Ned. Under steam and pulling away.’
Steve took the radio from Karlstrom’s outstretched hand and returned it to its place on the wall of the cab. After leaning out to check both sides of the track, ahead and behind, Karlstrom released the brakes and eased open the throttle. The huge locomotive shuddered momentarily as the driving wheels got a proper purchase on the rails, amid a deafening hiss of steam, then began to glide forward. ‘See that stack of logs behind you?’
Steve checked the loaded tender and nodded.
Karlstrom handed him a pair of heavy work-gloves. ‘Stick a couple of dozen into the firebox.’ He leant down and unlocked the door to the roaring furnace. ‘Once they’re in, push ‘em to the back with that stoking iron.’
‘Yess-sirr!’ Steve went to work.
When the firebox was full, Steve took his stand at the window on the opposite of the cab to Karlstrom. They had left the yard behind and were now rolling east through open country. They passed several work-details of Mutes labouring on the down-line under Tracker overseers. Some of the Trackers were armed with carbines, and rode aboard
blue six-wheel vehicles – a type Steve had never seen before.
‘Bobcats,’ shouted Karlstrom, sensing the question in Steve’s mind. He checked the steam and brake pressure dials then leaned back out of the driver’s side-window.
Steve, whose antennae were always extended in situations like this, was fascinated by the change in Karlstrom’s demeanour. He was still issuing orders in the same peremptory manner but he was no longer the dry, ruthless Director of AMEXICO that Steve had first encountered. Karlstrom seemed exhilarated by the rush of air on his face, mixing with the smell of engine oil, warm iron and woodsmoke. He was really enjoying himself.
Like a small boy.…
Karlstrom eyed him shrewdly. ‘What d’you think?’ he demanded. ‘Isn’t this great?!’
‘Yes.’ Steve rodded some more logs into the firebox, closed it off and straightened up. ‘It’s also tough on the back.’
‘Nothing comes easy, Brickman. If you want to be an engine-driver, you have to learn to be a fireman first.’ Karlstrom smiled. ‘You ought to consider yourself lucky. Some people never even get to ride in the cab.’
‘No, sir. I’m aware of that.’ Steve watched Karlstrom rub his oily rag tenderly over the gleaming pipe work. The way you might caress a naked woman. ‘Are all the First Family hooked on trains?’
‘The ones that count are,’ said Karlstrom. ‘It’s in the blood. It was the train that opened up America. Forget the covered wagons – the long lines of prairie schooners. It’s the men who built the locos and the railroads who were the real pioneers. That was the era when America first achieved real greatness. You could travel coast to coast and north to south. D’you wanna know something? In the golden years, there were three hundred and sixty thousand miles of track! Can you imagine that?! The railways were the arteries and veins of the nation, the trains its life blood.’
Steve nodded respectfully. Karlstrom’s eyes, fired up with a passion he had never displayed in more formal encounters, reminded Steve of good ol’ crazy Uncle Bart. ‘But then, weren’t railways superseded by the highways and what the Mutes call beetles?’
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