Gonji: Red Blade from the East (23 page)

“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 arm. 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 doubloons 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.

He was watching the Gundersens move about when he wondered: Where had the smith come by his evident deftness with the sword? And what had disturbed him when Gonji had begun asking questions about the Deathwind?

This soft-spoken bear of a man was turning out to be a bundle of secrets.

CHAPTER TWELVE

They ate roast pork and fresh rye bread, a variety of boiled vegetables, and a thick sweet pudding for dessert, washing it all down with ale and wine. Gonji fairly glowed after the hearty repast. He felt like breaking out in song—one of his mother’s battle skalds would have done nicely had he not feared his hosts would think him mad.

During the meal Gonji allowed the glow of satisfaction to shine through, but never did he truly lower his guard. He had long since cultivated a wariness of the too facile friendship of peaceful people. Too often it masked contempt. He was much more at ease in the company of warriors, where true feelings surfaced quickly and could be counted on, however hostile.

Among the Gundersens only Wilf wore his emotions like garments, and Gonji found himself warming to the man more readily than to his reserved kin. His hard thews and rough-and-ready exterior belied a spark of genuine, if uncultured, intelligence and a poignant wit. And with amusement Gonji noted in Wilf the buoyant sense of wonder of youth. With capricious ease Wilf shifted from brooding fears for his beloved at the castle, to unreasoning outrage and demands of action against the invaders, to enthusiastic interest in the samurai way of life, the code of
bushido
, and Gonji’s own experiences in warfare. Gonji smiled to see him wolf down his food in quick snapping bites with hardly a swallow so that he might be ready to speak at all times.

He was a dog.
Hai
, a powerful German shepherd. Tough and aggressive, always primed to protect the territorial imperative. Probably to be trusted only so far as his own motivations weren’t violated.

It was an object of private amusement to Gonji to characterize people by their analogs in the animal world. Wilfred Gundersen was a mighty canine, but his brother Lorenz—ahhh....