Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two (18 page)

“Is his work as good?”

“Perhaps not, but he has two nubile daughters who work in the shop.”

Gonji squinted over at him, saw Paille’s puckish grin.

“Harness traces are harness traces. But pretty women are something else.”

Gonji shrugged. When they reached Radetzky’s, Paille’s laughter roared to the skies: Gonji passed it by and pulled up in front of Anton Torok’s open foster stall. Gonji purchased a new harness for Tora, feeling rather ridiculous for having been talked into this so easily. He could feel Paille’s suggestive grin boring into him as one of the Torok girls displayed the available traces and sold him on a harness he might not have bought had he not been in such a hurry to remove the lasciviously leering Paille from the premises. A second daughter eyed the proceedings from a work bench at the rear of the stall. This one Gonji recognized as a friend of Genya who had greeted Wilf once when he and Gonji had ridden together. Both girls were attractive in an earthy, unstudied way, but the father hovered near suspiciously and made Gonji wish to be on his way.

When they were through at the foster’s, a sudden inspiration drew Gonji to the nearby stall festooned with belts and straps that advertised the lorimer’s craft. Gonji found the pungent smells of freshly tanned leather and animal fat pleasant and invigorating. This was the stall formerly owned and operated by Lottie Kovacs’ late father. It was now in the hands of his partner and an apprentice, who were suspicious and ill-at-ease when Gonji and Paille ambled in under their canopy.

Gonji was made mindful of a piece of armament, a cross-work harness for carrying his swords on his back comfortably and snugly, which had been stolen long ago. His efforts at improvising the device—such as on the night of his foray against the wyvern—had always proven inadequate. He attempted to order one from the partner, who feigned ignorance and was engaged by Paille in a Slavic argument, the substance of which was not lost to Gonji, who had long since grown used to the hostility and prejudice inspired by his unusual appearance. He was by now growing annoyed with it in Vedun, however, given all he believed the city owed him. But he stood by patiently and watched the irrepressible artist threaten the lorimer with a balled fist.

The apprentice, who had looked on with interest, suddenly moved up to Gonji and, smiling, asked him to describe the device he wished fabricated. The young man was an Austrian, and using a Germanic lingua franca, they established communication. The apprentice at last nodded his understanding, obviously pleased with the challenge of an unusual piece of work.

Paille invited Gonji to sleep the day away in his loft above the millinery shop, and the samurai agreed. But the bath house beckoned when they passed. They tethered their steeds and entered, confronting the horrified boy who tended the baths. Gonji’s appearances in the establishment always seemed to catch him off guard, and the sight of his swords would leave the lad speechless. Today, though, he tried to stammer something in Polish, Paille abruptly cutting him short and commanding him to be about his work. He hurried off to see to the coals in the steam chamber.

They undressed and laved, Paille grumblingly removing only his upper clothing, to Gonji’s amusement. To the samurai, Vedun’s bath house was a wondrous appointment; cleanliness was a matter of personal honor to a Japanese, while many Europeans still regarded bathing annoying or even damaging to the body.

They slumped on benches in the steam chamber, knuckling at sleepy eyes, only the fierce heat of the stone walls preventing them from succumbing to slumber where they sat, there in the moist hot womb of the chamber. Gonji had left his clothing and swords just outside the doorway, near at hand and in plain sight, ever cautious.

Redressing his wounds with clean linen strips obtained from the wide-eyed Polish youth, Gonji grew wistful, his thoughts meandering back to the Land of the Gods. The stinging pain in the shallow saber cuts reminded him of the soothing poltice made of roots and herbs grown in a sacred grove far, far away to the east.

Gonji was almost drifting off to sleep when he saw the attendant boy glance out the chamber door and go goggle-eyed.

He lurched to his feet and scrambled through the archway to his leaning swords. Before he had the Sagami half out of its scabbard, the piercing screams set the hair on his neck standing on end—

Several women in the reception chamber shrilled and gaped to see him naked and on all fours. They pushed and shoved to get back outside, each trying to outdo the others in modesty. Gonji knelt with the drawn
katana
, dimly watching their hasty departure, hearing their muffled laughter, trying to piece together the meaning through a wine-spun haze.

“Dammit!” he cried. “Dammit, Paille, it’s the
women’s
hours in the bath house now! Stupid barbarian rules—why didn’t you remind me?”

“How was I to know? How often do I come to this wretched place?
You—masohlava!
Meathead! Why didn’t you tell us?” Paille scolded the attendant.

The boy stammered something in reply.

“He said he tried to,” Paille translated, slapping the boy on top of his head.

“Well, why didn’t you listen to him?” Gonji addressed the boy, grinning: “It’s all right,
kiku-san
—little sir.” He fished out a coin and tossed it to the wide-eyed lad, who turned it over in his hand in disbelief. It was more than he’d see for a month of work in the baths.

“Come, Paille, let’s get dressed and get out of here. I need sleep.”

They dressed and strode out. The women waiting outside thickened in number as the shocking tale spread swiftly. The younger women tittered and whispered behind their hands. The newest arrivals were merely curious or bewildered, while some of the older ladies
tsked
and shushed them or cast looks of disgust or remonstrance at the offending pair.

“Oh, shit!” Paille breathed. “We’ll hear about this. The old hens will lose me my commission at the chapel.”

Instead of hurrying away in shame, Gonji walked smartly up to the surprised group of hopeful bathers, whose whispering and cackling was strangled off at once.

“
Ohayo
, ladies—good morning.” He continued in German: “So sorry. We were mistaken about the bathing hours—”

And then he saw Helena glide to the forefront, her huge liquid eyes glistening darkly. Confusion and fear shadowed her lovely face in equal measure. No one had yet signed what was happening to the deaf-mute girl who had covered Gonji’s escape on that night not long ago.

Gonji bowed to the women as a group and then a second time, deeper, to Helena alone, smiling, allowing the gasping curious among them to make of it what they might. Helena tendered a shaky smile and nodded uncertainly.

Then Gonji and Paille were off for the artist’s loft, leaving in their wake the day’s most oft-repeated incident.

They reached Alain’s small musty room, which was little more than a gable projecting from the highest slope of the millinery’s mansard roof. Centuries of gloom seemed to have found a home in the loft; it lay thick with dust and the clutter of the artist’s craft; it reeked of paint and linseed oil, of mildew and dry rot from worn shingles fixed to the crowding rafters. Paintings leaned and lay everywhere. The walls were covered with the grim shapes that manifested Paille’s dark and gloomy visions, the children of his
angst.

Paille threw open the shutters to clear the stuffiness, the harsh streamers of blue light clouding with dust motes. Far below, the city stretched and yawned, the scents and clatter of commerce drifting up into the loft. A crier called out his banal news above the babble of men and animals. The bell tower clanged eight bells.

Gonji and Paille maneuvered around each other in the tight quarters, laughing at their absurd ballet. Paille offered the samurai the single cot, but he declined and, undressing down to his linen undergarment, spread Genya’s washed scarf before the sill to dry and stretched out on a blanket. The floor was warped beneath him, evidence of the roof leaks that showed up as sharp pinpoints of light.

“They sure love you here, Paille.”

The artist cackled from the cot.

“
Hai
, one day someone will discover this loft...perhaps make a shrine of it....”

“A monument.”

“Mmm.” As the alcoholic numbness wore off, Gonji counted his aches and pains, each one greeting him in its turn. He breathed deeply, feeling his body sink with the exhale, enjoying the weary satisfaction of another day lived to its fullest, the completeness of having given of one’s abilities completely. The slow spinning....

Helena’s face. Lydia’s. The yearning for a woman. The Torok daughters. Reiko....

“What part of France are you from, Paille?” His voice wafted up weakly from his reclining form, almost independently of thought.

“Gascony,” came the reply, thick with sleep.

“Gascony. I might have known.” Paille’s throaty growl, and Gonji’s amused smile to think of the legendary boastfulness of that area of France.

Ohayo, Oguni-sama. Good morning
—
temperance, Gonji-san, temperance and self-denial are their own rewards. Who said that? Oguni. Iye—not Oguni; the priest, Brother Johannes....

The comfort of the
katana
and the
ko-dachi
along his left side....

“This town...must survive, Paille....”

The gentle, sonorous buzzing from the cot.

This town must survive, Paille.
...

“Survival, Gonji-san.”

“
Hai
, Master Oguni.”

“Come forward, Tatsuya-san. Engage.
Shiai
—fight!”

Tatsuya. Bastard. The
bokken
clacking, crossing. Can you see the hate in my eyes, devil-brother? Oh—! The pain!
Iye!
Show nothing of it. He needn’t have done that. My neck burns with pain. No! No tears....

No, Mama-san, I didn’t cry. That’s good, my son. Come close, Gonji-Gunnar—remember that you are
Viking.
You are strong. The red-gold hair, her firm embrace, eyes of blue fire and northern ice. But I’m so alone when I’m with them....

Helena and Lydia, laughing together, softly, covering their mouths. What’s—what’s funny? Helena whispering—
iye
, not possible—deceiver!
(Why does Mord let you live?)

Mama-san. Gonji-Gunnar, you are a bear—stern, pointing—showing all teeth and claws. I’m afraid, Mama-san....

Show me your best,
samurai.
Don’t dispatch yourself until I’ve seen your
best.
Julian. Julian....

Reiko. Crying...swinging...
iye
, my love...her
katana
arcing wide long slow....

Tonight. All will be revealed tonight. Garth turning, looming, unfurling, becoming—show me your best, your—hee-hee! Everybody’s a big boss around here, we got nothin’ but chiefs! Rider comes from Klann, rider comes from Mord, from Klann from Mord from
(pounding)
Mord—
Deathwind! What is the Deathwind?
(pounding—
shooting!
) Pounding, beating, sweating—breathe easy! Show nothing!
You have done well, my cousin, the garden is a tribute to your work, my wife wishes to tell you
—ssss—ssss—Siii—Saaar—
pounding
—whispering sibilance through a honeycomb of dream—Simon—Simon—Simon Sardonis—you have done well—I’ll see you dead, barbarian scum—Luba’s lips—no sound but—

The booming of timbers.

* * * *

In days of happy childhood the Gundersen boys were occasioned to think of the musty, forbidding old trunk as a treasure chest whose contents were denied them. Wilfred and Strom would sneak into the storage cellar, wooden swords in their belts, hearts sprinting in fear of the dank moss-and-slime-walled pit. They would circle their prize, finger its iron bands and oak-ribbed lid; pull ineffectually for the thousandth time on the massive lock thrust through the latch. On the boldest sally Wilfred had brought along his father’s adz. This he used to pry at the lock while Strom puled and begged him to abandon it, flickering taper trembling in a small fist. The door to the larder above slammed open. Strom screamed. There stood not Papa but a somehow more sinister brother Lorenz, eyes sparkling in the candle glow. Lorenz stormed down the rough stairs, railing at them, something about primogeniture, about the trunk’s contents falling into his possession as the firstborn when he would come of age. Then he raised his hand to strike Strom, who cowered against a wall at his oldest brother’s uncommon rage. But Wilfred had stepped up, the adz held on high, as if to crash it against Lorenz’s skull, and the two locked eyes, their gazes fusing with that irrational sibling hatred that the perspective of adulthood can later recall only with uneasy laughter for fear of thinking on it too long or too deeply. And Lorenz had spat at him and run away up the cold stone steps, and later that evening he had smiled smugly with arms folded while Wilfred had taken his beating, and he had told all Wilfred’s friends that he had cried like a baby, but Wilf hadn’t cried....