Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two (19 page)

Wilf remembered all these things now that the oaken chest had creaked open to reveal its mysterious treasures, and for an instant he wondered why, for the amazing tale they told, the objects within had ultimately proven disappointing.

Garth held up the mildewed banner of Klann’s Akryllon. Beneath it lay folded the dark surcoat emblazoned with the crest of Klann and the rest of Garth’s former clothing and armament from his days as Field Commander of the Royalist Force of Akryllon. At the bottom nestled a long teakwood box, fastened with a gold clasp. Garth withdrew this last.

“Iorgens,” Wilf said hollowly, seeing his father’s neck muscles ripple.

“Your grandfather’s surname.”

“
Der schatz.
The treasure,” Strom muttered glumly, the expectation of the treasure chest’s wonders now having palled for him also. The mist of youthful memories cleared from his eyes. “Papa, will we have to change our name now?”

Lorenz
tsked.
“Of course not, dunderhead.”

“People know us by the Gundersen name, your grandmother’s good name. I can see no purpose in changing it now. You are all men, and may do as you will....” Garth’s words drifted off into unlit corners of the cellar. His face was still drawn with sleep, his hair matted from the tossing of an unaccustomed daylight slumber.

Lorenz carved a peach into segments, pausing to sniff at each wedge with closed eyes before consuming it.

“What matter a name, when there are those who don’t even know their fathers? You should feel fortunate,” he advanced.

“This is all madness,” Wilf said, crouching sullenly, chin resting on a forearm. “Shouldn’t we remember something of this?
You
leading these...
bandits?
”

“They’re not as they once were,” Garth replied sternly. “Nothing is as it once was.” He sighed raggedly. “You were barely a year old. Your brother was an infant when your mother died. Lorenz—
you
might recall being hefted by King Klann more than once. He used to turn you upside down—”

“I recall a man with huge hands and a close-cropped black beard. I had nightmares about him.”

“
Ja
, that was Klann.”

“Did he ask you to rejoin his command?” Wilf asked.

The question disarmed Garth. “Of course not. Don’t be silly. Why would I anyway—I—he understood my feelings when I abandoned the soldiering life.”

“Did you hope your father would join with Klann again so that you might win an easy commission in this army, Wilfred?” Lorenz teased. “Would your desire to be a soldier even see you enlisting in the band that invaded your city?”

“Shut up, Lorenz. That’s not what I meant.”

“Or is it your passion to see the fragile flower Genya that so inflames you with—”

“I said
shut up!
”

“Enough,” Garth commanded.
“Bitte.”

“How come the two circles aren’t blacked out, Papa, on the shield,” Strom asked, pointing to the surcoat.

“Ah,” the elder smith answered, thinking a moment. “For that you will have to wait until our guests arrive. This evening all will be known of Klann.” He ran a hand along the teakwood box, then appended cryptically: “For those who can believe....”

The sons looked at each other quizzically but ventured not another word about the coming revelation. Wilf stood up and stretched.

“You’re sure Genya’s all right,” he said, not a question but an effort at underscoring the assurance he had already been given.

“Ja-ja,”
Garth said indulgently. “As I said, Gonji can tell you better.”

“Ever the exhibitionist—
both
of them!” Lorenz noted, his face brightening as the thought occurred. “They sound like a splendid match.”

Wilf’s brow darkened, but he held his tongue and simply scowled at the floor.

“I hear Gonji lost a fight at the castle—true, Lorenz?” Strom stroked his soft fringe of tawny beard, grinning vapidly.

“So say the soldiers. Your slant-eyed friend’s image has tarnished somewhat, Wilfred. They say he was outdueled by the same captain who backed him down at the Provender on the day of the occupation.” Lorenz carefully wiped the knife he had been using, smiling catlike.

But Wilf was unamused. He struggled to deal with the strange conflict inside him. Something troubled him about the business of Genya assisting Gonji at the demonstration. He felt betrayed, angered that he hadn’t been there. Yet he wished to be loyal to Gonji, and he was not altogether blind to Genya’s displays of brashness.

“Gonji says...,” he began slowly, picking over his words, “that a wise warrior seldom reveals more than the leading edge of his strength. And he always holds a few tricks in reserve.”

Lorenz snorted and shook his head.

Garth was worried by Wilfred’s preoccupation with things of the military since the invasion and Gonji’s subsequent arrival, but there was, too, a small sense of pride in his middle son’s growing wisdom.

“There
were
factors in the duel that weighed against Gonji, I think. But enough of that,” Garth said, waving a dismissing hand. “There are other things to think of. First, the evening meal. Then I must get ready for our guests. Wilfred, you may locate Gonji and bring him here. Lorenz—the Benedettos, if you please. And Strom....”

Garth’s brow furrowed to see Strom shrink back in hope that he might evade the chore he felt coming.

“When were you last at chapel, my young shepherd?”

“
Chapel?
Uh—” Strom rubbed his neck. “What do you mean? When Father Dobret was here last month, maybe. Uh—why?”

“Because the prophetess will be at vespers there now, I think. And Master Flavio is usually with her. You will bring them here, when they are done.”

Strom winced. “Master Flavio? And
Tralayn?
Why can’t Lorenz—?”

“Gehen Sie!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Gonji sprang to his knees and slid the Sagami free of the scabbard. His eyes cleared in time to see Paille throw off the door bar to admit Wilf.

“You hid yourself well,” Wilf said.

Gonji groaned and lowered the sword, rubbing his tight, numb face. His head ached dully, and his body reminded him of the stress he’d placed on muscles he hadn’t challenged in some time. He bore it all stoically.

“
Konnichi wa.
Good afternoon, Wilfred-san,” he said, replacing the Sagami.

“
Guten tag
—good day. Wi
r
fred again—your accent is getting worse instead of better.”

“Don’t be a smart ass. Paille, do you have a basin here anywhere?”

The artist had flopped back onto the cot. Gonji roused him and repeated the question. Paille grumbled incoherently and shuffled downstairs to the millinery. Wilf sat as Gonji stretched lightly awhile and then leaned out the window to assess the day. Grayish light filled the room from a sky puffed with mounting clouds that had stacked themselves to the zenith.

“Do you know this?” Gonji asked, holding out Genya’s scarf. Wilf took it silently. “She’s one helluva woman. Good luck, my friend.”

The ice was broken, Wilf again feeling at ease with his Japanese friend and mentor. Being in Gonji’s presence, once again mindful of the samurai code of honor and loyalty, he experienced a creeping shame for the immaturity of his earlier suspicions and feelings of betrayal. He was soon listening intently as Gonji conveyed every detail of Genya’s circumstances and the events at the castle banquet, stopping just short of the blooding duel with Julian.

Gonji continued with his stretching regimen in the tight quarters as he spoke. Paille returned with a sloshing ewer and empty basin, now wide awake, sputtering, and slamming about like a newly escaped bedlamite. Gonji washed, combed out his topknot and retied it. He scrubbed the bloodstains from the sleeveless tunic and hung it to dry. A crimson stain discolored the patch on his left side.

“That looks bad,” Wilf observed.

“Not so bad. But perhaps it’ll need some help to remain closed.” Gonji sighed, frowning. He donned his kimono and wrapped his
obi
tightly around his middle. This done, he placed his swords in the sash and found the shallow wound far more painful than it had been in the morning. It would never heal properly unaided.

“So Genya says she’s being treated well?” Wilf persisted.

“Hai.”

“The buxom scullion lass, eh?” Paille observed.

“Watch your tongue, Paille.”

“Insult his woman, incur his wrath,” Gonji gibed.

“
Me, monsieur?
Really! A Frenchman can have nothing but respect for so special a woman!”

“Oh, Wilf—” Gonji snapped. “Did your father...tell you?”

The smith’s expression clouded. “
Ja.
What can I say? My brothers and I were....” He stood shaking his head, lost for words.

“You never knew anything of it? None of you?”

“I swear it,” Wilf averred.

“One moment,
monsieurs
—what is this business?”

Gonji explained to Paille the night’s revelation.

“Whew!” the artist breathed, eyes bulging. “
Sacré bleu!
So Vedun’s
Herr Wunderbar
has an ominous past. But...a general with the warlord
Klann?
Why did he say nothing—?”

“There’ll be more to tell after tonight, I think,” Gonji said.

They departed Paille’s loft, the artist exchanging sharp words with his landlady, who greeted Gonji and Wilf pleasantly between snarls at Paille. Once outside, Alain suggested the Provender, Vedun’s larger inn and hostel, for supper, but Gonji declined, having no desire to encounter his nemesis Julian again so soon. Paille took his leave of them, anxious to hear the latest scuttlebutt at the Provender.

When he had gone Gonji and Wilf clopped along wordlessly for a time, the samurai aware of his young friend’s internal struggle.

“What’s on your mind now?” Gonji asked finally.

“Nothing—just—they’re saying you lost a duel to this Captain Julian last night,” Wilf blurted all at once. “I just—is it—”

“And if I did, what do you make of it?”

Wilf thought about it for a space, watching Gonji’s proud carriage aboard Tora. “Well, you’re still alive...so I suppose there’s more to it than they’re saying.”

“Very wise. Now let’s have no more talk of it for now. The conceited captain and I haven’t done with each other yet.”

“Is he good?” Wilf probed, unable to set it aside.

“He’s very good,” Gonji responded without a pause. “Let’s go see the physician.”

They stopped at Dr. Verrico’s, found the doctor out on a call. But an assistant, one of his midwives, offered to cleanse and stitch Gonji’s rent left side. This painfully done, they supped at Wojcik’s Haven, suffering nary an insult from the squad of Llorm dragoons who also ate there, Gonji in fact finding to his surprise that two of the Llorm greeted him of their own accord, if rather curtly.

Riding to the Gundersens’, exchanging small talk with the now reassured and ebullient Wilf, Gonji found to his great delight that whatever the lost duel had added to Julian’s reputation, it had not been at the expense of Gonji’s: Soldiers gave him wide passage, and more townies than ever greeted him with something more than the sullen stares he’d grown so used to.

* * * *

Garth sat alone at one wide side of the table, the others grouped in a semicircle around it, sipping their drinks reflectively. At his left sat Lorenz, languid and relaxed; then Strom, sitting on his hands, one foot tapping nervously, his discomfiture to be beside the icy Tralayn obvious. Wilfred and Gonji sat opposite Garth, Wilf leaning forward with mild apprehension; Gonji’s face, a blank mask. Adjacent to the oriental was the settee on which Lydia and Michael were seated, both seeming cool and dignified, their hands entwined in a rare public display of affection. Finally, at Garth’s right, were Flavio and Milorad, neither appearing very rested or recovered from the previous night’s castle fest.

Garth’s hands trembled slightly with anticipation, a tiny thrill of nostalgia rippling through his spine at the prospect of reading from the scroll for the first time in twenty years. He unrolled it a few turns, the faded, musty parchment crackling, yielding up the pungent scent of time. Then he read downward several lines, translating in advance the Kunan script for his own ease of reading. The memory gaps filled themselves in rapidly.

“Chronicle of Tikah Vos. Kanta 16. Scroll 27.... Being a continuation of the History of the House of Bel through the bloodline of Durda’Klann....”