Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two (22 page)

She let the statement hang in the air amid the startled gasps of her fellows. Gonji’s own surprise shattered his staid countenance. He chuckled softly and shook his head.

“Tralayn, you tell too much!” Michael argued.

“This place is so full of secret intrigues,” Gonji observed, “it’s like a tale told by a fireside minstrel.”

“And there’s more to tell,” Tralayn assured, “much more. Things that only I know. Will—you—help—us?” She emphasized each word, standing now before him.

Gonji looked at her, admiring her determination. “You have the instincts of a predator. You’d be a deadly enemy, I’d wager—and you can take that as a compliment.” By her curt nod he saw that she did. “You say the boy—Mark—died to preserve this secret of Simon Sardonis?”

She bowed gravely, the others withdrawing into sullen private thoughts. Gonji’s brow creased. He rubbed his chin reflectively.

“Give me the night to think. Tomorrow you’ll have your answer. I’ve training to do. That will help clear my head for a wiser decision than I could render tonight. Garth—something troubles me. Very sorry, but I must be the cynic. You swore fealty to Klann before. What would be your mind now, if—if the worst should happen?”

Garth looked hurt. “My past is behind me. My loyalty is with this city now. You shouldn’t have to ask that.” Gloom settled over the stocky smith. “But I could never raise a sword against Klann.”

Gonji nodded, not altogether pleased with his friend’s attitude. “You can do your city a favor,
dozo
, and muzzle Strom about all this. I needn’t tell the rest of you, I think, that talk of the castle giant and this tale of Klann’s seven lives could only serve to undermine morale. Keep it all to yourselves. A positive attitude, that’s what you need. I suppose everyone already knows about the illustrious Rorka’s well-being—everybody except the samurai infidel,
neh?
” He smiled wryly and drew an unwonted shy grin from Tralayn.

“I wonder something, though,” Gonji said as they began to rise and stretch, preparing to leave. “You all protect this super-warrior Simon, yet I detect a definite fear of him in your manner. Why do you help him? What does he hold over you? And most interesting of all, why does he leave you now in your hour of need?”

They were all looking at him, and he saw the faint tremor that wracked Lydia as Michael helped her with her cape.

“In time, Gonji,” Tralayn answered. “All in good time.”

Then the door was opened, and Lorenz and Wilf strolled back inside, their offense at having been excluded obvious. Milorad had gone home in a huff, and Strom was saddling a horse to ride off somewhere. Garth called him inside to pass along Gonji’s caution. Lorenz poured his indignance into caustic humor, while Wilf took a more boorish tack. An uncommon warmth filled the night breeze that wafted through the door, and the hills seemed quiet.

Flavio sidled up to Gonji and spoke in a low, sheepish voice. “Listen...Gonji, will you be talking to Captain Kel’Tekeli soon?”

Julian.

“I don’t know—maybe. You don’t mind the idea now?”

Flavio shrugged. “You no doubt know what you’re doing. But next time would you tell him that we’re all still eager for peace? Would you do that for an old man whose influence is waning with the young wolves in council?” He smiled wearily.

Gonji bowed to him. “
Hai
, Master Flavio, it shall be done.”

Flavio’s shoulders sagged as he left, looking like a man ticketed for the gallows.

CHAPTER TEN

Feeling the need to be alone to think, Gonji eschewed sleeping at the Gundersens’ and took a room on the third floor of Wojcik’s Haven. He slept lightly and before dawn stirred and laved the sleep from his face. Retrieving Tora from the livery, he rode out through the west gate past wary mercenary sentinels. They didn’t detain him, nor did they say a word; Julian was at least keeping his word about restraining his dogs from Gonji’s behind.

Clumping into the hills, Gonji found a quiet glade where he ground-tethered Tora. Removing his swords,
obi
, and kimono, he stashed the
daisho
set behind a tree at the far side of the glade. As Gonji began running his laps around the perimeter, the first pink blush of dawn filtered through breaks in the bower to the east.

He finished his run and pushed himself through calisthenics, a regimen of stretches, and several unarmed
kata
, favoring his left side so as not to tear open his stitched wound. The wounds all seemed to be healing nicely, the lips of the rib wound closing without fester. He took up his swords and, sashing them again, practiced speed and precision drills focusing on the draw from the sheath and the immediate strike that followed. He performed each of the amazing variety of sword draws—called
iai-jutsu
—he could remember from the various
ryu
, or schools of thinking, on
katana
technique: one-handed and two-handed draws, ending in sky-to-ground slashes, circular slashes, close-quarter cuts, thrusts at rear attackers—He practiced until he felt the satisfying surfeit that signaled the end of the light workout, the warm-up for the rigors he knew were in the offing. Breathing heavily and perspiring freely, he felt lean and hungry, with the heightened sensibilities and predatory confidence of a tiger.

He rode back to Vedun through the sparkling dewy verdure, the moisture of night evaporating rapidly under a hot young sun. Puffy white clouds mounted the western horizon but offered no threat of rain.

Gonji breakfasted from the stalls in the marketplace near the square, where he took note that Flavio had already had the huge crucifix raised again in a display of optimism. There was a nervous buzzing among the soldiers this morning that made him curious.

Then a passing mercenary, nodding and touching his hat brim in greeting, palmed him a note. Winking and bobbing his head again, the man moved on. Gonji discreetly opened the folded brown paper and read the Italian script:

“At the caravanserai behind the Provender at nine
bells. The Captain.”

Julian. Now what in hell—? A trap? No, that’s absurd. To what end? He likely wants to hear more for his money. But what to tell him—?

He tugged at one ear pensively, trying to piece together something that might sound like useful intelligence. Nine bells. Well, he had a little time. And at least now he might learn what had the soldiery so edgy.

He cantered to the tanner’s and found that his cuirass was ready, as were the set of pauldrons and vambraces. The cuirass was a fine piece of workmanship, a tough leather shell for protecting the breast and back that was the best he’d ever donned. And the pauldrons and vambraces, constructed of lames, or overlapping scales of hard leather, were designed to protect the shoulders and arms from sword cuts. Gonji found them snug but comfortable and well-oiled for freedom of movement.

It was a fine day for new acquisitions, he found, when he checked in at the cobbler’s to discover his new soft leather riding boots awaiting his inspection. They were beautiful and quite comfortable, yet he curiously disdained wearing them, preferring instead to continue with his
tabi
and sandals. He rode off mildly miffed at himself that he had allowed last week’s sudden flush of lucre to seduce him to such profligate spending,
and
so tawdry an example of Westernization as a pair of Italian riding boots.

He shrugged and rode to the Gundersens’, where he stashed his new belongings in Wilf’s bedchamber. After a laconic exchange with the again moody Wilf, he trotted off for the Provender.

At nine bells he sat aboard Tora in the caravanserai, wagons and draft beasts and traveling merchants clamoring around the inn amid odors of food, drink, and animal waste. A mercenary on foot indicated a covered dray in a rear corner. Gonji dismounted and climbed aboard warily, then took a seat facing Julian in the cramped quarters.

“How are they talking since the castle banquet?” Julian probed without preamble. He was dressed like a foppish merchant in dun-colored silks and cowhide breeches. A three-cornered hat sat beside him. His only armament was a dagger fastened to his wide leather belt.

“The leaders, to a man, want peace,” Gonji replied. “They’re very optimistic since they met with Klann.”

“That’s all?” Julian’s tone denoted disappointment.

“Well...,” Gonji began, fabricating, not liking being called on the carpet by this contemptible bastard, “there
is
an undercurrent of something. I just haven’t gotten the confidence of the right people yet. They still talk of the Deathwind, only now they’re calling it a promised Deliverer, some sort of death angel who will free them from oppression. Believe me, no one would like to know more than I, what they’re talking about....” He shook his head and creased his brow, affecting a perplexity that he hoped would be convincing. Julian’s face betrayed nothing.

“Where were you last night?” the captain asked flatly.

Gonji’s memory raced backward. No, no there was nothing to hide. “At the Gundersens’. All evening. Several others were there....” He caught himself, angered that Julian had squeezed a guilty tone from him, and took a more aggressive tack. “Then I took a room at Wojcik’s—why? What’s on your mind, Captain?”

“Well, that checks out.”

“
What
checks out?” Gonji’s muscles tautened.

“Two soldiers were killed last night—
butchered
, I should say—along with their horses.” Julian smiled sardonically. “A crude effort at concealment was made with the...remains.”

“And you suspect me?” Gonji’s eyes tapered.

“No. No, it wasn’t your style,” Julian replied, leaning back and relaxing. “But in my position I’ve learned to extend only so much trust to my hirelings.”

Gonji scowled, nodded curtly. “Who found these...remains?”

“The same person who verified your whereabouts—Garth Iorgens’ son, the shepherd.”

Strom.
The samurai’s thoughts raked over this information, forward and backward, eyes unseeing, though they continued to hold the captain’s.

“You know,” Julian began leisurely, “I’ve heard something disquieting about you—”

Gonji returned to the present. “
So desu ka?
Is that so? What’s that?”

“It’s said that you brought back the councilman Benedetto’s dead brother from the forest. That you had to kill some men to do it.”

They knew.

Gonji tightened, his pulse galloping, a chortle disguising his captive breath. “
Hai
, that’s the story I’ve
told.
Haven’t you wondered at how easily I’ve won their confidence? The truth is that the men I encountered where I found the boy were already as dead as he was. Probably more work of your mysterious ‘butcher.’”

“I wonder,” Julian said quietly. “Pick up the hat.”

“Eh?” Gonji cocked an eyebrow.

“The
hat
.”

Gonji reached across and overturned the slouch hat. Beneath lay a shriveled apple, brown and wrinkled.

“What’s that?” Gonji queried.

“Pick it up.”

He did so. It felt dry and somehow too light.

“The nights have been cold,
neh?
” the samurai observed.

“Not that cold. Squeeze it.”

Gonji paused a moment, then crushed the fruit in his hand. It crumbled into powder, soughed through his fingers. It had felt oddly unsavory. He regarded Julian quizzically.

“A third of the farmers’ yield looks like that today,” the captain said. “What do you know of it? Are the farmers pursuing some sort of...passive resistance against Klann?”

“
Iye
—to what purpose?”

“I don’t know.
You
find out. You can tell your Flavio that Klann is learning of all these things right now, and I’d wager there’ll be repercussions.” He toed the strange powder with his boot. “Like magick, eh?”

Gonji’s mind reeled with questions. Caution.
Think.

“Who told you of this ‘death angel’ you speak of?” Julian queried.

“Eh...the prophetess, Tralayn,” Gonji replied absently, then immediately regretted the unguarded, unconsidered admission.
Damn me for a fool!

“The town witch—I thought as much. Legendary Deliverers and magical crop destruction.... I’m going to have her arrested for questioning.”

Panic clutched Gonji. He gripped his knees to stave the trembling.
Cholera
—
not the keeper of the answers to my quest.... What can I—?

He laughed abrasively. “So sorry, Captain, but that would be very stupid!”