Читать книгу Gonji: Deathwind of Vedun - T. C. Rypel - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

The vestibule chamber, a massive cavern that led to the catacombs, smelled of huddled bodies, pungent moss and earth. Dirty yellow light lapped the stifling air from torches ignited in wall cressets. Hats were removed and jerkins pulled open among the men. Sweat glistened on foreheads, and eyes glittered with anxiety.

Coughs erupted in the thick smoky air. Voices muttered like the gurgling cross-currents of intersecting brooks. In several languages it was rumored that the mighty man of valor had returned. The tall man with the super-normal powers. He who had battered the huge Field Commander Ben-Draba, broken the warrior’s neck before whole companies of his men, in broad daylight; then had leapt the fifteen-foot curtain wall that girdled Vedun, despite the arrow that had found its mark in his flesh.

Simon, they said his name was. Simon, the Beast-Man.

The by-now well-known, accented voice came in German, speaking words that muffled their chatter, mesmerizing them:

“So it’s come to this—fight or die.”

The samurai stood on a table near their center. He was dressed in only his breeches and sleeveless tunic. His daisho were sashed at his waist, their hilts in that ominous near-horizontal angle. Arms crossed over his chest, topknot bristling, he looked down at them imperiously.

An overseer. An accuser.

Some among the massed citizens glared back to hear his tone.

“Fight or die,” he reiterated. “Or perhaps there’s another way. One that nonetheless involves fighting...and dying.”

His gaze lofted over their heads as he turned slowly on the table. Stopping when his glance fell on the iron door that leaned against the rock wall, he peered into the gloom of the catacomb. Knew that his posted guards would be on watch within—faithful bushi who stood on duty at the tunnel exits. He had told them what to expect.

He rolled his vision back again over the audience, arranged in a semicircle of rough-hewn tables. No one dared sit too near the vestibule doorway, the portal through which Baron Rorka had so recently fallen in unnatural death.

Long faces and hollow eyes looked up to meet his stolid gaze. They were all here. All those he had called for. Those Gonji trusted the most—and the least. Few had known that he would be presiding over the conclave. For now whatever secrecy and surprise he could muster would be necessary.

Front and center sat Michael and Lydia Benedetto. The young heir apparent to Council Elder Flavio’s position cradled a crutch at his side. Flanking them were Garth Gundersen and his three sons on the one side; Milorad and Anna Vargo on the other. On Gonji’s left Roric Amsgard sat, an arm around the shoulders of his oldest son. Near them were Jiri Szabo and his betrothed, Greta. On the opposite side were Aldo Monetto, the lithe axe-wielder, and his ever-present companion, the dour archer Karl Gerhard. Deeper in the crowd were the sullen faces of Vlad Dobroczy, heading up a small contingent of farmers; and Paolo Sauvini, accompanied by his master, the blind wagoner, Ignace Obradek. Paolo seemed uncomfortable this night, withdrawn. It was rare indeed when the swarthy, ambitious Neapolitan eschewed the front ranks. Behind him Gonji could make out the hateful black eyes of Boris Kamarovsky, and Gonji wondered what those eyes would register to see the state of his late boss, the ill-fated Phlegor. Berenyi and Nagy sat at either hand of Nick’s wife, Magda. Nary an insult passed between them, for the moment. The bald pate of Anton, last surviving Rorka Gray knight, reflected the lambent torchlight from where he sat near one wall, at the end of a bench on which the entire Eddings family was ensconced, the faces of the men like facets of the same gem: father Stuart, brooding son William, brother John. John’s petite, fair-haired wife, Sarah, seemed dwarfed and frightened by it all. All on that side of the cavern appeared comically tugged as if by invisible strings, their ears cocked toward the cold, red-veined wall, where Alain Paille leaned with hands behind his back. Vedun’s quirky genius, the city’s most versatile translator, snapped out impatient interpretations in any language needed.

“What do you mean, sensei?” Monetto queried tentatively. “About...another way?”

Supportive murmurs.

“I mean that it is like this,” Gonji clarified. “We can foster no more hope of surprise, and time has failed us as an ally. There will be no more training. Every one among you must trust to what he has learned in the training thus far. All Garth’s efforts at seeing Klann have been rebuffed, so sorry. Even I had great hope for such a meeting. For Garth was supposed to make it clear to Klann that we suspect Mord of treacherous and evil designs against both Vedun and his liege lord, Klann.” Gasps of surprise at this disclosure, but more at the samurai’s next: “And that is not the worst.... The fact is that there is a traitor in our midst, who has compromised all our secret endeavors, revealed our plans to the sorcerer.” He waited for the exclamatory hissing to subside.

“You see, my friends, we tread now on the backs of turtles. Never knowing when the ground will shift under our feet. We cannot tell how much of our preparation is known to Klann. Only that Mord knows, and that he can use that knowledge against us whenever he wishes. Add to this burden the fact that the baron and his knights are dead—all save the worthy Anton—and with them died all hope of allied intervention on our behalf. No army will come in rescue of you. You must do what you must as an army unto yourselves. We must do what we must. I am committed to your cause unto death. Many of you know the burden I carry, the stain of failed duty. My burden of karma. Now I must die in this place, if necessary, to make amends. And a man committed to acceptance of death can accomplish much....”

Many eyes tilted groundward under his level gaze. No one doubted his sincerity. Thus fortified by their tacit understanding, Gonji continued:

“But those are the things which weigh against us, and I have not accounted the factors in our favor. We shall yet have unexpected help in our cause—”

“The Wallachians and Moldavians,” a man in the rear shouted, standing and raising a clenched fist. “They’ll come to our aid!”

“Quiet now!” Michael shouted, pushing free of Lydia’s helping hand and leaning on the crutch. “Gonji has the floor.”

He moved up to the table and turned to face the gathering.

“It’s all right,” Gonji objected. “Let him speak.”

“Ruman unity will see the territory freed of invaders,” the man added.

Gonji shook his head morosely. “Iye, the Ruman independence movement is still too disorganized, too concerned with internal problems. No effective leader has arisen who can command the loyalty of all the provinces. There is simply not enough time. This place has gone rotten for you. It crawls with greed and evil on every hand.”

“So what can we do?” Vlad Dobroczy hotly pleaded.

Gonji knew that he could delay the issue no longer. He clasped his hands behind his back and sighed as he paced around the table top.

“Evacuation,” he rasped in High German, the word echoing in half a dozen translations amid head-shaking and confused hand-waving.

“But—but I thought—” Aldo Monetto stammered. “You said that we’d have to abandon that idea after—” He weakly indicated the portal leading to the huge training chamber, wherein lay the torched carcass of the great worm.

“Hai,” Gonji agreed, “that’s true. We can no longer risk hiding the non-combatants down here for the duration. Not with the filthy sorcerer’s knowledge of the place.”

“So what then?”

“I mean that everyone must evacuate.” A hushing bled off their breaths as they stared, disbelieving what they had heard. “My friends, you must leave Vedun behind until it can be cleansed.”

“That’s lunacy!” someone cried.

“Leave our homes? Everything we’ve worked for all these years?”

“Flavio’s work of a lifetime?” Lydia spoke in unwonted dismay.

“For a time only, perhaps,” Gonji answered gently.

“Never!”

“We’ll not be driven from our homes!”

“What will we do?”

Gonji scowled. “Hey—is this the only world you can conceive? The only one you’ve ever planned for? A life of oppression and stoic acceptance of death, without raising a hand in your defense? You’ll do what you must, take up new lives elsewhere, if need be, until you can return to Vedun.”

“It’s madness! All of it.”

“How would we even escape? Klann will stop any mass movement of—”

“That’s only part of it,” Gonji snapped. “This isn’t to be a stampede of rabbits. The non-militant will be moved swiftly through the catacombs under heavy armed escort of married militiamen and brought out into both the valley and the northern hills. Those tunnels are fortified but unblocked. Meanwhile, up above, the bulk of the fighting men will be locking horns with Klann’s occupation troops, securing the city, and then defending against the reinforcements from the castle garrison, along with...whatever Mord raises against us. Once they’re engaged and thus preoccupied, we rush every wagon in the city—fortified as best they can be—rush them out the west gate under the rest of the family men. They’ll pick up the evacuated innocents along the way, then load them into the wagons and fly for safety in Austria. A good day’s ride ought to bring you into Hapsburg territory, where Klann will be loath to follow. In any case,” he sighed resolutely, “his command should be...considerably diminished by then. There’ll be no one to follow. I’ll see to that. We’ll see to that.” Gonji locked narrow-eyed gazes with Wilf.

“Ridiculous—!” came the derisive cries, once the translators had finished. Some stood as if to leave but were urged back into their seats by faithful bushi.

“What about the conscripts at the castle?” asked a farmer whose daughter had been taken as a servant.

“I was coming to that,” Gonji responded, strolling again. “You see we’re going to...take it back again....”

The simple confidence in the bold statement tore gasps from the onlookers. Gonji smiled thinly as he went on.

“Wilfred and I will lead a raiding party that will wrest Castle Lenska from those thieving bastards who’ve soiled it by their presence. We’ll free the hostages and the castle servantry, so that they may join you until it’s fit to return and restore Vedun. To fortify it against future incursions.”

“You keep speaking as if Vedun were a fortress, a military stronghold—” Milorad began fretfully.

“And so it is,” Gonji shot back, eyes gleaming. “So it must be, my diplomatic friend. There is no way to think now—fight or die.”

“How will you mount enough men to attack Castle Lenska?” Roric Amsgard thought aloud, the former military man shaking his head.

“It’s not the manpower, Roric, it’s the method,” Gonji replied. “You know that. Maybe we’ll turn some of Mord’s deceptive tricks against him. You see, I say this all with utmost confidence, because I want our traitor to tell Mord I’m coming for him. I want him to know that.”

He smiled calmly, eyes half-lidded as if he envisioned an oracle of certain victory. Softly, he continued: “You see, I know Mord’s power wanes. He grows weaker with each passing hour. His monsters die by the hands of puny men. Has any among you seen the wyvern trail its filth across your skies today? I thought not. I myself participated in his demise....”

A tremor of excitement and jostling. Whispers of awe.

Gonji spoke with quiet arrogance, wishing Mord to know it all, if indeed the traitor would be able to get word to him. It would be necessary for Mord to be enraged, his thinking unhinged, his plans out of focus as he concentrated all his hatred on Gonji.

But was the traitor among them now? Among those he most trusted and most distrusted?

Hai. The traitor was there. Somewhere. Pulsing with fear and wrath....

Wilf had stood as Gonji had mentioned his name. The young smith also now leaned against his table with arms folded.

“Can any of you doubt that we’ll accomplish what Gonji says?” Wilf contributed with a forced pride that caused the samurai to stifle a smile. How well Gonji appreciated the company of the valiant and loyal bushi of Vedun!

His father cast his eyes groundward to hear Wilf’s swaggering, while both his brothers seemed embarrassed.

“Oh—Aldo,” Gonji said in sudden remembrance to the bearded biller, Monetto, “don’t forget to mount that party of worthies today to begin reopening the tunnel to the castle dungeons.”

Monetto nodded, as he had been instructed to do.

It was a ruse. On reflection, any person who had seen the effective blocking of the tunnel in question—the supporting timbers fired, tons of earth and rock jamming the collapsed tunnel for an unguessable depth—would have known the near impossibility of what Gonji asked. The samurai had taken Aldo into his confidence in this additional minor effort at keeping Mord off balance, should their plans be conveyed to him.

Madness must be met with madness, their plans sown with red herrings and apparent illogic.

“Garth,” a man called out from behind the burly smith, “why does Klann refuse to see you now?”

“Da—were you not his trusted general once?”

Affirmations and questions echoed in reinforcement of the inquiry. Garth seemed stung by the implications, whose innuendo defamed both his present and his past.

“I tried,” he retorted sharply, “and that is that.” His ears reddened.

Lorenz rose at his side, the Executor of the Exchequer espying the accusers along his nose with courtly indignation.

“Who raises doubts regarding my father’s integrity?” Lorenz bridled. “He rode to the castle and was rebuffed at the drawbridge. Captain Kel’Tekeli refused to see him unless he wished to speak of Gonji’s whereabouts. Inasmuch as he possessed neither the knowledge nor the willingness the captain sought, he abandoned that tack. He next tried his old comrade Captain Sianno, who unfortunately hasn’t been seen in the city since that revolt of the idiots—”

Here there was grumbling at the aspersion cast on the late Phlegor, his fate still unknown to most of them. A few craftsmen leapt to their feet.

“Watch it, Gundersen. Phlegor’s a good man, and he has friends here.”

Lorenz ignored them. “Now what would you have my father do? You all know me. I’m a rational man—will you all grant me that?” He kept talking without pausing to assess the muttering. “But I’ve come to believe, reluctantly, that the militants are now right in saying that there’s no recourse but a violent one. So...we must fight.” With the single brandish of a fist, Lorenz relaxed, smoothed the creases from his well-cut doublet, and sat back down. There were shouts of assent among the groans.

Ignace Obradek, the blind wheelwright, cackled shrilly and slapped his thigh.

Gonji peered at Lorenz a moment, not liking the depersonalization in his phrase “the militants,” which in a single cleverly inflected swoop both ignored Gonji’s singular importance and voiced Lorenz’s undying contempt for the very fighting men he had spoken in support of. And the offhanded remark directed at Phlegor and the craftsmen reminded Gonji of his own guilt over having set Julian to watching them in order to deflect suspicions of the real militia’s effort.

“We’ll have no more in-fighting,” Gonji declared. “No more bickering among factions within the city. We are one, or we are nothing. As for what the craftsmen did.... They did what they felt they must at the time, believing Klann to be dead. It was a sound military principle, if ill-timed and undermanned. Now, I’m afraid, we must proceed in the belief that what Garth has told you is true—that Klann possesses more than one life.” His voice had dwindled to a near whisper, but now he raised it to a sonorous command tone. “But his troops are quite mortal! We’ve all seen that. And we are united against them. The craftsmen have laid their remaining weapons cache in the hills at the disposal of the militia, for which we thank them. And Phlegor—” Gonji’s gloom permeated the chamber, though none knew the man’s terrible fate, save Wilf. “—if we never see Phlegor again, he should be remembered as a heroic defender of his city. Along with Master Flavio, and Tralayn, and all those others who have fallen.”

A brief silence followed, punctuated by nervous coughing. Then Roric broke the spell.

“This business of the wagons, Gonji—” the provisioner advanced, “—are you sure there are enough of them to carry all the innocents away?”

Gonji turned his palms up. “They’ll have to do, Roric.”

Stefan Berenyi brightened suddenly. “Jacob Neriah’s back in town with his caravan! Just back from the east yesterday. He must have twenty sturdy wagons and a dozen drays.”

“That’s right,” Nick Nagy agreed.

“Are the draft horses kept nearby?” Gonji asked.

Both hostlers agreed readily that they were.

“Sure,” Berenyi said, “in the livery. Not all are at the Provender, though. Some few had to be sent over to the caravanserai at Wojcik’s Haven. But there are teams for every wagon.”

“Hmm.” Gonji grew pensive. “There’ll be tremendous pressure on you hostlers. You’ll have to hitch the teams with all good speed when the time has come. Can you do it quickly and quietly enough?”

Nagy was scratching his tousled gray hair and frowning. They looked at each other across Nagy’s wife and shrugged.

“You boys can do whatever you have to do,” Magda said encouragingly, patting them both.

“Igen, sure,” Nick grumbled. “You don’t have to do any of the work!”

“She might as well, for all the work you do,” Berenyi sneered.

“Hey, watch it, you little shit!”

They began snapping at each other in Hungarian, chuckles erupting all about them. Some of the tension leaked from the chamber, and Gonji let it run its course for a few seconds before clapping his hands sharply.

“Gentils,” Michael Benedetto urged, “may we keep to the point? And do speak German, or Italian, if you will.”

“Hai, dozo—yes, please do,” Gonji agreed, smiling at the laughter evoked by his ironic use of Japanese.

Berenyi rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, there’s no quick and quiet way to hitch wagon teams, you know.” He shook his head. “No way to avoid attention.”

“Does it have to be this way?” a voice pleaded from the audience.

“Ja, that’s settled,” Wilf called out impatiently. His left hand worked at the hilt of Spine-cleaver. Strom snorted from where he sat, slumped between his knees, eyes scanning the cavern floor. Lorenz curled his lip in distaste at his younger brother’s posturing of leadership.

Gonji nodded gravely. “How’s the hand, Stefan?”

Berenyi held up the left hand, still partially wrapped around the missing little finger. He grinned. “Doesn’t seem to bother my work, but my ken-jutsu suffers a little. If I get behind, I’ll just have to make Nagy work harder.”

Some good-natured laughter, then, as Nagy reached across his wife with a gnarly hand as if to throttle his partner.

Gonji tugged at his chin thoughtfully. “We’re going to have to create a diversion for you...or perhaps use the wagons for some logical purpose, so that their appointment for travel won’t look suspicious....”

“I can’t believe you’re all really considering this,” Boris Kamarovsky suddenly declared. “Leave your homes to....”

Some heads turned toward the craft guild party, anxious faces betraying their agreement with the wood craftsman’s concern. Normally Boris would have sat with his best friend, Strom Gundersen. But Strom’s seating with his father and near the rest of the military council—particularly the indomitable oriental—had driven Boris to a rear bench with other alienated guildsmen. Boris’ speech failed him and his eyes grew large and sheepish, to see the adamant resolve of the council members.

“So how do we go about this?” the Gray knight Anton growled.

Gonji nodded curtly. “Ah—the rest of the plan. All right.... From this moment on, everyone in this room will proceed with the constant accompaniment of at least one other person now here. Every one among us will keep watch over his partners. So sorry,” he apologized to see the expressions his implication aroused, “but we have a traitor in our midst, and we must observe what security we can still muster. As moon-maddened as it may sound.”

William Eddings rose, jaw working as if he would blare an imprecation that wouldn’t come. He glared angrily at Gonji, tears brimming his eyes, but his family spoke to him softly and eased him back into his seat.

Gonji had gone on, paying it no heed: “There must be no fraternizing with Klann’s troops, either Llorm or mercenary, beyond what discourse you must have with them in the pursuit of commerce. Spread the word in that matter, as it will be strictly enforced and violations will be investigated by me personally. I do have my suspicions as to the means by which the coward snivels intelligence to Mord—”

As he spoke, Gonji’s thoughts coruscated with anger, frustration, and a sense of futility over efforts at security. In truth, he had no salient idea how the traitor plied the foul deed. It could have been accomplished in any one of a thousand ways: via notes, gestures, personal audiences with the sorcerer despite all attempts at vigilance, perhaps even by means of some mystical communication whose inscrutability might make Mord quiver with glee over the rebels’ ignorance and fumbling efforts at security.

He cursed to himself, his jaw tightening with the effort at self-control, and went on.

“Remember that I have my own operatives, and they’re aware of the signs I’m watching for.

“So we work in pairs or groups of three. Teams will be given lists of citizens they will approach with our alert plan. Each team will cover one small sector of the city and report back to the council when their sector has been completed. You will tell them to prepare at once for the evacuation of Vedun. They may take only what they can carry; space will be at a premium on the wagons and on horseback. The riding steeds go to the militiamen, whose needs are first priority. Tell them all to be ready to evacuate on the night following the full moon.”

He paused dramatically to allow the timing to sink in.

“But,” he continued, “they must prepare immediately. There will be no time for delays when the signal is given.”

“What is the signal?” Jiri Szabo asked.

“Shi-kaze—deathwind!”

The entire gathering seemed to suck in a breath.

“When messengers come bearing the word ‘shi-kaze,’ they must move the innocents at once through the chapel and down here, where they will be escorted out to await the wagons near the exit tunnels.”

“Such a clatter, they’ll make!”

“Ja, how will we disguise our purpose?”

Michael held up a restraining hand and shuffled into their midst on his crutch. “Si, we’ve thought about that. As of tonight there will be a new service at the chapel, at ten bells of evening each night. A sort of...lamentation for the newly dead.”

“Soldiers haven’t been near the chapel in the past two days,” Wilf piped up.

“Hai,” Gonji added, “mercenaries are not fond of the reminders of suffering and death.”

There was a building storm of protest and grumbling, the complexity of the task ahead becoming clear.

“Michael, do you truly agree to all this?”

“Ja—da—si!”

“Fight or die,” Gonji pressed, “by the hand of Mord. Remember that he is our chief enemy, even as Tralayn so often told us. Even Klann may not know what he’s about. Enough dispute now. There isn’t time for it. The duty lists will be prepared today. The raiding, escort, and harassment parties will be selected, and their leaders appointed—”

“What about the weapons?” Dobroczy queried. “How will we retrieve those that are at the chapel? Most of the best long-range armament sits there—”

“Si, Gonji,” Monetto agreed, “it wouldn’t do to be going in after the weapons while women and children are there.”

Cries of abrupt realization.

Gonji blew out a breath and scratched his head. “Many of you still have your edged weapons, and there’s a lot of light armor in the city, I know that. The firearms are easy enough to smuggle. You’ll have to risk that, I’m afraid. And somehow—I’m not sure how—we’ll have to use the soldiers’ aversion to the many coffins in the chapel to get the armament. By the by—that was a fine idea, Paille, moving the weapons and armor up and placing them in coffins.”

Paille petulantly waved off the compliment from where he stood with one leg on a bench near the wall. With one thumb he made small circles on the bridge of his nose, apparently lost in thought.

“How many coffins are still in the chapel?” Gonji asked of no one in particular.

“Too many,” Milorad Vargo muttered through his snowy beard. It seemed to have grown whiter these past dreadful weeks. “It’s a scandal. You can’t even pass along the aisles.” Anna patted his arm sympathetically and purred in his ear.

“There must be close to fifty,” Michael answered. “There’s been a steady flow of obsequies, though. Probably fewer than half still contain actual bodies.”

“Hmm.” Gonji sagged under the onus of unfinished planning, the chaotic nature of their operation. Yet one channel of his mind wondered at Michael’s recent reversal of attitude, his sudden spirit of cooperation. For the first time his eyes now met Lydia’s. She seemed reserved, calm, her eyes heavy-lidded with fatigue and resignation.

Ah, he thought, she’s with child. That must have some bearing on their desire to escape this madness.

She looked lovely and fragile, a delicate blossom on a battlefield. Deep inside, a brittle laugh spiraled up to mock the samurai. Gonji cleared his throat.

“All-recht...,” Gonji began, unsure of the words even as he uttered them.

But then Paille snapped his fingers and blared a gravelly laugh.

“Of course!” the mad artist cried. “We solve both problems at once—the wagon movement and the armament caskets.” Anxious heads turned in reply. Given Paille’s crazy turns of mind, he might propose almost any outrageous—“Not all the coffins have been kept at the chapel before interment. Some chose to take their dead to their homes, so that they might lie in state before burial. Well now, all the other bereaved will choose to follow suit....”

He cast Gonji a cunning look.

Gonji caught his meaning and nodded. “Ah, wakarimasu—I see—Michael, did the troops take a body count of the citizenry?”

“I don’t think so. They were preoccupied with their own slain.”

“Yoi—good. Then the wagons will be hitched for the purpose of moving coffins to the homes of the bereaved. If there is no interference with the movement of the first few actual bodies, then we begin moving the armament coffins to strategic locations. These will then be the first stop for militiamen when the fighting starts.” Gasps and whispers of shock.

Gonji went on, gleaming black eyes mirroring the images in his thoughts. “But that may not be enough...we’ll also have to have raiding parties to attack the garrison’s armory...and loot the dead soldiery...we should be grateful for this rain spell that—”

“It’s sacrilege!” Galioto the dairy stockman cried, his face a landscape of anguish. “Some of the bodies will already be corrupting. To deny them burial is—”

“That’s right,” Gonji said, picking up part of the man’s line of concern, “we’ll have to see what Dr. Verrico and the undertaker can do about retarding corruption. And keep the coffins sealed....”

A farmer jumped up, storming.

“Men of Vedun—come to your senses! Listen to what these madmen are ordering. The bodies of your loved ones corrupting in your homes—”

“Sit down, Yuschak,” Michael called over the din.

“—our children, our women, the old folk all led down here like cattle to the slaughter! Eaten by beasts from the underworld. Stung to death so that they bloat like fish—like—like—like Baron Rorka!”

Aldo Monetto bounded over the benches, past the bodies that parted before his charge, to stand in the middle of the fearful dissidents.

“Listen to me, all of you,” Monetto said, gesturing placatingly. “Now, you all know me. You know that I give my heart to the defense of the city. My loyalty to the leadership of the council, to Gonji’s devotion to our cause. You know that I tilted at the great worm from the tunnels. Karl and I—some of the others here—we fought with it, helped destroy it, and are here now to tell of it. It’s true that it was here, there’s no denying the awful reality of it. But it’s also true that its carcass now lies in ruin in that very cavern where we’ve trained so hard. It’s now a monument to our hard work. That’s so, no? Mord threw his best at us, and we destroyed it. At the last it went down like a hog in Roric’s slaughterhouse, like some quail you’ve seen Karl down with his bow.”

He paused briefly, glancing around at the anxious, encircling citizens. “Now you also know the size of my family, and my love for them. And I tell you that our homes are not safe. There’s no sanctuary in Vedun anymore. Some of you saw what that giant did, dragging people from their homes. I see by your faces that you’ll not forget, though you pray that the memory would lie still.” Monetto paused and licked his parched lips, seemingly out of words.

“My children will be evacuated from Vedun. And that’s...all I have to say,” he concluded.

Gonji caught Aldo’s eye and passed him a slight nod of gratitude.

“All this horror,” a craftsman whined in despair, unable to stave off the stomach-twisting fear and apprehension any longer. “Our families threatened. The holy chapel become an armory.” He sobbed. “Flavio would not want that—”

“No!” Gonji cried. “Flavio would not want that!”

He leaped down from the table and stalked into their numbers with a cold and deadly expression, as if his intent were to strike a man dead. The chatter abated, and all eyes were on the samurai.

Gonji recognized the subtle turning in the group’s spirit following Monetto’s heartfelt reproach of their timidity: Resignation to fate, perhaps. A nascent malleability of their collective will. Ignoring the cautions flung before his quick-stepping mind by the conscience of the Western child part of him, he moved in among them and began to shape their dawning resignation.

“Flavio would not want that,” he repeated in Spanish, in which language—one of the earliest he’d learned—he felt most comfortable at oratory.

“Flavio would not want to see his chapel filled with concealed weapons, his compatriots’ dead denied a quick consignment to their graves. His friends in armed revolt....

“By now you’ve all heard how I failed in my solemn duty to protect Flavio. What you may not know is that I would have ended my own life that very day for this grave dereliction of duty. This bitter dishonor. Had not my good friends reminded me that”—his voice shrank to a hoarse whisper—“that Flavio would not want that.” He paused, blinked, as if awaking from a dream.

“But tell me—what would Flavio want? He is beyond asking—may all good kami convey him to his reward—so we are left with asking ourselves. Would he have wanted us to hate Klann or his captains for what they’ve brought to us? No, Flavio would not want that. Nor are the Llorm troops, or even those mercenaries who do what they do because they know no other way, nor are any of these to be hated. Flavio, again, would not want that—but...to hate the evil that they do, the evil perpetrated by Mord. This alone would Flavio want in this business—that we hate the evil and fight it to the death, if necessary.”

He clamped his hands behind him and strode with head down as he spoke now. “Flavio...was a great man. A man of shining idealism and firmness of belief that he adhered to all the days of his life. He should not have died in vain, if we fight now to save the seed of his ideals: the dream of peace and freedom of worship and the brotherhood of men of all nations—and you, Vedun, are that seed!

“You cannot live and grow in this place any longer. You would be trampled under the hooves of dragoons; your women savagely used; your children dragged to befouled dungeons and hideously sacrificed to the whims of the dark powers. And, I can assure you, Flavio would not want that. No...he would not. I think, if he were with us now, he would have to agree with the wisdom of our plan....

“That is all that I can think to tell you.”

He moved back to the table, where he leaned and crossed his arms, listening to the breathy silence as the translators finished, feeling the congealing atmosphere of bitter acceptance.

Paille shattered the sepulchral spell. “Why the long faces? Can’t you see the bright tomorrow to it all? When the town is cleansed, you can all return to your lives, to a new order, free of the yoke of—”

Ignace Obradek stood and cackled trenchantly, twisting and turning to crane his head toward the chamber’s dim ceiling, as if his dead eyes could see something denied the rest of them. By his side, the gloomy Paolo kept his place and let his boss rant.

“Bede gowno sie przed dam sie!” the blind wagoner squealed, barely able to squeeze the words out between gusts of mirth.

Several men brayed at the words.

“What’s that?” Gonji asked.

Most of the men near Gonji shrugged sheepishly. Stefan Berenyi seemed about to reply, but he was stopped short by a cultured crystal voice.

“It’s Polish,” Lydia Benedetto explained. “Sort of an...old man’s battle cry: ‘I’ll shit myself, but I won’t give up.’ He seems to have become the spokesman for the city’s solidarity.”

Gonji nodded and smiled at her. She returned it. As cool in defeat as she was in victory, she had serenely accepted Vedun’s future course. Some of the men had colored to hear her unaccustomed use of vulgarity. She, for her part, was unflinching. Gonji felt a pang of warmth over her graceful combination of beauty and self-assurance.

Deep inside, he found himself shaking off the effect of her charm.

“All right, then—gowno sie przed dam sie, old man,” Gonji said, haltingly. The crude battle cry, coupled with his peculiar accent, evoked additional laughter.

“Why must such things happen?” Milorad wondered aloud, grimacing behind his fleecy brows and beard like the wrathful spirit of the north wind. “What will posterity make of all this?”

“Why did we allow ourselves to be swept along into this madness?” a man seated behind him asked similarly.

But Gonji could make no answer that would satisfy either the city or himself.

“God must have some purpose in it,” Michael ventured in reply.

“It is our destiny, good people,” Paille declared, moving nearer now.

Lydia rose with stately grace and addressed the leaders. “You’ve set our course, so I ask you men only one thing. Why can’t we appeal to Klann to allow the innocents to leave the city without harm to them? Surely the king is not so barbaric that he would wish to see children harmed.”

Gonji smiled sadly through the mixed murmurs of agreement and objection. “I’m afraid, dear lady, that you continue to miss the point. There are none who are exempted from danger now. Mord is the enemy, and he wishes for all to be destroyed, so it would seem, even as Tralayn has said again and again. If there is any hope of success, then some semblance of secrecy and surprise must be preserved.”

“How can there be any secrecy with a traitor among us?” The questioner was Vlad Dobroczy, his tone filled with scorn.

Gonji’s brows knit, a grim shadow darkening his features. He began strolling, speaking as the argument slowly crystallized.

“Point: if security is maintained,” he began, “the coward may yet be prevented from reaching Mord with the new intelligence. Or the traitor may take one too many chances and find my sword lying in wait. Point: if Mord does learn of our plans, he may delay telling Klann, since the sorcerer seems to wish for rebellious action. His arrogant complacence will provide us just the advantage we need, and then the stupid enchanter will wind up at the end of my blade....” He grinned mirthlessly, allowing time for the insults to penetrate the listeners, more certain than ever that the one they were intended for was among them. Taunt the enemy. Cause him to lose control of his center. “Point: if Klann does learn our plans, I believe his position is tenuous enough that he will be forced to try to stop our action bloodlessly, perhaps....”

“Perhaps,” Lydia repeated tellingly.

“Perhaps,” Gonji said firmly, “but we must assume that he wants no more trouble. That he can ill afford it.”

“Bravo,” Paille said, simple and quiet. He produced a wineskin and slugged at it. “The dream of liberty is well served by you, sir.”

Gonji eyed him sidelong, stroking his stubbled chin and exhaling through his nose. Ignace crowed and chattered to himself in Polish again. The samurai glanced at him warily, fearing the blind man’s senile outbursts. Security seemed only a fool’s hope.

“Or Klann may find out and decide to crush us,” Jiri Szabo muttered on a quaking breath, at the last appending a nervous laugh full of false bravado.

“Then, Jiri,” Gonji said gravely, “we’ll have to show them all what fools they’ve been to underestimate us, neh?”

Slumped over, face buried in his hands, Galioto the dairy stockman fretted, “It’s really happening, isn’t it? We can suffer through it. If we’re to die, we grit our teeth, shut our eyes, and bear up until it’s done. But the little ones—the children—how do we make them understand?”

Gonji’s stomach churned to hear the very real concern voiced. He thought of little Tiva, and of Eduardo and the rest of his band of urchins. Of Monetto’s children. Roric’s. Of the children of a hundred other fighting folk of Vedun whom he’d come to know and care for.

Karl Gerhard ambled up to him. “This is insane, of course,” he sighed. “But we’re with you, Gonji.”

He extended his hand to clasp Gonji’s, and then all the other training leaders began to shuffle forward to similarly pledge their lives, if only tentatively, some with pale faces.

“Domo arigato,” Gonji said gratefully when they had finished.

“Do itashimashite,” Wilf replied for all, grinning. “You’re welcome.”

Gonji was proud to have the determined young smith for a friend and sword-brother.

But then his entire demeanor altered. His eyes became hooded as if some private thunderhead crossed his brow. The crowd watched as he turned away from them and tied about his head once again the hachi-maki—the headband of resolution—he had frequently worn during training sessions.

Death before failure at his purpose.

He vaulted atop the table again, glowering like some hostile stranger. He rotated in a complete circle, saw the menacing shadow beyond the unhinged catacomb door, then the anxious faces arranged around him.

“Does none of you ask the nature of the assistance I’ve spoken of?” he inquired cryptically. The bewildered murmuring had barely begun when he smothered it—

“You—traitor!” He passed an arm over the audience. “Listen to me....” There followed an unendurable minute in which the samurai leveled a withering gaze at every man and woman in the cavern. Some could not meet his eyes, though a few held them with vapid innocence. Others quailed and shrank back, though their cheeks were reddened more by indignation and insult than a sense of guilt. Some angled defiant, scornful stares at his oriental insolence. At length—he spoke again.

“Do you believe I have no suspicion of your identity, you contemptible wretch! Or of your means of communication to Mord? Do you think I bluff when I speak of my operatives, who also know what I’m watching for? Then behold—!”

Screams and outcries of alarm. People jumped to their feet as the frigid blast of demon wind roared into the cavern, fluttering the torches, extinguishing some of them with its searching force.

And then they saw the huge figure that appeared out of nothing behind Gonji...a limp body slung under one arm—

“It’s the—it’s the killer!”

“Ben-Draba’s killer!”

“Simon!” Michael called out, eyes shining with recognition. Beside him, Lydia stared in abject terror, all her fears of the rational world gone mad embodied in this charmed being whose presence had disturbed her sleep for the past year.

“Be seated, all of you,” Gonji said. “There is nothing to fear.”

Gradually they resumed their seats. The wind stilled, and the torches were re-lighted. The sentries gaped at the catacomb doorway, amazed that the eerie apparition had passed their posts unnoticed, though Gonji had challenged them that it would happen.

Behind the table, Simon slowly lowered the corpse of the mercenary he carried. The man’s neck was twisted at an unnatural angle. Eyes bulging, some of the nearer watchers clutched their throats in sympathetic horror; others averted their eyes. Simon’s own eyes of flint-sparked iron glanced about the room, darting feverishly like those of a cornered stray dog. Less threatening than warding, advising safe distance.

Gonji tilted his head in silent command, and the sentries removed the dead mercenary. He studied Simon a moment, then turned to the crowd.

“This is Simon Sardonis, a warrior whose...unusual abilities need no introduction in Vedun. Welcome him, as our ally. He has come to our aid at the behest of the good monks of Holy Word Monastery, who’ve suffered horrible death at the hands of Mord. Together we dispatched the wizard’s flying monster. And there will be still more squaring of accounts, before we are through. Oh, yes, that is very so....” He let the words hang in the air a moment, then nodded to Michael.

The young council leader addressed the gathering. “We must move quickly now. First, a benediction. We’ll pray for God’s blessing on our efforts.”

Most of the gathering dropped to their knees and bowed their heads as Michael led the prayer. Gonji joined in, assuming a Shinto prayer position. He caught a glimpse of Simon, whose lips moved silently, though his body trembled as if in pained concentration. When it was over Michael took charge again.

“First I’ll call forward the pairs assigned to the alert-plan lists. All militia leaders will stay behind for specific orders. I also need you hostlers—and the founders, and....”

* * * *

“Remember,” Gonji bellowed, when Michael had finished at last, “the night after the full moon—shi-kaze!”

He moved to the corner of the cavern where Simon stood alone.

“How do you do that?” Gonji asked.

“What?”

“That wind—the elemental display.”

“I don’t do that. It just...happens sometimes.”

Then Garth and Wilf came forward, a few of the other training leaders trailing close behind, and the smith offered Simon a goblet of wine, which he accepted with a somber nod. Nervous introductions were made, Simon clearly ill at ease with being out in the open among so many of the blatantly curious.

* * * *

Gonji moved off with his wine to observe in silence awhile. Study their interactions. Watch individuals for telltale signs. Listen to conversations, questions. Be vigilant for—what?

Cholera....

He scanned their faces, tried to stretch out with his will, read their minds. As the assignments were discussed, he began to fancy that certain of their faces, their eyes, effused a radiance, a nimbus effect.

The touch of the kami who augured death.

He shook himself and stopped looking. It must have been the wine.

* * * *

The traitor watched him, fought to stifle the roaring laughter within.

The barbarian idiot suspected nothing. He was merely a blundering, angry child who brayed and blustered about unspoken clues that were as insubstantial as moonbeams.

Soon. So soon at hand—the heritage that’s been denied me. The life I should have been born to. And the slant-eyed fool will lead the way to its achievement. When Mord has what he wants, then I shall have what is mine.

It’s all so amusing. How intriguing the game!

The traitor’s throat made a small hacking sound in shackling the tittering the others would find uncharacteristic. Rancor welled up at having to avoid even so small a manifestation of the gargantuan mirth within.

They might ask. And I don’t think I could resist telling them. No-no, that would be unwise, oh, yes indeed. The time for the celebration will come. Very very soon now.

Him.

I don’t like him, that—Simon. Who is he? What is he? The one Mord speaks of? Yes, that must be. But why does Mord fear him so?

And what does he have to do with him? That...king of fools.

* * * *

Paille was speaking to Gonji, dashing his reverie.

“Eh?”

“I say, friend Red Blade,” Paille repeated, clearing his throat in mock peevishness, “would it tax your Far Eastern sensibilities too severely to hear me out for a moment? I said that since my recovering from our night of crapulence I have been perpending our course of action, and it has occurred to me—”

Then Paille was unrolling a bundle of sheets on which were crude drawings. He began to declaim concerning da Vinci, and certain of da Vinci’s military inventions and designs, and something about using some of the wagon fleet as both a diversion and an offensive weapon. But although Gonji bobbed his head in a show of earnest sympathy and interjected an encouraging word now and again, his mind was focused on the far wall, where Michael Benedetto and Garth Gundersen now approached Simon. Sheepishly, in that polite, light-footed manner that both belied his burly frame and made him much coveted as a friend, Garth stepped backward gingerly a few steps and then turned softly to leave the pair alone.

Gonji watched Garth move off across the cavern, floppy cap in hand, then recalled something that had been troubling him.

“Oui-oui, Paille,” he said apologetically, “that sounds well worth looking into, but you’ll excuse me one moment, neh? Eh...continue showing the other captains. I’ll be back.”

Paille sneered. “So, my moment is up, eh, monsieur le samurai? Well, don’t blame Paille when all your plans crumble around your ears....”

Gonji intercepted Garth.

“My friend, we’ll need your sound military mind here awhile,” the samurai said, “whether you’ll be taking part in the action or not.”

Garth thought for a moment, bowed wearily and moved into step with Gonji back toward the table. But Gonji halted them suddenly.

“Garth, listen—something.... I’ve been thinking that I dreamed, or you told me—” He fumbled with his hands in perplexity. “Anyway, I keep thinking of you when it comes to mind—what is ‘the tainted one’?”

Garth’s jaw sagged. “Ja...don’t you remember—the Chronicle of Tikah Vos?”

“Ah, so desu—your parchment scroll.”

“The reference to the one Klann-child of the seven that was born...malformed...strange—something. In my years with Klann I never knew him to speak of it.”

* * * *

“Was it necessary to make so violent an entrance?” Michael asked Simon nervously. “Some of the people were—”

“Upset by the sight of the monster that’s come to them,” Simon finished. He averted his eyes self-consciously, staring down at the un-accusing beverage casks along one wall.

Michael winced. “No-no, Simon, that’s not at all what I meant.”

“What, then?”

“I meant...I meant that bringing an enemy’s corpse in here like that...so cold-bloodedly—it—it bespeaks a vengefulness, a call to bloodletting for its own sake.”

“Vengefulness,” Simon repeated hollowly. He peered up at Michael, his eyes suddenly filled with a pitiable mixture of pain, alienation, and moral confusion. “Isn’t that what you came to me and pleaded for after your brother was murdered?”

Michael stumbled back a pace, head hung low, a harpy of guilt clawing at his soul. He moved slowly to the bench where Lydia sat, expressionless.

“What’s wrong?” she asked gently.

He sighed. “Me, I suppose.”

Her brow furrowed, but she let the comment pass. “So—Simon has come back. I suppose I should have expected it.”

“If he had been welcomed as a man long ago,” her husband said in a voice fraught with self-accusation, “instead of as a thing.... If he had been accepted the way my poor brother accepted him, then maybe it wouldn’t have been necessary for him to come now. For this. Maybe Flavio would still be alive. And a lot of other people with him.”

She pondered his words. Her lips parted, but she said nothing.

* * * *

A curious surprise came to them in the cavern an hour or two later. One that refueled Wilf’s passion to get a crack at formidable Castle Lenska.

Most of the gathering had cleared to the surface. There remained a clutch of city officials, headed by Milorad and Anna Vargo, who sat on benches and clucked and fretted over the city’s immediate future. Grouped around the long table were the militia captains: Gonji, Michael, Garth, Anton, Roric, Wilf, Monetto, Gerhard, Berenyi, Szabo, and Nagy. A few pairs of militiamen had been sent up to begin apprising their assigned sectors of the alert plan. The military leaders finalized their company and squad rosters and planned the synchronized raids and pitched defenses calculated to seize back the city from the occupation force with a minimum of risk.

It was decided that if the evacuation through the catacombs and the wagon dispatch could be brought off carefully, there was a fighting chance at recovering the city. However, the grim realization of the heavy reinforcement column that was sure to hurtle down from the castle (in addition to the cretin giant and whatever else Mord might be able to raise against them from the nether-worlds—which subject was tactfully sidestepped) left the leaders rather glum.

To smother their despair, Alain Paille showed the sketches of his “armored wagons,” borrowed from da Vinci’s designs. A small thrill of optimism gripped them when they viewed the cross-sectional drawings of large commerce wagons plated in the inside with steel from the foundries and cut through with loopholes for firing at enemies. They were topped by portable cupolas for the drivers and their accompanying crossbowmen or pistoliers, and drawn by teams of armored destriers.

“Not terribly fast, given all the weight I calculate,” Paille judged, “but they’ll move. And motion will be of paramount importance, eh?”

“Rolling drum towers,” Roric described them, holding up his younger son for a better look.

“Very nice,” Gonji agreed warily, “but the practicality of their fashioning remains to be seen, neh?” Some of the optimism fled the band.

Through it all Simon sat apart from them, listening to their planning but contributing nothing. Wilfred began to wonder at this mystery man’s role, a bit miffed at his aloofness. The young smith decided he rather disliked the man and distrusted his seeming lack of dedication. After all, what vested interest had Simon in the fate of Vedun? Who was he? What did he stand to gain? And why had his identity and purpose been withheld by some of those Wilf most trusted and loved: his father, Michael and Lydia, and even Gonji?

That was when they were treated to the surprise.

One of the bushi, a provisioner, emerged from the tunnel that led to the chapel. Breathless, about to say something—But Strom Gundersen’s voice called out from the flickering lamplight of the tunnel:

“Hey, do ya mind?”

All heads in the cavern turned. Strom and Lorenz, who had ascended earlier with their alert list, returned now.

And each held by one arm...Lottie Kovacs.

Strom grinned slyly, his squirrely brown eyes searching out his father.

“Lottie!” came shouts and whispers in several voices.

Wilf gaped. “Lottie’s back,” he breathed, rushing forward to the slender blonde woman, mystified.

Anna Vargo was the first to observe social propriety, moving to the girl in her arthritic pain to hug her tearfully and offer her condolences. Others followed, leaving Wilf on the fringe, beside himself with curiosity and excitement.

“Lottie,” Wilf broke through at last, “Lottie, how did you—?”

“I smuggled her in,” Strom declared proudly, “true, Lottie?”

A small smile creased the girl’s narrow, doleful face. “Igen, Strom was very brave.”

“But what about—?”

“Hold it,” came Gonji’s paralyzing shout in High German. The samurai strode forward, scowling. “Will someone tell me what’s going on here?”

Wilf realized that they had been speaking mostly in Hungarian, keeping Gonji in the dark. He grinned and waved off the sensei’s suspicion. “It’s Lottie Kovacs, Gonji—Genya’s good friend. Her father was the lorimer murdered on the day of the occupation,” he appended with a respectful head bow. But his enthusiasm returned instantly. “But how did you get away from the castle? What did Strom have to do with it? What about Genya? How is she?”

“Slowly, Wilfred,” his father cautioned. “Give the girl room to breathe.” Garth ambled toward Strom, eyeing his youngest son’s puffed posturing curiously.

Lottie flicked her gaze over their looks of anticipation, blanching noticeably when she saw Gonji stroking his beard, his dark eyes riveting her. “I—uh...it was the night the king left for Vedun, for the banquet. I just...couldn’t stand the place any longer. I arranged to be smuggled out in a dray leaving the bakehouse for Vedun, under some empty grain sacks. I was fortunate. There was no search. But I knew I couldn’t press my luck. A search might be made at the main gate to the city. So I...I slipped out in the hills. Saw Strom. I knew I could trust him, but I feared to try to enter the city. I thought they might be searching for me. Strom hid me in the hills. He insisted on helping me steal into the city when I had the courage to try. We did so tonight. When the late herdsmen drove in their flocks, we mixed with them. That was very brave of you, Strom.” She smiled distantly at him. The shepherd was red-faced and beaming.

“What about Richard?” Wilf found himself asking. “Why didn’t he try to escape with you? ‘Bun-brains’ had no stomach for it? And what about Genya?” he added in a rush, not allowing her to answer.

Lottie nodded mechanically, staring at a fixed point on the far wall. “Yes, Richard and Genya were to escape with me. But they were...detained. I...I couldn’t wait. Couldn’t bear another night in that place. So I left...without them.”

Wilf made a gesture of understanding, but a look of unease gripped him.

“Wilf,” Gonji said evenly, “tell me everything she said. Omit nothing.”

Wilf blinked. He translated her tale slowly, an aura of hostility descending over the gathering. He saw the critical looks some were leveling at Gonji. Saw the steely eyes of Simon, the eyes of a watchdog. While he spoke, Wilf noticed that Boris Kamarovsky stood at the tunnel entrance, observing nervously. Since the time Gonji had chased him and Strom from the training ground, Boris had never approached within fifty feet of the oriental.

“Strom,” Gonji called to the shepherd, when Wilf had finished, “why didn’t you bring the girl through the northern hill tunnel, if you were already concealing her in the hills?”

“Hey,” Strom grunted, spreading his hands in appeal. When he spoke to Gonji, his eyes fluttered and grew large and liquid, defensive. And his eye contact always engaged a point somewhere on the ceiling above the samurai’s head. “I don’t even know where the north tunnel comes out,” he said. “And everybody told me the catacombs weren’t safe anymore, true?”

Wilf saw Gonji’s thoughtful expression, wondered at the samurai’s suspicion. What Strom said was certainly possible. He had had no opportunity to learn of the exit of the tunnel in question, and the catacombs had been regarded as rather less than savory since the battle with the great worm.

Garth moved to his youngest son, a bit miffed at Gonji’s tone. “You could have told someone, nicht wahr?” he advised with a forced chuckle. “Not like the Strom we know, eh, Lorenz?”

“Ja,” the Exchequer agreed, smiling and cocking an eyebrow, “he usually tells me everything he’s about, if not you, Father. What’s going on in there these days, dunderhead?” He indicated Strom’s skull, but the shepherd waved him off.

“I just wanted to do something to help, by myself,” he explained, “without maybe getting other people in trouble. Hey, everybody’s always telling me I talk too much, and now you all change your minds when I keep something to myself, nicht wahr?” Oppressed and bristling, he pulled away from them, eyes darting in childlike hurt.

But Garth approached him and smiled, clamped a thick hand on his shoulder and nodded paternally. “A fair display of courage, my son. You’ve made me proud this day.”

Strom grinned, his mood brightening.

Lydia tsked and moved forward. “Lottie, dear, you look much the worse for your ordeal. You’ll need a bath, and some suitable dress—”

Anna joined her in fussing over the escapee, and it was quickly determined that Lottie should stay with the Vargos, at least until the evacuation.

At Wilf’s side, Monetto kidded Gerhard in a hushed tone.

“Your old flame, eh?” Aldo jerked a thumb at Lottie.

A wry twist reshaped Karl’s long face. “That was a long time ago.”

“Last year,” Jiri Szabo reminded him.

“Ah, she never even looked at him once,” Berenyi joked impishly. “What girl wants a hunter when she can have a ‘bun-brains’?”

Karl snorted. “Ja, she made her decision. She’d rather have tarts on her table than fresh meat every day.”

Lottie left presently with the Vargos.

Strom and Lorenz returned to the surface with Boris, and the meeting of leaders broke up. Gonji asked Garth to send for the itinerant merchant, Jacob Neriah. The smith, still rather vexed at Gonji’s suspicious treatment of his youngest son’s valor, replied sullenly that he would do so.

Wilf monitored their chilly exchange, saw Gonji stare after the departing steps of the group that included Lottie, and worried over Gonji’s strange turn of mind since their tilt with the worm-thing. How long would it be before he began suspecting even Wilf himself of being the traitor who obsessed his thinking?

* * * *

Jacob Neriah descended to the cavern with much amusing ado about his shame at having had to pass through a Christian chapel. Flavio’s dearly beloved longtime friend was nonetheless serenely resigned to the city’s commandeering his wagon fleet, if it would help wreak vengeance against the Elder’s slayers. He stayed but briefly and reentered the chapel tunnel with an appeal to Yahweh for forgiveness.

His visit had been comforting to Gonji: The likeable merchant had been the first person he’d seen treat Simon Sardonis with polite disinterest and the same social grace he would tender any man.

When he had gone, only Gonji, Paille, and Simon remained.

“I’ll be taking my leave now,” Simon said, moving for the doorless portal to the main cavern.

“Where will you be?” Gonji inquired.

Simon ignored the question. “When you’re in need of me again, I’ll be about. Bon soir.” But when he reached the doorway, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. “I hope you realize at what cost I’ve fulfilled this request of yours.”

Gonji bowed to him solemnly. “Domo arigato, Simon-san.”

“Whew,” Paille breathed when he had departed. “What in the hell did that mean?” He un-lidded his flagon and took a draught, sloshing wine over his tunic.

Gonji smiled wanly. “He’s very frank in front of you, Paille. I think he’s comfortable with madmen.”

The artist sneered. “And other Frenchmen, as well he might be—what was that all about?”

“I’m afraid this was all quite new to him. I doubt that he’s ever been in the presence of so many people before. At least...not so many who mean him no harm.”

Paille wagged his head. “Of what possible use will this...Deliverer be? I mean...he’s a powerful warrior, but—”

“I suppose we’ll all find out soon enough,” Gonji replied, leaving it at that. Gonji’s whole body by now ached with every movement. His feet were swollen, his eyes red and sore, and his back, legs, and arms felt anvil-beaten. “I need sleep.”

“Later, then. I’ll confer with the founders first about this wagon armament business.”

“Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Sleep?” Paille snorted. “I loathe those little snatches of death—especially when there’s work to be done.” He peered into the darkness beyond the main cavern doorway. “Well, at least his French is excellent, which is more than I can say for some of us here. He reminds me, somehow, of my brother Jacques....”

Gonji slumped heavily onto a bench. “Paille,” he said, a gleam in his eye, “why do you stay here?”

Paille’s eyebrows arched. “Why, that’s a silly question, monsieur. I have my work, of course, and the cause of freedom, which must be—”

“Stop that claptrap, and speak German or Spanish—”

“Monsieur!”

“With your talent you could find more lucrative work in the great cities. And it certainly isn’t for friendship that you stay in a place where they regard you as an eccentric, at best.”

An uncharacteristic wistfulness softened the artist’s mien. “Flavio,” he said simply. “He commissioned a painting from me, you see, while I was working in Italia. Wrote me the fondest letter of compliment I’ve ever read. I decided I could do no better than to work near such a kindly patron. I would fain tell you otherwise, were it so. Such sentimentality abrades my cynical image, but—”

Gonji’s indulgent smile hardened him again. Embarrassed to have so bared his soul, Paille said: “Go to sleep, you look terrible.”

And with that he left Gonji alone.

The samurai checked on the cavern sentries and then stretched out on a pile of blankets to sleep. Found that it eluded him. The gently lapping waves of his drifting thoughts broke against shoals of guilt.

What was the last estimate of Klann’s strength? Six hundred. Plus Mord’s unknowable power, wavering or not....

Gonji pondered what he had told them all of the evacuation on the night after the full moon, and his sense of duty assailed him over his deceit. There would be hell to pay, he knew. But it must be done this way. The interest of surprise must be served, at whatever price in the chaos that might result. But the worst of it might be the dreadful consequences of Simon’s learning that he had been lied to.

On the full moon Mord would receive a fresh imputation of satanic power....

Hai, it had to be this way.

That was karma.

At the end of the Hour of the Dragon, just as sleep overcame him, he snapped awake with a strained cry and drew steel. Wilf stood over him, ashen and goggle-eyed.

“Soldiers just escorted my father to the castle,” the young smith said in an awed, fearful whisper. “Klann sent for him....”