Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel. T. C. Rypel
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sound. “But is he saying that he should be forgotten when his present life has ended? No life should be forgotten.”
“No, of course not. This fellow should forget this sonnet business and apply himself to the stage. My brother tells me he’s quite an accomplished actor.”
“Your brother—Guy, with the one ear, or David, who smiles like a rabbit?”
“No-no, Gaston, the big strong one, who chose the stage against all advice.”
“Gaston,” Gonji repeated, rolling his eyeballs.
He recalled something he hadn’t thought of in years: his twelfth summer—the song of a lark—an indiscretion—the certainty of young death—
Gonji smiled. “Listen to this—
‘The soft white blossom—
Her eyes, markers of my grave.
My heart yearns for time
As shadows stretch and move:
The lark remembers my duty.’”
“That’s very interesting,” Paille declared. “What does it mean?”
“It is waka poetry,” Gonji replied proudly. “And that was my death poem—composed a bit prematurely, as it happens.”
As they neared the Ministry Paille questioned Gonji about his origin and background. The samurai spoke wistfully of Japan, of his father, the daimyo Sabatake Todohiro-no-Sadowara; of bushido and its seven basic principles: justice, courage, benevolence, politeness, veracity, honor and loyalty; of the samurai’s profound sense of duty; of Gonji’s repudiated heritage—but not the details of the duel over star-crossed love fought with his rival half-brother....
“This code of bushido is marvelously clean and simple,” Paille said. “But it can never be espoused here in eclectic Europe. Oh, no indeed. I’m afraid you’ll have to exempt yourself from its precepts here if you’re to retain your sanity. And as for duty—” he chortled “—as I’ve said, you’ve found it. You’re destined to be the great warrior-liberator who will help end monarchic tyranny. Your Western half has caused you to come here seeking fulfillment of that destiny.”
“No, monsieur wild-eyed poet, I’ve not come to find death in a radical social...upheaval—”
“Oh, good word, oui, your French is improving already—”
“—but,” Gonji continued, drowning him out, “but to seek a thing of legend called the Deathwind.” He explained the quest he had been set by a dying Shinto priest.
“Mmm,” Paille mused. “The Deathwind....”
“You’ve heard the legend?”
“Indeed, I know it well. Look about you. The Deathwind is our ever-present companion, the whispering breeze that serenades us when we’re alone in the dead of night, reminding us of our helpless, teeth-gnashing mortality.” Paille ended with a great theatrical flourish and flutter.
Gonji sighed. “What I need is a concrete explanation, something I can touch. Not more of your airy poetry.”
“If you have to ask what the Deathwind is, then perhaps you’ll never know—oooh!” Paille felt his tender jaw, which yet bore the bruise of Gonji’s punch on the night of the wyvern battle, when the fleeing samurai had tripped over the drunken artist.
“What happened there?” Gonji asked in amusement.
“Oh, the brigands jumped me the other night. Must have been three or four of them, but I escaped with only this souvenir.”
Gonji suppressed a laugh. “So you’re a fighting poet, then?”
“My purpose is to inspire others in the fight for freedom, but when the occasion warrants I can take care of myself.” He looked about cautiously. Then he produced a dagger from inside his tunic, winking at Gonji.
They stopped before the Ministry of Government and Finance, an imposing stone edifice with huge granite columns guarding its portals, which housed the Chancellery of the Exchequer and sundry bureaucratic offices. Children played on the steps without, waiting for parents on business. The Ministry was the nexus of commerce in Vedun, a short distance from the square and the bell tower and chapel, whose twin peaks fingered the steely sky. A large banner bearing Klann’s coat-of-arms now hung limply against the Ministry’s facade.
Gonji wondered at the curious appointments: the beast of fable and seven interlocked circles, two of which were blackened out. And as if the thought had spurred him, Paille began to blazon the crest aloud:
“Per bend sinister, Azure and Argent; in dexter, a basilisk (or something still less wholesome, perhaps) rampant-regardant, Or; in sinister, seven interlocked circles, two of the same Purpure; motto...incomprehensible.”
“You can blazon such devices, eh?” Gonji said, eyes sparkling with interest. He remembered the other coat-of-arms he had seen several days past. “Listen, Paille, do you know another from these parts, a green-and-red field, with a gold cross at the bottom—”
“Indeed I do,” the poet answered with arched eyebrows, “as do all in these environs. Of late it hung here in this very spot. The Rorka crest....” He set one foot on a hitching rail and puffed up his chest, then with eyes closed recited rapidly: “Per fess engrailed, Verd and Gules; in chief a lion, Argent, passant-guardant; in base a cross, Or (a hideously garish coloration, that); motto: ‘In Vita Sicut in Morte’—‘In Life as in Death.’ That is, presumably, at the breast of the Lord. ‘In Life as in Death’ indeed...,” Paille scowled.
Gonji shook his head sadly, for he had been sure it would be so: It was a patrol of Baron Rorka’s troops he had helped slay while in the employ of Klann’s 3rd Free Company.
“What do you suppose those blacked out, or purpled out, circles mean on the Klann crest?”
“Hard to say,” Paille replied. “Purpure is the royal hue, so it doubtless represents Klann. But two of the seven filled, the others not...?” He shrugged and turned his palms up.
A little boy brushed past them as Gonji tethered Tora, another child following quickly in yelping pursuit.
“The enfants perdus,” Paille muttered, watching them.
“Eh?”
“The children of forlorn hope,” the artist explained. “These are the ones who are trampled under the hooves of royal ambitions. They look to you for deliverance, monsieur le samurai—will you fail them?”
Gonji frowned, but deep within he was warmed by the pride born of the champion’s mantle. His nickname swam on the eddies of his thoughts, that name he had earned farther west.
“Listen, Paille, you’re knowledgeable on lore and legend. Ever hear of the Red Blade from the East?”
“Mmm. Let me think...oui, I do know it. It speaks of a fabled warrior—a cossack, I think—who carries a saber of ruddy metal. Never bested in battle. Some say the blade is colored by the many—what’s wrong?”
“Forget it.” Gonji’s brow furrowed as he mounted the steps to the Ministry, resolving to carefully consider anything the glib Frenchman told him in the future before lending it any credence.
Paille stared after him a moment, wondering what he had said to alter the oriental’s mood. They were certainly a touchy lot. He shrugged and loped up the steps after him.
* * * *
Phlegor, the craft leader, signed the last bill of lading acknowledging receipt of the guild’s materials.
“You’re sure it’s all there?”
“Quite sure, Phlegor,” Lorenz Gundersen said with weary indulgence.
“You remember what happened last time the Jew brought the Viennese order.”
“And