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