Gonji: Deathwind of Vedun. T. C. Rypel

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....”