Rebels of Gor (32 page)

“Command us further,” said an Ashigaru.

“Go to the graves of my sons,” said Lord Yamada. “See if there is an empty grave.”

“Where is Sumomo?” asked Lord Akio.

“She is delicate,” said Lord Yamada. “She has returned to her quarters.”

“I see,” said Lord Akio, pacified.

“Noble guests,” said Lord Yamada, addressing Tajima and Pertinax, “please forgive this unexpected intrusion. I trust that it has not diminished in any way the delight of our evening. Surely it has in no way diminished mine. I shall recall the harmony and concord of our gathering with fondness. Take now your chains of gold and assure your compatriots of the cavalry that as much or more awaits them when they take to the saddle in the name of Yamada, Shogun of the Islands.”

“Our thanks, great lord,” said Tajima, bowing.

“You will be expected at the gates,” said Lord Yamada. “You will be passed through. You will be given your weapons. There will be no difficulty. I trust there is ample time, despite the recent diversion, for you to make your rendezvous, wherever you have arranged it to be.”

“It is not yet the Eighteenth Ahn,” said Lord Akio.

“It has rained,” I said. “It may take somewhat longer.”

“There will be time,” said Tajima, once more bowing.

He and Pertinax then turned to exit the room.

“Wait,” said Lord Yamada.

“Lord?” asked Tajima, turning, again.

“The garden is shut,” he said. “Exit thence.”

“Yes, Lord,” said Tajima.

The shogun had indicated the corridor leading back into the palace.

“Also,” said the shogun, “I am aware that strong men have interests other than gold.”

“Lord?” said Tajima.

“Each,” he said, “may take a woman with you, for your own, one of the serving slaves, or another, perhaps from the pens.”

“Lord Yamada is most generous,” said Tajima.

“I am shogun,” said Lord Yamada.

“I fear, however,” said Tajima, “that the night sky will be cold, and that the freezing rush of the chill wind, as it is cloven by the speeding tarn, will be harrowing to a tunicked slave.”

“Demand two blankets,” said the shogun.

“Again our thanks, great lord,” said Tajima.

Once more bows were exchanged, and Tajima and Pertinax left the room, traversing the corridor leading back into the palace.

Tajima’s solicitude for slaves interested me. Surely he knew that they were slaves. A slave is owed nothing. If she wishes a garment, or a mat, a blanket, or such, let her beg for one, a begging which may then be considered by the master. Indeed, I thought that a chill ride on a tarn, through the blasting wind, bound or chained helplessly against the leather, much exposed, having only her tiny tunic, might be instructive for a slave, something which would help her keep in mind that she is a slave. The slave may be fed or not fed, clothed or not clothed, caressed or not caressed, depending on the will of the master. She is his beast. The slave is almost always distinctively garbed. She is usually garbed in such a way as to enhance her beauty, and make it clear to herself, and others, that she is a slave. Slave garments, incidentally, are almost always extremely comfortable, surely more so than the cumbersome robes of concealment prescribed for the free woman of the continent. In the typical slave garment a woman may move quite freely, doubtless because there is so little of it.

“How did the assailant enter the garden?” asked Lord Yamada.

“One supposes, through the palace,” said Lord Akio.

“There must then have been one or more confederates,” said Lord Yamada.

“I fear so,” said Lord Akio.

Chapter Twenty-One

What Occurred in the Garden of Lord Yamada

The Night Singers were now in the fields.

I sat in the shade, on a bench, near the small bridge which spanned the tiny brook wending its way amongst the rocks, the tiny terraces, the shrubberies, the flowers, and trees of the garden.

It had rained the night of the attack. Accordingly, the Night Singers, as I had gathered from Lord Akio, were silent. Thus, the cessation of their song, commonly resulting from wariness, perhaps an uneasiness occasioned by the entrance of an intruder, or something unfamiliar, in the garden had not occurred. Had it occurred, it might have been noted by guards, or others. Accordingly, I had little doubt that the attack had been coordinated with their silence, to be expected under the circumstances. But rain may reveal as well as conceal. Before retiring I had taken a lantern and, in the dampness, and under the dripping leaves, examined the interior edge of the walls. Surely it seemed unlikely that the assailant would have entered the garden through the palace itself. Too, the height of the wall, I suspected, judging from what I could see of the courtyard wall from my barred room, or cell, to which I was usually confined at night, would have presented its own hazards, of anchored glass, shards, and metal. In the light of the lantern I had carefully scouted the interior edge of the wall until I found what I was looking for. There was little difficulty once I had found the tracks left in the soft soil, and mud. I now knew how I could exit the garden at any time I might wish. Unfortunately I was generally permitted in the garden only during the day.

Near me, the gardener, Haruki, silently, was pruning shrubbery. I had inquired his name in the palace, and had made it a point to greet him, from time to time, in a friendly manner. Initially, I fear this familiarity frightened him; even now he would not converse with me, other than in some brief harmless way, or in response to some simple question about his work or the plantings; he would turn away, and busy himself elsewhere. The Pani were very conscious of rank. Several days ago I think I may have done him some service, when Lord Akio, with a noble’s innocence, and no particularly malevolent intent, was ready to show me the deadliness of his flung war fan. Instead I had prevailed upon him to demonstrate his prowess, and the seriousness of the weapon, on a young tree, whose trunk had been half severed, as though with the single blow of an ax, which tree, at the behest of Lord Akio, had been subsequently replaced.

“Tal,” I said to Haruki.

“Tal, one who is honorable,” he said, softly, his head down.

“I think it will rain today,” I said.

“No, noble one,” he said.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“The petals of the golden cup are open,” he said, “the zar swarm is not aflight, the lavender leaves of the scent tree do not curl.”

“You can predict rain,” I said.

“Not I, honorable one,” he said, “but the garden. The garden knows.”

“It is like the weather glass,” I said.

“
Ela
,” he said, “I know nothing of such a thing.”

“It is common on ships,” I said, “particularly round ships, merchant ships.”

“I am a humble gardener,” he said.

“You know this garden well,” I said.

“I and others,” he said.

“I suspect,” I said, “there is nothing you do not know about this garden.”

“I must work, honorable one,” he said. “I would be excused.”

“An empty grave was found,” I said.

“I have heard so,” he said.

“The body must have been removed from it,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said, “it never contained a body.”

“That is possible,” I said.

“Lord Yamada,” I said, “has many wives, and many women.”

“He is shogun,” said Haruki.

“When sons are born to the house of Yamada they are killed,” I said.

“He is shogun,” he said.

“From whence does Lord Yamada obtain his women?” I asked.

“From high houses,” he said.

“Perhaps from the peasantry, as well?” I said.

“If they are very beautiful,” he said.

“I know you have work,” I said. “Forgive me for detaining you.”

Four days ago, following the slaying of the reader of bones and shells, Tatsu, and the attempted assassination of Lord Yamada, Tajima and Pertinax had left the palace grounds and, as far as I knew, returned safely to the encampment beyond the holding of Lord Temmu.

It seemed clear to me that Lord Yamada had arranged with Tatsu to reveal a reading to his political advantage, which would then be relayed to the holding of Temmu, sooner or later, by Tajima and Pertinax. That reading, once understood, would then, doubtless, be confirmed by Daichi, in a new casting of bones and shells, which would be likely to add to its weight. On the other hand, the reading proclaimed by Tatsu spoke rather of danger to the house of Yamada and of some mysterious figure, supposedly of the very blood of Yamada, referred to as the “avenger.” The outraged shogun, believing himself crossed in this dire manner, and doubtless feeling humiliated and betrayed before the company, apparently in a moment’s consternation and rage, answered the unwelcome reading with the precipitous retort of the companion sword. I had little doubt that he had almost immediately regretted the hastiness of his action. Surely, shortly thereafter, he had chided Lord Akio, when that noble person, presumably fearing for his shogun’s life, had thrust his sleeve dagger into the neck of the assailant, severing the vertebrae at the base of the skull. I did not personally countenance readings of the sort which might issue from a Daichi or Tatsu. On the other hand, I was not at all sure that Tatsu had been the tool of another, had been suborned, or such. He must have known that the delivery of such a reading would be hazardous. Accordingly, I thought it possible he was, as he had claimed, loyal to the shogun, and had chosen this means, that of a reading, to inform the shogun of a sinister intelligence. Perhaps there was, somehow, somewhere, an avenger, one even of the blood of Yamada himself. The morning following the supper the graves, more than fifty of them, had been opened. And, indeed, one had been found empty.

Haruki had now, perhaps gratefully, distanced himself from me, and my doubtless prying, unwelcome questions.

There was much that I did not understand, not merely locally, but about the very strife in which I had somehow become a participant. Long ago, on a dark night on a remote beach, the remaining land forces of Lord Temmu, defeated and routed, confronted with superior force on one side, the victorious warriors and Ashigaru of Lord Yamada, and roiling Thassa on the other, awaited their last battle, in which they would be driven into the sea. But in the morning the advancing forces of Lord Yamada had discovered only the debris and ashes of a deserted camp. Shortly thereafter the Goreans of the continental coast, particularly that in the vicinity of Brundisium, found strangers in their midst, Pani, these survivors of the major land forces of Lord Temmu. These Pani, as I had determined, were as unclear as to the nature of their arrival on a foreign shore, as were those amongst whom they had found themselves. It was obvious, given the technologies involved in such a suspension of consciousness and such a methodology of transition that either the Priest-Kings or the Kurii, or both, had chosen to intervene in what might otherwise have been regarded as little more than a final battle in a minor war in a far place, but why would they have done so? It was my surmise, based largely on intelligences more suspected than delivered in Tarncamp, that the matter had to do with the contest for Gor, or its surface, long waged by Priest-Kings and Kurii, a contest in which an acquisitive and aggressive species sought conquest and victory, and an ensconced species was content to satisfy itself with little more than the defense and protection of its world. The possibility had suggested itself to some, a possibility which seemed plausible to me, that the Kurii, frustrated at the current failure of their designs, and the Priest-Kings, annoyed by probes, and predatory intrusions, might be willing to gamble for a world’s surface, which space was seldom traversed by Priest-Kings, and then, commonly, only after the setting of Tor-tu-Gor, Light Upon the Home Stone, whose bright, piercing rays would dazzle and blind their sensory organs, and whose heat at certain seasons and in certain latitudes could scarcely be tolerated by their fragile, delicate bodies. Accordingly, it was surmised, at least by some, that a wager had been made, with humans the cast dice on which the fate of the surface of a world might hang. If the dice fell in favor of the bestial Kurii, the Priest-Kings would surrender to their intrusion and habitation the surface of their world, and should the dice fall in favor of the Priest-Kings, the Kurii would withdraw to their steel worlds, to live in peace, or seek another star. I had no idea whether or not these speculations were grounded in reality, or were no more than the arrant conjectures of an ignorant few who were, perhaps, as little aware of the springs and engines on which the world turned as the grazing tabuk feeding in the meadows, the sheltering wood nearby, or, within that forest, the stolid tarsk turning the soil with its tusks, digging for roots. So let us suppose these mighty species, to whom we were aliens, and of little independent interest, had arrived at an agreement, that we were to be the dice in their dark game, the dice to be cast on the mat of a world. First, how might the dice be balanced; how might they be more equally weighted? The forces of Yamada were large and disciplined, both on the land and sea. They were largely in control of the resources of the crucial islands. Victory sat upon their banners. The devastated forces of Temmu clung to little more than the lofty heights of an ancestral holding. How then could the dice of men and war, those of Yamada and Temmu, be better balanced, be more evenly weighted? The house of Yamada had seized the land and the sea. What if the house of Temmu might be capable of seizing the air? What of tarns, unknown on the islands? Might these monsters not level a game, and adjust its odds with a more gracious equity? Possibly. But how could that defeated remnant of the forces of Temmu, removed to a far coast, return to the war, whose fields lay across the vast, turbulent breadth of Thassa, beyond even the Farther Islands, from whose waters no ship had returned? Let there be then a ship, a great ship, an unusual ship. Could it, unaided, make its way to that board on which the dice were to be cast, the islands beyond the Farther Islands? If not, is the game not done? And if perchance such a ship, a large ship, a transport for men and tarns, as no other before it had done, might brave the perils of Thassa, what then? And the great ship had, worn and tired, after its months at sea, at last drawn up aside the wharf at the base of the great mountain on which, like a nest of tarns itself, half hidden in the clouds, reared the holding of Temmu.