Rebels of Gor (37 page)

“And you might find out much,” I said.

“I am lowly,” he said.

“Do not return to your work,” I said.

“As the noble one will have it,” he said.

“When do the generals of Lord Yamada march north?” I asked.

“Soon,” he said. “The distant daimyos are being summoned.”

“That information must reach the north,” I said.

“There are many patrols,” he said. “Runners might be noted. It is days to the holding of Lord Temmu, if that is the destination you have in mind.”

“That first,” I said.

“Even the path of the thousand arrows is impractical,” he said.

“True,” I said. The distances involved would exceed the utility of this device, which is often used to transmit messages between certain outposts or even between separated units, as in coordinating junctions or pincer movements. Obviously the expression, “path of a thousand arrows,” is something of a metaphor, as there would seldom be a thousand arrows employed. The procedure, of course, is to relay a message by a number of flighted arrows, the message secured from one arrow, and affixed to the next, and so on. As the chain which is no stronger than its weakest length, this device, too, can be unreliable, as the succession of arrows might be interrupted in any number of ways. The arrows are often brightly colored, and even beribboned. And sometimes whistling arrows are used, much like those which convey signals, initiate attacks, and such. Under certain field conditions, naturally enough, one prefers stealth and silence.

“I see no way to do this,” he said.

“Someone must have secured, trained, and positioned the assailant who failed in the attack on the shogun’s life,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“It is clear,” I said, “that Lord Yamada has agents in the camp of Lord Temmu.”

“Possibly,” said Haruki.

“Similarly,” I said, “Lord Temmu, and his daimyos, Lords Nishida and Okimoto, are highly intelligent men. Accordingly, it seems likely they would have agents in the camp of Lord Yamada.”

“Possibly,” said Haruki.

“I can name one,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“And such agents,” I said, “must have the means to communicate with their principals.”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“Expeditiously,” I said.

“Once,” he said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“The cot of the message vulos,” he said, “was a day’s trek from the palace. They could not be kept here, or in the vicinity, as suspicion would be aroused.”

“That was wise,” I said.

“But the cot was discovered, and seized,” he said. “It was burned, and the message vulos and their keepers slain. I learned this from a peasant, come to sell a daughter, for her welfare, to a contract merchant.”

“Then a messenger, afoot, must set out,” I said.

“It will take time, it will be dangerous,” he said.

“Nonetheless,” I said.

“Who would you put in this jeopardy?” he inquired.

“I will hide in the tunnel, and leave after dark,” I said.

“You will be missed before you depart,” he said. “Ashigaru will be everywhere. You will be apprehended within the Ahn.”

“It must be risked,” I said.

“You are serious?” he asked.

“Surely,” I said.

“Perhaps,” said he, “you are not a spy for Lord Yamada.”

“It seems to matter little,” I said.

The gardener regarded me, intently.

“You try to look into my heart,” I said.

“It is hard to look into a heart,” he said.

“The homing bird,” I said, “is good for a flight in only one direction, back to its native cot.”

“Yes?” said Haruki.

“How are the message vulos of your destroyed cot replenished?”

“By hand-drawn cart,” he said.

“This cart,” I said, “will attempt a rendezvous with the local cot.”

“There are only ashes now,” said Haruki.

“That may not be known,” I said.

“Unfortunately, noble one,” he said, “as wise as your hope might be, that rendezvous was attempted, and failed, which intelligence I have also from the aforementioned peasant, a trap having been laid and sprung. The cartsman and the birds were apprehended.”

“Wait!” I said. “I am a fool!”

“How so?” said Haruki, warily.

“Are you assured the message vulos of the secret cot were slain, as well as their keepers?”

“It is thought so,” said Haruki.

“Perhaps some bloodied birds were found?” I said.

“That is my understanding,” he said.

“Of course,” I said.

“I do not understand,” he said.

“Lord Yamada is clever,” I said. “Would he not keep some birds, who would home to the holding of Temmu, that he might make use of them upon occasion, perhaps to mislead the forces of Temmu, say, putting them at their ease, while he plotted swift and devastating actions?”

“Surely there would be some sign enclosed with the messages, to certify them as genuine, to guarantee their authenticity,” said Haruki.

“Doubtless,” I said. Otherwise, given the possibilities of spies, birds could be brought from either holding, that of Temmu or that of Yamada, which might then, with false messages, be released to return to either holding. One supposes, of course, that the signs, like signs and countersigns, like passwords and keyed responses, would be regularly changed. “Do you know the sign?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“But the keepers would,” I said.

“Of course,” he said.

“Perhaps they did not all die quickly,” I said.

“I see,” he said. “But we do not know the sign.”

“But if I am right,” I said, “the birds will be at hand.”

“In the cot of Lord Yamada,” he said, “will be found the birds come from the holding of Lord Temmu, and those birds who are to be transported thence, to return later.”

“And,” I said, “the apprehended birds, those captured from the secret cot, which will home to the holding of Lord Temmu.”

“If there are such,” said Haruki.

“There will be,” I said. “Is the cot guarded all twenty Ahn, how many keepers are there, how many guards? Might they not be called away, their attention diverted?”

“I shall make inquiries,” he said. “But what of the sign?”

“I do not know the Pani script,” I said. “I do not know the syllabary in which they transcribe Gorean. If I were to print in continental Gorean script, it would probably be enough. But I will write in another language, which two, I know, in the north, can read, a language which few, if any, in the dominions of Lord Yamada would be likely to know, even recognize. I will now to my room, obtain paper and a marking stick. The message will be ready shortly. You must show me the message cot of Lord Yamada.”

“You are too much watched,” said Haruki. “I will take the message.”

“Can I trust you?” I asked.

“The noble one,” he said, “has little choice.”

“We are likely to do this successfully only once,” I said. Indeed, it was not clear to me that it might be accomplished, even once.

“Inform the house of Temmu,” he said, “of the readying of troops, the summoning of daimyos, warn that the word of Yamada is not to be trusted.”

“I shall,” I said, “and I shall also attempt to devise an arrangement for further communication, one swift but not dependent on caged vulos.”

“Tarns?” he said.

“Of course,” I said.

“You might also,” said Haruki, “inform the house of Temmu of the projected fate of the beauteous Lady Sumomo. They should find that most agreeable.”

“You hate all of the house of Yamada,” I said.

“Of course,” he said.

“But your grandson would be of that house,” I said. “In him is the blood of Yamada, and it may be as dark, as narrow, as implacable, as fierce and cold, as his.”

“I am troubled,” said Haruki.

“But, too,” I said, “in him would be your blood, and that of your daughter.”

“It is difficult to choose a path,” said Haruki.

“I shall convey the projected fate of the Lady Sumomo to the House of Temmu,” I said.

“They should find it of interest,” said Haruki.

“Perhaps others, too, might do so,” I said. “When is she to make the acquaintance of the eels?”

“There are hundreds, half starved,” said Haruki. “One can almost walk upon them.”

“When?” I said.

“Soon,” he said, “when the daimyos are gathered, that they, and others, may take notice, and be apprised of the dangers of displeasing the shogun.”

“Lord Yamada has been patient,” I said. “But I think he now despairs of enlisting the cavalry, but he needs no more than its neutrality, of which he feels assured.”

“As long as you are his guest,” said Haruki.

“Yes,” I said, “as long as I am his guest.”

“Perhaps, one day,” he said, “the demon birds will fly.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“You wish to summon demon birds?” he said.

“If necessary,” I said.

“Do not do so,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“On that day they will die,” he said.

“How so?” I said.

“They will perish in the flames of the iron dragon,” he said.

“There is no iron dragon,” I said.

“Even Lord Yamada fears the iron dragon,” he said.

“There is no iron dragon,” I said.

“I have seen it,” he said.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Stadium

“I trust that you will not interfere,” said Lord Yamada, pleasantly.

“Your Ashigaru will see to that,” I said.

From where I was, in the stands, I could see both the platform of execution, far above and to my left, and the wide surface, some ten paces in width, of the deep, stone-encased pool of death eels. The stones of the pool’s circular containing wall were cunningly fitted and bright with color, for the Pani have a finely developed aesthetic sense. The handle of a tool, a wooden hinge, a gatepost, the prow of a fisherman’s humble craft, the threshold of a peasant’s simple hut, may be models of carving. Even the roofings and walls of their fortresses, structures betokening the dark needs and sober exigencies of fearful times, are graceful, and companions to their background, not intruders. They are such as to be welcomed by the sky, the clouds, and mountains. Even the blades with which the Pani kill are beautiful. The water was still roiling for an attendant, but Ihn ago, had cast a bucket of scraps of raw tarsk into the water, not to feed the massed, swirling, snakelike fish but to excite them, to sharpen their hunger into a frenzy of anticipation.

“A pleasant day for an execution,” commented Lord Akio.

“Indeed,” said the shogun.

I supposed the day was pleasant enough, at least in itself, as it was neither too warm nor too cold, and the sky was a bright, unblemished, cloudless blue. Too, there was a slight, refreshing breeze.

How could it be then that it seemed I felt the balmy air concealed a veiled chill and the bright sky lied?

“One is surprised,” said Lord Akio, “in the light of the prodigious nature of the offense, that the punishment of the criminal should be so mild.”

“Lord Yamada is well known for lenience and mercy,” said an officer.

“It is his only fault,” said Lord Akio.

“It was primarily the petition of our guest, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” said Lord Yamada, “which swayed me.”

“Perhaps a guest presumes too much,” said Lord Akio.

“I think I shall withdraw,” I said.

“Please remain, dear friend,” said Lord Yamada.

“One does not, of course, die in the pool immediately,” said the officer.

“It can take a full Ehn,” said another officer, “before the bones reach the bottom of the pool.”

“It is preferable, is it not, to the straw jacket?” asked another.

“I see little to choose between them,” said another.

“It is festival,” said Lord Akio. “The straw jacket will be for others, later.”

“How so?” I said.

“Peasants delinquent in taxes, thieves, deserters from villages, defamers, the disrespectful, perpetrators of incivility, those forgetful of rank, and such,” said Lord Akio.

“I am reminded,” said Lord Yamada. “I must seek a new gardener.”

I must have started.

“What is wrong?” asked Lord Akio.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Why, Lord,” I asked the shogun, “do you need a new gardener?”

“As it is your habit, from time to time, to honor my humble garden with your presence, perhaps you know him.”