Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel. T. C. Rypel

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СКАЧАТЬ assessing the province’s new Lord Protector as he knew Milorad would be doing. Klann little resembled his swarthy Akryllonian nationals. And, the Elder realized with a disappointment that mildly surprised him, Klann hardly lived up to the aura of mysticism in which he had been enshrouded. He was a big, bluff red-bearded man, rather rotund and quick to laugh, with narrow, close-set eyes that darted and twinkled in a manner which suggested caution or cynicism, a broad melon grin, and high cheekbones which were perhaps his most regal feature. He spoke several languages and drank from the cups of commoners as he swept past.

      He avoided looking at the party from Vedun until he had been seated at the opulent table facing them. He sat in the ornate, high-backed chair that had so recently been reserved for Baron Rorka, and his mixed entourage of courtesans, advisers, and military officers joined him. Flavio recognized only Captain Sianno, commander of Vedun’s Llorm garrison, and Captain Kel’Tekeli, head of the free companies. The chair at Klann’s right was empty, doubtless reserved for his queen or a favorite courtesan. Mord had reappeared and was now seated a few places to the left of Klann, eyeing the delegates somberly. There was neither cup nor place setting before him.

      Flavio looked to Gonji, but the samurai sat in dignified silence, expectantly regarding the king. Praised be for that. Milorad sat calmly, shot Flavio a wink of encouragement when their eyes met. Good old Mil.... Garth seemed troubled, preoccupied. As well he might be, under the shadow of his curious invitation.

      Genya directed a stream of servants in attending the royal table under the gaze of an evil-faced chief steward.

      Then Klann was nodding and smiling to Flavio, and the Elder prayed for guidance. Lord God, send me Your Spirit so that I may know the right words....

      “Let the feast be served!” Klann called to the chief steward, and immediately there flowed from the sweltering kitchens a procession of foodstuffs held on high in huge serving platters and wheeled into the hall on silver carts. A roar of approval and applause broke from the roistering crowd.

      Deer were broken; geese were rered; trout, culponed—all meats and fish and fowl were goodly carved. Beverages sloshed under the botiler’s charge. The orgiastic feasting began, strolling minstrels and the gallery musicians serving up festive music for the aid of digestion.

      “And now,” Klann said in very cultured Italian, indicating the Elder, “you, my friend, can only be the Flavio we’ve heard of, Council Elder in Vedun. By all accounts a wise and reasonable man—no-no, sit! Eat as we speak. Let formality be damned this night. Drink! Eat! Introduce your companions to us.”

      Klann took a deep draught from his goblet. Flavio drew a breath to relax and sat back down on the bench.

      “I am Flavio, sire, even as you say, but I fear your intelligence with respect to me flatters me too much.” He bowed deeply. “Here is my close friend and adviser, Milorad Vargo. And our city’s chief smith, Garth Gundersen, here with us by your royal edict. And—” He stuttered just a bit when he came to Gonji, whose face betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. “—Gonji Sabatake, a soldier from the Far East, my...bodyguard.” The word hitched in his throat, and he dearly wished he could have recalled it. This bodyguard business was absurd.

      “Indeed!” Klann replied. “Do you think you’ll have need of a bodyguard this night?”

      Gonji seemed about to say something, and Flavio waved his hand at his side. He forced out a casual chuckle, and Milorad joined in.

      “Hardly, milord king.”

      “Good. Now let us tell you what you’ve come to hear and clear the air between us.”

      And with that Klann launched into his story with a directness and sincerity Flavio had to admire. He ate as he spoke, pausing now and again to lave his hands with the budget and ewer held for his private use by two servants. He tossed scraps to the turnspit dogs that roamed the hall. Flavio listened to him carefully, and it seemed that every so often the conquering king would drift off, become detached, as if searching for words etched in the hall’s opposite wall or straining to hear a distant voice. He was addicted to the use of the royal “we,” almost to the point of distraction.

      “Signore Flavio, we Akryllonian nationals are the remnant of a once proud island people, a people gifted in art and artifice and, I think, attuned to powers your mainland folk would find unfathomable. My esteemed parents were rulers of Akryllon. My father was a just and compassionate monarch, but in the end, despite his fairness, he found that the stewards of those powers—a league of wizards and mages—had turned upon him. They wrested the throne and scepter of Akryllon and put our parents to flight. They died in exile, bitter and despondent, and on our heads and the heads of our loyal followers they placed the charge that we should devote ourselves to regaining what is rightfully ours. So our first requisite of you is that you extend us your understanding that we do what we must, and not always as we would have it. But we are driven by an inviolable command to fulfill a destiny and restore a kingdom. For we are the royal bloodline of Akryllon. And we are Klann. I...am Klann...and we are five....”

      Klann’s voice had dwindled to a grating whisper, and his eyes had glazed over with these last words. He seemed to be fighting for control. Flavio felt a wave of disquietude course through him as he listened. Was Klann mad, or—?

      “But forgive us,” Klann went on, smiling affably, once again rational. “These are things which are no concern of yours. What we would like you to do is look about you—not at the soldiers but at the women and children...at the very few aged folk of Akryllon. Can you see in their faces and fragile bodies how they’ve suffered these many years of nomadic wanderings? If I were to tell you how those years are numbered, I daresay you should call me a lunatic. But we wish you to understand, so we’ll say nothing of it. What we will say is that the nations of the world have met us with ill, for the most part. Like wolves pursuing the scent of death, they’ve hounded us. Met us in our time of need with sword and bow and cannon shot....

      “And so we’ve fought back in order to survive. What we’ve been denied in the name of mercy, we’ve taken by warfare and sorcery. We came to your Baron Rorka seeking sanctuary, shelter from the coming winter so that we might grow in strength and numbers and, come the spring, once again launch an assault on the usurpers of our father’s throne. But the baron denied us what we required. Our situation was desperate, and what happened...happened. We were forced to take what we needed for our survival.

      “But now we are here, and things are as they are. Nothing need concern the citizens of Vedun but the continuance of the reciprocal relationship that existed between the city and the baron. Rest assured that your interests will be well protected and that it is of utmost importance to us that our relationship be peaceable. Have I made myself sufficiently clear?”

      Flavio collected his scattered thoughts, cleared his throat, and wiped his bearded chin with a linen cloth. A servant boy rushed up with a leather budget of water, but the Elder waved him off.

      “Sire...,” he began slowly, “we appreciate your frankness and candor, and now I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence if I, too, speak frankly.” He spoke gently, knowing the fragile ground on which he trod. “Was this violent coup truly necessary? So much bloodshed on both sides. We have much room in Vedun, and our grain bins are full to over—”

      “Yes, there has been much bloodshed,” came the booming voice of Mord, “and it continues. Soldiers on patrol are slaughtered cold-bloodedly. King Klann’s own field commander has been beaten to death in the streets. And insurrectionists have even dared to attack my wyvern, as if their puny shafts could bring down such a thing of power—all by rebel action! Who sanctions these actions, Elder?”

      Mord was on his feet, shouting. СКАЧАТЬ