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

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      “Enough!” Klann cried. Several heads turned in the ward, observers self-consciously returning to their tasks almost at once. This day would be well marked, for rare indeed were the king’s appearances among them, and rarer still his public displays of anger. “Enough,” he said again more calmly, his mood shifting eerily. “We remind you of your duties. We have more than enough effete counselors to question royal mandates. We have our reasons for what we do, and they are sufficient. Leave us now. You have your work.”

      Klann’s face became a blank mask as he began strolling toward the central keep. Mord bowed to his back obsequiously.

      “I beg your forgiveness, my liege. I presume too much. But in an effort to appease your anger, may I remind you that it was I who divined the existence of this place, provided the intelligence required for the planning of its invasion, and the power by which the deed was done?” Mord’s voice reflected his conviction that an unjust slight had been done him. “All with your sanction at the time,” he appended.

      Klann’s face had a sullen set as he stopped and looked back at him. “True—for the most part. And even this has been tainted by sadness.” Mord’s head tilted at the cryptic statement.

      “Begone now.”

      Mord bowed in stately fashion and departed.

      And in his melancholy Klann heard the voices of the Brethren well up within him. They were stirred to angry, confused counsel. And then he spotted Lady Thorvald, watching him from the veranda of the sweltering bakehouse. He cast her a hateful look. He was abruptly reminded of the mighty man of valor they had all loved and respected but whom only their brother had really known, the brother whose inconstant heart overawed the counsel of his spirit and his kin.

      (kill her kill the bitch)

      (forget it be done with it move ahead the purpose—that is all that matters anymore)

      There came at last the murderous primitive cry of the shameful one, the tainted brother, and Klann could feel the flush of the blood-rage filling his brain. He shut his eyes and swooned as he fought for control of his faculties. And when he had regained control, he suppressed them. Gently. As only one who knows the forlorn feeling of such suppression would do. For they were he.

      And he was Klann. And they were Klann.

      And Klann was five.

      Head bowed, hands clung limply behind him, the king who was called Invincible shuffled heavily into the keep, the pungent smells of mildew and damp rot greeting him from the interior.

      * * * *

      “Lottie Kovacs—and Richard—whatever are you doing in here!”

      Genya lowered her voice in mid-sentence to avoid attracting attention to the narrow larder just off the immense castle kitchens wherein she had found the pair huddled together behind the bins. Hunkered down against the wall, Richard sat with arms folded about Lottie, whose head was buried in his shoulder. Genya stood over them, hands on hips, affecting a stern posture.

      “Don’t the two of you have any sense at all? What if the king’s chief steward comes to the kitchens? Lord knows I’ve had trouble enough with him already. Hanba na vy!—shame on you!” She shook a finger at them. “You’re just lucky I’m in charge here and not someone else or you’d be—Lottie? What is it, dear?”

      She knelt and laid a hand on the sobbing girl’s arm.

      “Her father’s dead, Genya,” Richard whispered. “Killed by soldiers. Ferenc heard.”

      “Oh, dear Lord,” Genya gasped. “Lottie—Lottie, I’m so sorry.”

      Lottie raised her head to reveal a tear-stained face, red and puffy eyes. “Oh, Genya,” the girl moaned, “things were so wrong between us. I—I never realized how much I loved him. And now he’s gone. It’s my fault as much as anyone’s.”

      “Lottie, don’t say that.”

      Genya gazed at her helplessly, momentarily lost for words. Lottie’s sad, china-blue eyes stared vapidly. Her small, perpetually pouty lips were drawn and quivery. Mourning seemed to befit Lottie, who was Genya’s best friend and polar opposite. Their alliance was as likely as one between a proud mare and a humble tortoise. Lottie had hired on as a servant at Castle Lenska over her father’s protestations, mainly so that she might be near Richard, a baker, whom Papa Kovacs called “bun-brains,” which is all that need be said of their strained romantic situation.

      Genya rose. “Now listen—Richard, you stay right here and comfort Lottie,” she said, shaking her finger officiously. “But only for a while. I’ll steer anyone from the larder as long as I can. If anybody comes from the bakehouse, I’ll put them off. Just pray the chief steward doesn’t poke his birdie beak in here, or I’ll have to bounce a salver off his skull! When you leave, leave separately, and quietly.” She smiled warmly, patted Lottie’s ash-blonde locks. “Be strong, dear. Soon we’ll be able to leave and you and Richard can begin a life together.”

      She nodded curtly to Richard, puffed up her damp hair, and eased out into the steaming, noisy kitchen. At once she began calling out directions in a voice that was both commanding and pleasant.

      “Nahlit sa! Nahlit sa! Hurry up! Tonight Papa Flavio comes, and if all goes well you’ll be home to see your families soon. The king is good and gracious, and I have his assurance from his very own royal lips!”

      There was laughter and good cheer all about her, despite the hot and tedious work of preparing a banquet for hundreds. And Genya threw herself into the preparations lustily, lending a hand wherever one was needed. First she helped the Yeoman of the Pantry trundle out and count the silver gilt plates and utensils and lay out the trenchers on which meat would be placed.

      The kitchen was huge: sixty feet long by thirty wide with a vaulted roof nearly forty feet high at its apex. On one wall were the cavernous fireplaces—eight feet high and twenty broad—in which cattle and oxen could be roasted whole. And Genya next joined a struggling party attempting to wrestle a side of beef into one of these. Donning a bloody apron, she provided the final push needed to hoist the carcass into position, and by the end of the task her infectious good humor had cheered them all.

      She turned her attention to the central hearth slab, where the cooking fires were being lit for the smaller game, which would be roasted on spits turned by dogs in wheelhouses.

      “Nahlit sa!” she enjoined, aiding the cooks and drudges in spitting pheasants and geese and capons. “And where are our whimpering turnspits?” Indeed, to see the hearth fires lit the dogs scurried off for cover, for they knew well the work that would soon fall to them. Genya sent scullions to drag the dogs to the wheels. Thick cooking aromas already permeated the withering kitchen heat as Genya brought from storage the ornate saltcellar that would be placed before the king. She filled it carefully and trundled it by cart through the corridors toward the great hall where the banquet would take place that night.

      The saltcellar was of ivory, enameled over with the figures of lions. Standing a foot high on carven legs was the shallow dish that contained the precious salt. Over its top was the golden canopy that protected the ceremonially regarded seasoning. And as Genya pushed the cellar along, she suddenly caught sight of her reflection. She stopped and peered around her: no one in sight.

      She raked and molded her dark curls into a semblance of casual charm with practiced fingers. Pinching her cherubic СКАЧАТЬ