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

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      The children screamed as one and stumbled backward. Then they laughed with relief, and Eduardo, their leader, came forward, flashing a hand in greeting.

      “All right, you scamps,” Gonji said sternly, “what do you want with me?”

      A tiny girl clung to the back of Eduardo’s breeches, regarding Gonji with big terrified eyes as the boy spoke.

      “We just wanted to see what you were getting into. My papa says that where you go trouble will follow. I didn’t want to miss anything.”

      “So?” Gonji replied, affecting petulance. “And he was right, neh? Look what’s followed me.” He waved a hand over them, and they tittered.

      “You look molto buono with your new clothes,” Eduardo said, appending a hand gesture that Gonji took to mean youthful approval.

      “Arigato,” Gonji replied. “Now that I have your seal I can proceed with confidence.” He watched with raised eyebrows and folded arms as the boy walked around him appraisingly, the little girl traipsing behind like a shadow.

      “Is that your sister?”

      “No, that’s Tiva. She has no mother, and I get paid for watching her.”

      “Do you do a good job?” Gonji bent toward the girl and spoke gently. “Does Eduardo watch out for you?”

      The boys all laughed. “She doesn’t speak Italian,” someone said.

      She was the most adorable child in Gonji’s recent memory and could scarcely have been more than four. When he reached down to lift her up, her large brown eyes seemed to engulf her face. She held a half-eaten roll in one sticky fist.

      Eduardo translated what Gonji had asked.

      “Nah!” she said in a tiny, piping voice. The boys laughed again.

      “He doesn’t, eh?” Gonji said. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

      “She says no to everything,” Eduardo explained.

      Tiva offered Gonji a bite of the roll, and he pantomimed a full belly, but she persisted. He bowed and smiled, taking a small mouthful. “Domo, little blossom.”

      He set her down. “You boys take care of her or—” He raised a threatening fist. “Now be off with you.”

      “When are you going to teach me the sword? You promised,” Eduardo pleaded.

      “I did no such thing,” Gonji said. “I said we’d have to take it up with your father sometime. What would a ragamuffin like you do with a sword anyway?”

      “Kill the soldiers who killed Signor Koski,” Eduardo said matter-of-factly, bending to lace a shoe.

      The simple poignancy of the statement stung Gonji. “Why would you do that?”

      “Because Signora Koski’s been crying all the time since he died.”

      Gonji worked his lower jaw thoughtfully, recalling the dead man, struck down by mercenaries on the day of the city’s occupation. “Doesn’t your father teach you that killing is evil?”

      “Usually. But he’s not sure anymore.”

      Gonji snapped his fingers. “Begone with you now. And watch out for the little one, hear?”

      Eduardo bowed, too fast and too deeply, like a bird pecking at seed, and the other boys snickered. Gonji shook his head, corrected him, and sent them packing with a wink to Tiva, who waved her fingers.

      He thought about the boy’s words as he watched them run down the lane. He’s not sure.... Indecision and lack of resolve would be a crippling problem if these people wound up in an armed revolt. Klann wouldn’t be shackled by Christian principles. He shook his head. Ah well, the mercenaries have backed off considerably since Ben-Draba was beaten to death by...hai.... He smiled thinly. Our other mystery man....

      He leapt astride Tora and rode back into the main street, resolving to check in with Flavio.

      Gonji was determined to treat his position as bodyguard to Council Elder Flavio with dignity and seriousness, although he knew that the hiring had been prompted by his own cajoling and Flavio’s desire to dispense the city’s debt to the samurai for having retrieved the body of Mark Benedetto. Yet bodyguard he was, and he would deport himself as a bodyguard. He had promised not to dog the Elder’s steps but had made a point of checking on his well-being from time to time.

      He was clattering along easily toward the Ministry building on the Street of Hope when he was halted by the cry of a pedestrian on his left.

      “Ho, there! A word with you, monsieur!” came the stentorian voice in ringing French.

      Gonji pulled up and looked over. It was Alain Paille, the flamboyant and eccentric artist-poet whose revolutionary pronouncements since Klann’s arrival had caused the city no end of discomfiture and the occupying troops no little amusement. He was thin, dark, and willowy, with piercing blue eyes, a sketchy shadow of beard, and an unruly mane that no comb had furrowed in recent days. His paint-stained apron evidenced his current commission: an illustration in progress on the ceiling of Vedun’s chapel. In his hand he carried a furled paper.

      “Behold the Liberator!” he shouted, wide-eyed, stopping in front of Tora. “He of whom ballades will be sung!”

      Gonji glanced about self-consciously. Few had taken special notice of Paille, from whom such outbursts had long been expected. He was, as it happened, Vedun’s best-known tippler. Those who had heard now watched Gonji for a reaction.

      Gonji cleared his throat. “Ja, well—what can I do for you?” He had ignored the French, spoke instead in High German.

      “I’ve been seeking you. We must speak. I believe we share a dream. You do speak French, don’t you?”

      “I speak French...of a sort,” Gonji replied. “But it gives me trouble. It’s a language I—” He groped for an appropriate word, came up with one.

      “‘Disdain?’” Paille repeated with surprise. “But you mustn’t! All men of intellect and breeding speak French! I’ve been inquiring after you, and I believe you are such a man. Yours is simply a problem of pronunciation. But be at ease—we shall correct that. Do speak French, s’il vous plait.”

      “I don’t please,” Gonji said with a wry look, “but I’ll speak it. What’s your business?”

      “I think a drink is in order first. Shall we hie us to the auberge?” Paille pointed the paper toward the nearest inn, Wojcik’s Haven.

      “Not now. I’ve business at the Ministry.”

      “Wonderful! So have I,” Paille said, waving the handbill. “We can talk as we walk, oui?”

      “Oui...wonderful,” Gonji said softly, glancing at passersby who were listening in on the conversation.

      He dismounted and led Tora by the reins. He had been in a mood to ride alone, frankly hoping to encounter the СКАЧАТЬ