to....”
Some heads turned toward the craft guild party, anxious faces betraying their agreement with the wood craftsman’s concern. Normally Boris would have sat with his best friend, Strom Gundersen. But Strom’s seating with his father and near the rest of the military council—particularly the indomitable oriental—had driven Boris to a rear bench with other alienated guildsmen. Boris’ speech failed him and his eyes grew large and sheepish, to see the adamant resolve of the council members.
“So how do we go about this?” the Gray knight Anton growled.
Gonji nodded curtly. “Ah—the rest of the plan. All right.... From this moment on, everyone in this room will proceed with the constant accompaniment of at least one other person now here. Every one among us will keep watch over his partners. So sorry,” he apologized to see the expressions his implication aroused, “but we have a traitor in our midst, and we must observe what security we can still muster. As moon-maddened as it may sound.”
William Eddings rose, jaw working as if he would blare an imprecation that wouldn’t come. He glared angrily at Gonji, tears brimming his eyes, but his family spoke to him softly and eased him back into his seat.
Gonji had gone on, paying it no heed: “There must be no fraternizing with Klann’s troops, either Llorm or mercenary, beyond what discourse you must have with them in the pursuit of commerce. Spread the word in that matter, as it will be strictly enforced and violations will be investigated by me personally. I do have my suspicions as to the means by which the coward snivels intelligence to Mord—”
As he spoke, Gonji’s thoughts coruscated with anger, frustration, and a sense of futility over efforts at security. In truth, he had no salient idea how the traitor plied the foul deed. It could have been accomplished in any one of a thousand ways: via notes, gestures, personal audiences with the sorcerer despite all attempts at vigilance, perhaps even by means of some mystical communication whose inscrutability might make Mord quiver with glee over the rebels’ ignorance and fumbling efforts at security.
He cursed to himself, his jaw tightening with the effort at self-control, and went on.
“Remember that I have my own operatives, and they’re aware of the signs I’m watching for.
“So we work in pairs or groups of three. Teams will be given lists of citizens they will approach with our alert plan. Each team will cover one small sector of the city and report back to the council when their sector has been completed. You will tell them to prepare at once for the evacuation of Vedun. They may take only what they can carry; space will be at a premium on the wagons and on horseback. The riding steeds go to the militiamen, whose needs are first priority. Tell them all to be ready to evacuate on the night following the full moon.”
He paused dramatically to allow the timing to sink in.
“But,” he continued, “they must prepare immediately. There will be no time for delays when the signal is given.”
“What is the signal?” Jiri Szabo asked.
“Shi-kaze—deathwind!”
The entire gathering seemed to suck in a breath.
“When messengers come bearing the word ‘shi-kaze,’ they must move the innocents at once through the chapel and down here, where they will be escorted out to await the wagons near the exit tunnels.”
“Such a clatter, they’ll make!”
“Ja, how will we disguise our purpose?”
Michael held up a restraining hand and shuffled into their midst on his crutch. “Si, we’ve thought about that. As of tonight there will be a new service at the chapel, at ten bells of evening each night. A sort of...lamentation for the newly dead.”
“Soldiers haven’t been near the chapel in the past two days,” Wilf piped up.
“Hai,” Gonji added, “mercenaries are not fond of the reminders of suffering and death.”
There was a building storm of protest and grumbling, the complexity of the task ahead becoming clear.
“Michael, do you truly agree to all this?”
“Ja—da—si!”
“Fight or die,” Gonji pressed, “by the hand of Mord. Remember that he is our chief enemy, even as Tralayn so often told us. Even Klann may not know what he’s about. Enough dispute now. There isn’t time for it. The duty lists will be prepared today. The raiding, escort, and harassment parties will be selected, and their leaders appointed—”
“What about the weapons?” Dobroczy queried. “How will we retrieve those that are at the chapel? Most of the best long-range armament sits there—”
“Si, Gonji,” Monetto agreed, “it wouldn’t do to be going in after the weapons while women and children are there.”
Cries of abrupt realization.
Gonji blew out a breath and scratched his head. “Many of you still have your edged weapons, and there’s a lot of light armor in the city, I know that. The firearms are easy enough to smuggle. You’ll have to risk that, I’m afraid. And somehow—I’m not sure how—we’ll have to use the soldiers’ aversion to the many coffins in the chapel to get the armament. By the by—that was a fine idea, Paille, moving the weapons and armor up and placing them in coffins.”
Paille petulantly waved off the compliment from where he stood with one leg on a bench near the wall. With one thumb he made small circles on the bridge of his nose, apparently lost in thought.
“How many coffins are still in the chapel?” Gonji asked of no one in particular.
“Too many,” Milorad Vargo muttered through his snowy beard. It seemed to have grown whiter these past dreadful weeks. “It’s a scandal. You can’t even pass along the aisles.” Anna patted his arm sympathetically and purred in his ear.
“There must be close to fifty,” Michael answered. “There’s been a steady flow of obsequies, though. Probably fewer than half still contain actual bodies.”
“Hmm.” Gonji sagged under the onus of unfinished planning, the chaotic nature of their operation. Yet one channel of his mind wondered at Michael’s recent reversal of attitude, his sudden spirit of cooperation. For the first time his eyes now met Lydia’s. She seemed reserved, calm, her eyes heavy-lidded with fatigue and resignation.
Ah, he thought, she’s with child. That must have some bearing on their desire to escape this madness.
She looked lovely and fragile, a delicate blossom on a battlefield. Deep inside, a brittle laugh spiraled up to mock the samurai. Gonji cleared his throat.
“All-recht...,” Gonji began, unsure of the words even as he uttered them.
But then Paille snapped his fingers and blared a gravelly laugh.
“Of course!” the mad artist cried. “We solve both problems at once—the wagon movement and the armament caskets.” Anxious heads turned in reply. Given Paille’s crazy turns of mind, he might propose almost any outrageous—“Not all the coffins have been kept at the chapel before interment. Some chose to take their dead to their homes, so that they might lie in state before burial.
