desperation in brightly flickering eyes.
“I don’t believe it,” Corbeau declared quietly.
“Giri,” Gonji said flatly. “Duty. Commitment.”
Wine sloshed into empty goblets, a bit more urgently than earlier in the night.
“This friend of yours,” Perigor advanced gingerly, “is he not the one known as the Grejkill—the Beast with the Soul of a Man? Le loup garou? The werewolf?”
“Hai,” Gonji agreed stiffly, as though sealing the doom of their nascent compact.
Perigor and his companions seemed to lean nearer, awed by what this association might bode. Even Jarret drew his short-legged tabouret closer to the table.
“Tell me,” the highwayman continued, “is he truly as terrible as they say? Given to boutades— suddenfits of awful temper?”
“They say he becomes a giant—”
“That the wolf walks upright like a man—”
“He is a man,” Gonji stated evenly, “first and foremost. All must understand that who partake in this quest.”
Orozco and Buey took over for a time, eager to impress the Frenchmen with details of Simon’s horrible transformations, with baiting remarks concerning how they had fought at the Beast’s side—and against him, as fate would have it—on the Mediterranean and in the bizarre journey to the ruined fortress in the African desert that had led them to the discovery of worlds within worlds. The Frenchmen were only too eager to take the bait, to inquire after every facet of the quest for Arcadia.
Gonji drifted apart from the esprit, his own vision wandering into the darkened spaces in the corners of his soul.
“Eh?”
Corbeau repeated his query. “I say, he spoke nothing to you of the Farouche Clan?”
“The name was new to me when I heard it on these shores.”
“Very peculiar. By all accounts your friend the Grejkill hails from Burgundy.”
Gonji nodded. “Somewhere thereabouts.”
“Perhaps there is some compelling reason why the Beast is being drawn to his homeland. Some…instinct only he can understand. His own… giri. The Farouche Clan—even their very name is an implied threat. It means ‘fierce,’ you know. And they’re said to be dabblers in the black arts. And themselves…shape-shifters.”
Gonji blinked, overwhelmed by a welter of conflicting feelings, thoughts, intuitions. Simon had told him next to nothing concerning his need to return to Burgundy, to the province of the mysterious Farouche Clan, whose insidious name the lycanthrope had withheld.
The woman —Claire. He heard her name ringing like a tocsin in his mind again. And then, brushing all other thoughts aside, came the guilt. Duty—commitment—words that had become hollow shells of former noble aspirations. Lip service paid to concepts smeared indistinguishable by arrogance, unconcern, poor planning.
The death wish…
“You will excuse me,” he said, standing and reseating his swords in his obi, “ but the crisp night air beckons.”
He firmly rejected Orozco and Buey’s offers to accompany him for security purposes, then strode out into the hall. He was joined in the street a moment later by Perigor.
“A moment, mon ami —I won’t offer to hold your hand as do the others.” He made an imploring gesture over Gonji’s objecting look. “I daresay their concern is unfounded.”
The samurai allowed the warrior to fall into step beside him. They ambled along the frost-slicked cobblestone way.
“Your bladesmanship is truly remarkable,” Perigor praised. “Your self-control, unsurpassed. You never flinched in our bout; changed nothing after being struck.”
Gonji smiled in spite of himself, wondering at how little he cared for such praise anymore. When had the hunger for approval, for acceptance, been sated?
“It wasn’t always so,” he found himself saying. “I’ve changed much, over many years in this land. Strange. The more I surrender to the inevitability of compromise—the more my European half overwhelms my years of youthful conditioning—the
“I don’t believe it,” Corbeau declared quietly.
“Giri,” Gonji said flatly. “Duty. Commitment.”
Wine sloshed into empty goblets, a bit more urgently than earlier in the night.
“This friend of yours,” Perigor advanced gingerly, “is he not the one known as the Grejkill—the Beast with the Soul of a Man? Le loup garou? The werewolf?”
“Hai,” Gonji agreed stiffly, as though sealing the doom of their nascent compact.
Perigor and his companions seemed to lean nearer, awed by what this association might bode. Even Jarret drew his short-legged tabouret closer to the table.
“Tell me,” the highwayman continued, “is he truly as terrible as they say? Given to boutades— suddenfits of awful temper?”
“They say he becomes a giant—”
“That the wolf walks upright like a man—”
“He is a man,” Gonji stated evenly, “first and foremost. All must understand that who partake in this quest.”
Orozco and Buey took over for a time, eager to impress the Frenchmen with details of Simon’s horrible transformations, with baiting remarks concerning how they had fought at the Beast’s side—and against him, as fate would have it—on the Mediterranean and in the bizarre journey to the ruined fortress in the African desert that had led them to the discovery of worlds within worlds. The Frenchmen were only too eager to take the bait, to inquire after every facet of the quest for Arcadia.
Gonji drifted apart from the esprit, his own vision wandering into the darkened spaces in the corners of his soul.
“Eh?”
Corbeau repeated his query. “I say, he spoke nothing to you of the Farouche Clan?”
“The name was new to me when I heard it on these shores.”
“Very peculiar. By all accounts your friend the Grejkill hails from Burgundy.”
Gonji nodded. “Somewhere thereabouts.”
“Perhaps there is some compelling reason why the Beast is being drawn to his homeland. Some…instinct only he can understand. His own… giri. The Farouche Clan—even their very name is an implied threat. It means ‘fierce,’ you know. And they’re said to be dabblers in the black arts. And themselves…shape-shifters.”
Gonji blinked, overwhelmed by a welter of conflicting feelings, thoughts, intuitions. Simon had told him next to nothing concerning his need to return to Burgundy, to the province of the mysterious Farouche Clan, whose insidious name the lycanthrope had withheld.
The woman —Claire. He heard her name ringing like a tocsin in his mind again. And then, brushing all other thoughts aside, came the guilt. Duty—commitment—words that had become hollow shells of former noble aspirations. Lip service paid to concepts smeared indistinguishable by arrogance, unconcern, poor planning.
The death wish…
“You will excuse me,” he said, standing and reseating his swords in his obi, “ but the crisp night air beckons.”
He firmly rejected Orozco and Buey’s offers to accompany him for security purposes, then strode out into the hall. He was joined in the street a moment later by Perigor.
“A moment, mon ami —I won’t offer to hold your hand as do the others.” He made an imploring gesture over Gonji’s objecting look. “I daresay their concern is unfounded.”
The samurai allowed the warrior to fall into step beside him. They ambled along the frost-slicked cobblestone way.
“Your bladesmanship is truly remarkable,” Perigor praised. “Your self-control, unsurpassed. You never flinched in our bout; changed nothing after being struck.”
Gonji smiled in spite of himself, wondering at how little he cared for such praise anymore. When had the hunger for approval, for acceptance, been sated?
“It wasn’t always so,” he found himself saying. “I’ve changed much, over many years in this land. Strange. The more I surrender to the inevitability of compromise—the more my European half overwhelms my years of youthful conditioning—the
Similar Books
