Free Rebels of Gor by John Norman Page B

a last, gallant gesture. Now many men, I knew, could not even rise to their feet.
    Lord Nishida turned his head to face Lord Temmu, who sat, cross-legged, near the back of the dais.
    “We thank great Yamada for his patience,” said Lord Temmu. “Return to your master and tell him that, we, too, are patient.”
    “Consider your words carefully,” said Tyrtaios.
    Several hands went to the hilts of weapons.
    “He is shogun!” whispered Lord Nishida, quickly, reprovingly.
    But not a flicker of annoyance could be marked on the visage of Lord Temmu.
    “I meant no discourtesy,” said Tyrtaios.
    “Cousin,” said Lord Okimoto.
    “Speak,” said Lord Temmu.
    I recalled that Lord Okimoto had earlier leaned toward Lord Temmu, and said something, and that Lord Temmu had nodded.
    I did not know what had passed between them.
    I now supposed that it had had to do with expressing an eventual readiness to participate in the proceedings.
    This was unusual.
    Lord Okimoto seldom spoke publicly. Presumably this was because of his sensitivity to his impairment. Like most high Pani, he was a proud man. Pani are often embarrassed by what they may conceive as exhibiting a difference, or a weakness, or defect.
    The ponderous daimyo did not look about himself.
    We prepared to attend closely, for his words were commonly weighty and it was not always easy to decode the light, rasping sounds, like hoarse, sibilant whispers, which escaped his scarred throat.
    His gaze was fixed on Tyrtaios.
    His words were laden with menace.
    It was not a pleasant thing, I was sure, to have Lord Okimoto as an enemy.
    “I am offended,” said Lord Okimoto to Tyrtaios, “that Lord Yamada would send one such as you to convey his words, a traitor and miscreant. How better could he express his contempt?”
    “No insult was intended, great lord,” said Tyrtaios. “Recall that I served you faithfully and well, both as guard and as liaison to mercenaries.”
    “No daimyo would agree to address such words to a shogun,” said Lord Okimoto.
    “I am a soldier,” said Tyrtaios. “I must do the will of my lord, as best I can, as I am commanded.”
    “You are a foreigner here, a stranger, one not of the islands,” said Lord Okimoto. “You do not know our ways.”
    “The ways of war are common ways,” said Tyrtaios. “They possess no insignia, they fly no banners. They stop at no rivers and are held within no walls. They are found on the plains and in the mountains. The quarrel and the arrow are akin, as are the glaive and the spear.”
    “You will not take this holding,” said Lord Okimoto, “while a single man lives.”
    “Then, great lord,” said Tyrtaios, “with all due respect, it must be taken when none live.”
    “When none live,” said Lord Okimoto, “it is then that the greatest victory is won.”
    “I do not understand,” said Tyrtaios.
    “There is one victory of which we cannot be deprived,” said Lord Okimoto.
    “I do not understand,” said Tyrtaios, uncertainly.
    Lord Okimoto was silent.
    “The lifting of the ritual knife,” explained Lord Nishida.
    “I do not understand,” said Tyrtaios.
    “The performance of a deed whose tale will be told for a thousand years,” said Lord Nishida.
    I shuddered, recalling a conversation held long ago, on a parapet damp with fog, early, on a cold morning.
    I glanced at some of the officers of Lord Yamada who had accompanied Tyrtaios to the holding. I saw that they understood.
    Yes, I thought, ways are different. How hideously strange and unfamiliar are the corridors of culture. How they differ one from another. How strange, I thought, are the wildernesses and labyrinths of propriety. In the vastness and darkness of the forest there are many paths, and it is hard to find one’s way, but one seeks one’s way, one seeks one’s way. I recalled Lord Nishida had asked if Lord Okimoto would be the first to use the knife. “Of course,” had said Lord Okimoto.
    Tyrtaios turned to the shogun.
    “What