“Keep down. There’s one more man outside.” Lasse tried to listen for any sound of movement, although the screaming of the wounded man interfered. There was nothing to be seen through the thick bubbled glass of the window, and there was no air movement suggesting that Johan had opened a door. There would have been time enough for the man to get around to the front door or even break open one of the windows.
Nicolaus was kneeling in front of Otto, staring at the man he had killed. No help there. Lasse glided toward the front door as silently as he could. It was neither locked nor barred. Slowly he pressed down on the handle and stood aside to let the door swing open. Nothing. Outside was silence. Inside, the screams had faded to a whimper.
Lasse waited. This was the kind of situation where impatience would get you killed. Then a slow shuffle outside. A horse? Lasse chanced a quick glance out the door. Viktor’s big roan horse was walking slowly past the door snatching at the weeds growing along the path.
“Boris! Are you there?” Lasse shouted.
“Yes, with friends! All clear?”
“All clear in here, but one man outside.”
“He’s no longer a problem,” the gravelly voice of Viktor sounded from beside the door. “Brigitte is quite protective of you. She insisted we all come. Who’s the hurt one?” Viktor came through the door with Tat’yana close behind.
“I’ve no idea, but I spilled his guts. I’ll go clean it up.” Lasse would have liked to give the woman a hug, but judging from her flat watchful eyes her Brigitte persona was still in control, so he’d better just leave her alone until it faded. Tat’yana was in many ways even more damaged than Lasse, but she had dealt with her problems in her own way, and usually managed to balance her various personas quite well. Still, when Brigitte was in control, you’d better be careful.
Nicolaus was still kneeling by Otto’s corpse, tentatively reaching out to touch the bloody curls.
“He’s quite dead. They don’t look like that if there’s any chance they’ll wake up.” Tat’yana had gone forward to squat beside Nicolaus, who looked up at her with unseeing eyes. “How do you do?” Tat’yana held her hand out almost into his face, and he took it by reflex. “You must be Nicolaus. Lasse has told me about you. I’m Tat’yana.”
“Yes. Yes, I’m Nicolaus. Lasse, what are you doing!”
Lasse stood upright. “Nicolaus, no one recovers from that kind of wound. It really would have been no kindness to let him live.” He paused. “Or did you want to shrive him? Give him a chance to confess his sins? I really don’t think that would have helped his soul. Providing he still had one. I heard him wanting to sacrifice you at a Black Mass.”
Nicolaus shook his head and looked away. “This is a nightmare,” he whispered.
“No, my dear friend. This is encountering and fighting evil. You’ve done nothing wrong.” Lasse pulled Nicolaus up from the floor. “Come say hello to my friends. Tat’yana you have already met, but this is Viktor and Boris is outside, probably preparing for getting rid of the corpses. These are very good people to have along if you jump into fire.”
All God’s Children in the Burning East
1630, Kingdom of Ayutthaya, Southeast Asia
The setting sun floated like a red paper lantern in the darkening sky, casting the golden temples and palaces of Ayutthaya in crimson and bronze, as Nishioka Yoriaki paddled his small wooden boat lightly down the Menam river. Today the tides ran out to sea, making his journey home easy. Sometimes he stole a glance backward at the fantastic scene, surely a glimpse of Paradise although he would never admit to thinking such a thing to the Dominican or Jesuit fathers. He crossed himself quickly to clear his mind of such fantasy.
He had done well that day, selling his Japanese style bento lunches and snacks to all kinds of folk as he made his journey around Ayutthaya’s island stronghold, the paragon of Siamese civilization. It seemed Moor and Malay, Chinese and Portuguese, Dutch and Cochin all relished his wife’s cooking. Even a silk-clad seneschal of the highest Siamese nobility had sent a servant down to the water’s edge to purchase six lunches! Soon after, a group of gaily clad rich young Siamese women waved to him as he passed by their waterfront gardens. They each bought a bento, opening their banana leaf wrappings right then and there to see what the day’s treat may be, in this case grilled catfish. “Tell your wife we should like shrimp tomorrow if she can manage it!” they told him in the musical tones of their language. He managed to answer that he would do so, his tongue tripping as he blushed at the attention of such fair and noble women.
As he mumbled his shy thanks and paddled quickly away, Yoriaki thought that such as these were lovely indeed, but to him his wife Momo was still the best. She was as pretty as the peach she was named for. He had to admit to himself that part of the reason he had become a Christian was to get close to the Nihonmachi Christian’s daughters, who were mostly pure blood Japanese. Certainly the Siamese, Mon and Lao girls that most of the samurai and merchant class married were beautiful, with their large smokey eyes and slender figures, but to Yoriaki they couldn’t match the pure radiance of a Yamato no deshiko, a perfect flower of Japanese womanhood such as Momo. Upon their marriage he had left behind the warrior life to become the simple man he was today, and was much happier for it.
Yoriaki knew that Ayutthaya was one of the few places in the world where people from Asia and Europe mixed so freely. That was certainly a large part of the kingdom’s financial success. He had been lucky to end up here, considering that when he left Japan he had no idea where he was going, content to board any ship that promised to sail far from his homeland. Yoriaki smiled to himself but his mood fell as he sighted the spire of the Portuguese Dominican church down the river’s west side. It was a modest piece of architecture compared to the fantastic designs of the Siamese temples, but with a quiet beauty of its own in the rosy light.
Through the course of Yoriaki’s daily travels, he had learned to speak and understand the basics of the many languages found in the cosmopolitan realm of Ayutthaya. Everyone said that he had a gift for tongues. As he sold his delicacies he heard many things and lately not many of them had been good. On the last Sabbath after attending holy mass Yoriaki, who had become nearly fluent in Portuguese since embracing the Christian faith, had overheard several of the good fathers discussing rumors from the Siamese court in hushed tones. They feared the new king, Prasat Thong. He had formerly been the regent or Kalahom appointed by the boy’s father, good king Song Tham on his death bed to look after his son and successor, fifteen-year-old King Cetthathirat. There was no doubt the scheming Kalahom was responsible for that boy’s untimely death and had certainly gone on to murder Cetthathirat’s younger brother and successor as well, poor little King Athittayawong, who had been just a boy of ten. Although all feared to say it aloud, Prasat Thong was an ursurper with blood all over his hands. To make matters worse, he had managed to remove the only possible obstacle to his plans, Yamada Nagamasa, who to everyone’s horror seemed fooled by the usurper’s lies and had allowed himself to be sent to the south, safely out of Prasat Thong’s way. Upon hearing such discouraging words from the fathers, Yoriaki slipped away home then, feeling ashamed that his people’s revered leader in this distant land had been tricked by the Kalahom, no, “king.”
Yamada Nagamasa, trained as a samurai for a war that would never come, had left Japan to become a man of great influence in Ayutthaya. He’d been a favorite of the old King Song Tham and well loved by the court for his skill and courage in battle. A successful merchant with a knack for trade, he had also become the leader of Nihonmachi. Their “Japanese Town” on the eastern shore of the Menam, just south of the city, produced the highly respected Japanese Royal Guard, a force rightfully feared by the kingdom’s many foes. Nagamasa had been the Guard’s commander and Yoriaki had served under him for two years after his arrival here as so many ronin did, masterless samurai seeking glory no longer possible in Japan. They had fought the Burmese together and brought great honor to themselves in the eyes of all those who made Ayutthaya their home. Now those days were gone and Ayutthaya was left without its hero.