The Amtrak Wars - Ironmaster Part 56

Satisfied that everything was as it should be, the clerks and roadrunners were ordered to a.s.semble in the yard.

The Mute washerwomen, cooks and cleaners were told to stay indoors and keep out of sight until it was all over.

At the appointed hour, the post-master and his six senior clerks positioned themselves facing the gateway.

Behind them, the rest of their staff stood in three ranks with their toes touching the rear edge of a line of straw mats. With a sudden flourish of unseen trumpets, Nakane TohoShiba swept into the yard on horseback, escorted by ten mounted samurai and a troop of foot-soldiers. The senior staff bowed from the waist, the lower echelons went down on their knees and bowed their heads and the roadrunners put their noses to the ground.

Toh-Shiba dismounted along with five of his samurai and strode forward to meet the post-master. The other riders stayed watchfully in their saddles while the troop commander deployed the foot-soldiers around the yard and outside the gate. The Consul-General's life was not in danger - as far as anyone knew. All senior government officials travelled with armed escorts, no matter how friendly the local domain-lord might be. With errant bands of ronin looking for ransom opportunities, one could never be too careful.

Having bowed the requisite number of times, the post-master greeted Toh-Shiba in the usual effusive manner, but his words were aimed at the samurai who stood between them. Since Toh-Shiba was a high-ranking n.o.bleman and related by marriage to the Shogun, it would have been an unthinkable breach of etiquette to have spoken to him directly. The samurai had no need to repeat what was said; he was merely the conduit through which superior and inferior could address each other.

Toh-Shiba made a perfunctory reply via the same circuitous route and accepted the offer of refreshments. A tray of cool drinks was produced and offered with great ceremony.

What a way to run a country! thought Steve. If they waste as much time as this when a war is on, it'll be a pushover.

A barked command in j.a.panese caused the lower ranks to rise and stand with heads bowed. A clerk who was fluent in Basic ordered the roadrunners to sit back on their heels, hands on thighs, chin on chest.

Accompanied by the post-master, Toh-Shiba and his escort inspected the two lines of clerks, each one bowing from the waist as the Consul-General reached him.

Nakane Toh-Shiba was above average height for an Iron Master and, while not exactly fat, was quite heavily built. The broad-shouldered, padded kimono he was wearing made it hard to gauge his physique accurately, but he had plump short fingers and a pudgy face. Steve, who had been studying his target out of the corner of his eyes, decided the Consul-General looked pampered and overfed.

Despite his bulk, Toh-Shiba was light on his feet and moved with regal a.s.surance - as well he might. Like all of the high ranking j.a.ps, he wore a wig of Mute hair with the usual samurai top-knot, and he had a small funny-looking hat perched on the front of his head. Since Steve had never seen one like it during his travels he concluded it must signify Toh-Shiba's rank - which it did.

The Consul-General's party turned towards the line of kneeling roadrunners.

This is it! thought Steve. But it wasn't. He waited until the last moment before putting his nose on the mat, but Toh-Shiba strode past followed by his samurai-bodyguard and the postmaster.

Shrill, simultaneous commands from the senior clerks sent the staff scurrying away to their posts - a move that had already been rehea.r.s.ed several times. Steve and the other roadrunners formed their usual line along the veranda to the left of the post-house door. Thanks to his position near the end of the line in the yard, this move put Steve close to the entrance. But once again, in deference to their visitor, they were required to kneel and touch the floor with their noses as the Consul-General's party went inside to view the postal clerks going about their work.

With Toh-Shiba's disappearance, the roadrunners were allowed to sit on the log bench. s.h.i.t! Steve cursed his luck and vented his frustration by slamming a fist against his open palm. Once again, the fat-fingered d.i.n.k had walked past without giving the line of Mutes a second glance.

So much for Mute magic. If Clearwater had failed to do something as simple as this, she might not be able to deliver when the real crunch came. What a pill! And just when he needed to show the Man in Black he could manage without him!

Within fifteen minutes of entering the post-house, Toh-Shiba - who had begun to wonder what he was doing there in the first place - had seen and heard more than enough about the receipt and onward transmission of private and official doc.u.ments. The Consul-General did not believe in cluttering his head with knowledge of procedures that his staff were expected to know about and deal with.

As a n.o.bleman, Toh-Shiba had never once in his life concerned himself with the problems of laundering; he merely expected to find a clean set of clothes laid out for his use whenever they might be required. It was the same with letters: you ordered them written, applied your seal, and they were delivered. What happened to them between leaving your hand and reaching that of the recipient was the concern of lesser mortals - such as the obsequious, tiresome pip-squeak now hovering at his elbow.

Toh-Shiba, who had been languidly fanning himself to alleviate the late summer heat, snapped the fan shut against his left palm; a signal to his aide-de-camp that he wished to leave - without delay. The samurai silenced the post-master with a raised hand and announced that the visit had been most instructive. His master was extremely pleased with the alertness and dedication of the postal-staff. Et cetera, et cetera...

The post-master and his clerks hurried on to the veranda, and bowed Toh-Shiba's party out of the post-house. In doing so, they blocked his view of the roadrunners, but, as he descended the steps and moved towards his waiting horse, the Consul-General was aware of something niggling away inside his brain. It was something he had intended to do - connected with his visit to the post-house - but for the life of him he couldn't remember what it was.

The mental pressure to perform some action built up rapidly and was translated into a stabbing pain.

Toh-Shiba shook his head in an effort to clear it, then mounted his horse. His samurai guards followed suit, forming up around him with their colleagues.

Steve's heart sank.

Toh-Shiba gathered the reins and wheeled his horse The pain inside his skull reached a new crescendo, causing one hand to fly to his forehead.

An image of a goldenhaired Mute appeared before his inner eye and, as he recalled the real reason for his visit, the stabbing pains eased a little. With a cry of exasperation, he pulled his horse's head round and urged it back towards the veranda.

The post-master and his senior clerks wavered uncertainly as they tried to divine the reason for the Consul-General's sudden change of mood and direction.

The roadrunners, who'd been on their knees since his exit from the post-house, hurriedly got their heads down as the horse stopped with its nose almost touching the rail.

Toh-Shiba, the pain in his head now fading fast, cast his eyes along the line of Mutes then pointed his baton at Steve and shouted rapidly in j.a.panese. 'That gra.s.s-monkey, third from the door! I want him dismissed from the postal service! Immediately! Is that understood?"

'H-H-H-Has his conduct d-d-displeased my nn-n.o.ble lord in any way?"

stammered the trembling postmaster.

'If so, I will p-p-per-personally ensure he is ss-severely punished."

'Not necessary,' barked Toh-Shiba. 'I just don't like the colour of his hair. Get him out of here."

Steve didn't have a clue what was going on until he was hauled to his feet and hustled away as the postmaster, who was now bowing at two-second intervals, launched into a breast-beating apology for his inexcusable carelessness in the selection of ancillary staff.

Toh-Shiba surveyed the remaining roadrunners, all of whom had dark brown or black hair. 'That looks much better." The pain in his head was almost gone. 'The individual you have just removed is to be sent to the Heron Pool as house-slave to the cloud warrior. See to it and send me written confirmation."

The post-master a.s.sured him, via his aide-de-camp, that his order would be complied with instantly.

Toh-Shiba nodded with satisfaction and rode off towards the gate feeling strangely elated.

The post-master and his senior clerks kept their heads down until the last foot-soldier had disappeared, then broke ranks with sighs of relief. No one could fathom why the Consul-General had acted in such a bizarre fashion. A brainstorm perhaps; theirs was not to reason why.

The roadrunner unit could easily be brought back to full strength.

Meanwhile, there was a small score to be settled. The post-master instructed a clerk to bring him a whipping-cane. The Consul-General had dismissed his offer to punish severely the yellow-haired Mute. His wishes would be obeyed. The Mute would only be punished moderately for being the cause of such unwarranted anxiety.

Steve contrived to look suitably downcast as he stripped and handed in his uniform, mailbag and roadrunner's gorget. A slave-tag was attached to his arm and a 'yellow card' to cover his move down the road was hung round his neck. The clothes he was given consisted of a worn, loose grey tunic and trousers, an old pair of sandals with wafer-thin soles and a straw hat. The jute poncho and cotton quilt issued to Mute slaves were rolled into a bundle for him to carry under his arm. In terms of status and appearance he had slipped back to the bottom rung of the ladder, but it didn't matter. Clearwater had shown that her skills as a summoner were as potent as ever. And thanks to her, he was on his way.

What he hadn't bargained for was his going-away present from the post-master. As Steve bowed himself out backwards through the door, trying hard not to smile, he was seized by several pairs of hands, held down over the rail of the veranda and given a salutary thrashing that left him shaking and breathless but stopped short of drawing blood.

'Rockets,' said Steve.

Cadillac, who was seated at the drafting table, stared down at him with a puzzled frown.

Steve, who had been on his hands and knees sweeping the straw-matted floor, laid his brush and pan aside and adopted a cross-legged position. 'You've been to the trading post, haven't you?"

'Yes, last year."

'Didn't the wheelboats launch any? Mr Snow told me they do it every time they set sail."

'They sent up burning arrows which burst, and showered down coloured fire,' admitted Cadillac.