Cold Blood

by Katherine M Lawrence

  If she was in fact tempted by Inu’s offer, she did not let on. “Tonight’s a time to remember,” she said, “not to forget.”

  He laughed, “Ha! You can do both.” He bowed as she entered the chamber.

  “I have already selected my two companions.”

  “Two!” Inu’s eyes shot up. A look crossed his face. “Ishi-tsuki and Chi-ye?”

  “My ink stone and brush.”

  “Ah,” Inu said with a hint of resignation.

  “Tonight, I want to think only on my home.”

  Inu bowed. “Hai.” He paused. “But if you should change your mind after you have finished with your ink and brush . . .” He stepped back, slid her chamber door shut, and spoke through the closed door. “If you need anything, call out. We will hear you.”

  After many hours in others’ company, delightful though it was, she sighed with relief that once again she was alone. Maybe because she was still so very young of spirit, Yamabuki would not allow the possibility that this was to be her last crossing of the barrier. How could harm come to her? This would not be the last she’d see of the southern-most isle. She would come back.

  And when she returned to the Taka compound, her diary would be filled with her adventures, the people she met, and what she saw. Nakagawa had encouraged her to observe everything, and, while it was still fresh, to set it down in her pillow book.

  So instead of seeking distraction in the arms of a stranger, she picked up her brush, which she held with the same confidence as her sword or bow.

  Nakagawa had taught her well, from weapons, to mathematics, to language. Few women, especially one just reaching seventeen springs, were allowed to master Hō’s calligraphy, let alone were they trained to be fluent in its tongue—Hō, the magnificent kingdom that lay on the furthest edge of the great Leeward Sea.

  So on this night, having captured her recollections, but still inspired to write, Yamabuki sat under brazier light to translate a poem composed hundreds of years before by a monk of Hō named Ch’u-mo. His original poem made reference to a monastery on a river. As usual, she translated the calligraphy into the phonetic writing used by literate women of Akitsushima, her own country, or Wa, as it was called by the people of Hō. She dropped several lines of Ch’u-mo’s original text, and then, in a dash of boldness, replaced the river he mentioned with the Barrier Strait. This suited her purpose and her mood.

  Pleased, she dimmed the brazier and placed the paper aside to let the ink dry.

  The town bell struck four times marking the Third Watch. Somewhere far off a dog barked and then fell quiet.

  She lay in the warmth of the bedding, her eyes slowly growing accustomed to the dimness.

  The silence was interrupted by the sound of men chanting, “Ho-ha! Ho-ha! Ho-ha!”

  She did not need to look. Just listening, she easily pictured the low-class traveling kago with its occupant slung hammock-like in the litter, carried by two runners bearing its support pole over their shoulders. A guide would be running ahead of the kago, calling the pace, carrying a torch to light the way.

  Kago. Deer killer. She sometimes wondered if the carrier was not named after the poles used by hunters for carrying back wild game, dangling it by its feet.

  From their footfalls and voices she could tell that the kago was headed north. “Ho-ha! Ho-ha! Ho-ha!”

  But then, the chanting stopped just below her open window.

  Behind the partially drawn shutters of the darkened room, she peered down onto the street to get a glimpse of the kago’s occupant: a man. She could make out that much, but because the guide’s torch was dim and the night was overcast, she could not ascertain the man’s age or make out his features.

  The kago guide walked into the courtyard, calling loudly, “Innkeeper!”

  A stir rippled through the interior of the inn; everyone inside shushed each other, for she, the inn’s only guest, was not to be disturbed. Hushed or not, she could hear everything.

  “Innkeeper!” the guide cried out again. “An important guest has arrived. Summon your staff.”

  More sounds floated up from inside the inn. Whispers. Steps. More steps. More than just Inu. The inn’s outer door slid aside. Inu’s voice reached into the night. “Hai?”

  Yamabuki thought Inu’s greeting was uninviting, likely because it was meant to be, all without exactly insulting anyone.

  “An important guest,” the guide repeated.

  “Oh, I am so sorry. We have no rooms left.” Yamabuki could picture Inu bowing low.

  The man in the kago mumbled something. Yamabuki could not make out the words.

  “Then food and drink?” The guide spoke with some agitation.

  “Oh, I am so sorry,” Inu said yet again. “So many guests. So many appetites. We have nothing left fit for eating or drinking of important guests.”

  “Ha!” the guide almost spat. “It’s late! Our passenger is tired.”

  Another voice from inside the inn rumbled, deep and masculine. It was Ryuma speaking in the tone of a samurai. “Just north of here there’re other inns that always have rooms.”

  “But we have come here,” pressed the guide.

  Ryuma’s voice became almost a growl. “Do you not listen? Other inns can serve you. Up the road, not far at all.”

  The man in the kago muttered something.

  “Sorry to trouble you.” The kago guide bowed low toward the inn and turned on his heel and without another word went to the head of the procession.

  “Ho-ha! Ho-ha! Ho-ha!” the guide and pole-bearers called out, and the kago and their occupant disappeared into the darkness.

  Yamabuki was familiar enough with Kita to know that most all the houses of pleasure were closest to the barrier. Ryuma had directed the stranger there. With their brisk turnover of rooms, vacancies during the night were common, for sleeping was only the secondary purpose of the bedchambers. Anyway, thought Yamabuki, the kago passenger was likely to have a far better time there. This late, most everyone was probably thinking only of lovemaking, and tonight the Inn of Young Bamboo was certainly not a place likely to fulfill a stranger’s desires.

  Silence fell again.

  Lovemaking. She sighed.

  A soft rain made itself known on the roof, its sound filling the night.

  For a brief moment she wondered if she had been wrong in refusing companionship. Perhaps the pleasure of someone’s company was just the comfort she required. For a moment she imagined herself swept up in another’s arms. She imagined the scent. The first touch. The caresses. Then something more.

  Should I never return, maybe a last night of love would be . . .Then she thought of Ryuma. Hmm. He had not taken his eyes away from her all night, and he had seemed especially attentive when she danced in the silk kimono.

  She recalled the intensity of his eyes. The size of his legs. His arms. She wondered how he looked without his kimono. Without anything. Not the spindly boy of four summers ago who had just gone through his genpuku.

  Back then, Ryuma had been flush with excitement of his coming-of-age celebration, and she, also the same age, had been swept up in the headiness of his mood. Under the guise of checking the horses, he and she had sneaked off together to celebrate his manhood. Yet with his clothes off he had looked as much like a girl as she, except for that part of him, or maybe she had looked like a boy, except for that part of her. Two sexless would-be lovers who did not know quite what to do, and so they did not do anything.

  The memory of that day had faded until now. Yamabuki wondered if thicker hair finally sprouted on his chest? Elsewhere? Probably. He, and certainly she, knew what they could do if only they had the chance to be alone with each other again. Now to her mild surprise her omeko grew wet. She tossed.

  The rain fell harder. Water sputtered in the downspouts.

  Suddenly she realized that she could not r
id herself of the image of Ryuma that she had just conjured in her mind.

  This is madness. If someone visits my chamber tonight, what then? Word’s bound to get back to Great Bay.

  The scent of moist wood and thatching filled the chamber. She turned over in her bed, eyes wide, she stared at the ceiling.

  Yet Inu had boasted of Wakatake’s worldliness. “Ears” probably would not exactly be in a rush to tell his benefactors how he had not only suggested, but had machinated, that the inestimable Lady Taka would be pleasured in her bedchamber by a man who wasn’t her husband.

  She sighed as the rain increased.

  But it was more than a matter of what Inu might recount. Servants and retainers insatiably prattled about whom they served. She knew this well for she had seen the same in herself.

  Nevertheless, it might be years for the murmurs to reach Great Bay. It might be years before she returned from her errantry.

  And if they bring it up, so what?

  She sighed deeply, rolled over toward the door, and slid it slightly open.

  “Inu?” she called down the hall.

  A far-off voice called back, “Yes, my Lady?”

  “I want some more saké!”

  “Saké? Hai! Saké! I’ll be there in a moment.”

  “Inu?”

  “Hai!”

  “Can you have Ryuma bring it?”

  Nine:

  Fat Satchels of Coins

  Coastal rains can vary, falling in sheets if a storm brews out at sea, or they can be gentle and misty, almost fog-like, if a sea breeze sends in a cloud. It was the latter kind of rain that continued to fall as the kago, its passenger, and its bearers headed ever further into the night. The cloud-shrouded moon offered no help in lighting the way. The running guide raised his torch, holding it as high as he could.

  Yamabuki had been wrong in supposing that the kago would wind up at one of the pleasure houses of Kita. Near the edge of town, the kago and runners approached several buildings where feminine voices called out from dimly lit verandas, “Saké. Dancing. Songs. Warm company for the night.” But the runners continued right past without missing a step.

  As the second bells of the Third Watch rang, marking the end of the first quarter of the Hour of the Mouse, the runners left the main road and entered a grove of fruit trees. Immediately the pole-bearers fell silent. Under thinning torchlight, the kago and bearers headed down a long-forgotten path to a shadowy home, an old-style pit dwelling where an impoverished farmer might live. The sound of rain filled the orchard—drops hitting the fresh flowers and then trickling off. The scent of wet soil, lush blossoms, and salt air floated in the dark. A thin wisp of smoke rose through the roof vent of the shadowy farmhouse.

  The kago bearers stopped and slowly lowered the litter. The passenger, shrouded in a dark cloak, stepped out. Fat satchels of coins were handed to the kago runners, who pocketed their earnings and slipped into the night like ninja, headed back to Kita, likely to the pleasure houses.

  The shadowy figure stood still in the rain.

  Moments later, the door to the house opened a crack. A narrow column of light escaped. A person behind the door asked, “Was the courier at the Wakatake Inn?”

  “She was. She had bodyguards. We wait. Too many things could go wrong tonight.”

  “Then in the morning?”

  The cloaked man grunted, stepped into the hut and the door closed. The smoke continued through the night.

  Ten:

  The Ōuchi Samurai

  Yamabuki stood on the beach, smiling with memories of Ryuma the previous evening. The struggling fabric merchants’ commotion ceased . . . which brought her back to the present. She saw that the boatmen had at last secured the merchants’ cart to the kobune deck.

  The senchou cried out, announcing to the travelers that the kobune was about to head across the strait. The two white-robed monks stopped skipping rocks. Long Sword left his place on the high rock. Blue Rice took another swig of saké. Everyone headed for the boat.

  Mochizuki seemed as ready as he would ever be, having munched what hay he wanted, leaving most of the bale scattered among the rocks. She led her mount onto the planks and down the wooden walkway, out of the cliff’s shadow and into the brilliant sunlight. She then paused and took in a deep breath of salt air. She raised the paper with the poem she had translated the night before—less a poem, more a prayer.

  She softly whispered:

  A winding overgrown trail

  Leading down from soaring peaks

  Ageless trees at the Barrier Strait

  Blue skies merge with churning waters

  She had scarcely finished its parsimonious syllables when she realized her whispers were loud enough to be overheard by Long Sword, for he studied her with more than mild interest.

  Now, as their eyes finally met, she took him in with but a glance: older, balding—though she could not be sure of that for he wore a braided, black-lacquered amigasa shade-hat that half-hid his face. In spite of the hat, she saw that he was clean shaven, which likely meant that he wished not to call attention to the fact he had started to turn gray. Yet the creases that had crept into his face revealed he was at least twice her age, maybe a little bit more.

  He looked as if he was about to speak to her when the senchou called for everyone to board. At this Long Sword sat down and removed his amigasa. Bald, indeed. He then continued, piece by piece, to remove his armor—lacquered indigo kozane platelets interlaced with dark orange silk cords.

  “First crossing, samurai-kun?” he muttered in her direction, though not exactly politely, for he had addressed her as kun, in the way an older man might address a younger one.

  She shook her head.

  “Humph,” he snorted. “If we end up going in, you can’t swim in that.” He jabbed his thumb at her, indicating her heavy battle gear.

  “If it comes to that, I’ll let my horse do the work,” she remarked grimly. “I’ll just hold onto my mount. He’ll do all the swimming for me.”

  “Horse, eh?” He frowned, fussing with his armor fastenings. “Fancy. Fancy Taka boy. Did your father give you that horse for your genpuku?”

  Genpuku? Boy? He thinks I am twelve. Doesn’t he notice I am taller than he? Well . . . it’s not that I want him to know who I really am.

  The senchou walked up to her, gesturing to the boarding planks, and softly said, “Your mount, Taka-sama. You can board now.”

  She led Mochizuki forward. Despite the colt’s whinnies of protest, Yamabuki, with the help of the senchou, who showed his experience with battle horses, maneuvered her spirited mount across the planks and onto the boat. The senchou helped her lead the colt to the blind, which would shield Mochizuki’s ears from the wind and his eyes from the crested rollers of the open waters.

  Moments after, Long Sword, last of the travelers to board, sat down, and the crew cast off. As the craft drifted into the current, the boatmen started going through the formalities with ropes and knots known only to sailors. The kobune floated out of the shelter afforded by the bluffs and into a stiff breeze. The senchou’s two helpers smartly hoisted a faded patchwork sail that quickly filled with wind, lending purpose to the boat’s motion, carrying it straight into the main channel.

  Eleven:

  No Reason to Conceal Herself

  “Smooth today,” one of the crew called out to no one in particular. “The sea deity seems satisfied.”

  The morning haze continued to lift and the features of the Great Isle became sharper. Quiet conversations started up among the passengers, all except for Long Sword, who surreptitiously studied her from his seat at the stern, next to his stacked weapons and armor, just ahead of the senchou at the tiller.

  What’s he interested in? The dispatches? Doubtful. Still . . .

  She decided, for the moment at least, to give Long Sword no further though
t.

  Blue Rice worked his way to the middle of the boat and sat across from Yamabuki, his hands folded in his lap.

  “Are those forts?” he asked, lifting one hand to point at mounds on hillsides and hilltops along the shore of the Isle of Unknown Fires behind them and the shore of the Main Isle ahead of them.

  Yamabuki nodded.

  Blue Rice took a gulp from his sake bottle. “But there have been no invasions in centuries. We are at peace.”

  “Rulers can change overnight,” Yamabuki said. “‘Peace with one, then war with his son,’ or so the adage goes.” She paused. “And there are always pirates.”

  “Pirates?” He looked up and down the channel.

  Yamabuki smiled wryly. “A few cutthroats in most cases, with whom we’d deal straightaway. Heian-kyō is too far away to grant us tsuibu kampu in time.”

  “A Warrant of Pursuit?” Blue Rice seemed to be quite ignorant of how troops were mustered.

  “We can legally act without consulting Heian-kyō,” she said with some pride, “because if raiders come, we have to respond immediately. Our city of Dazaifu is almost an auxiliary capital. We trade with the world. It’s why our isle has more wealth, goods, knowledge, and learning than anywhere in the empire. You noticed Mochizuki. Where do you think we could get such a fine steed?”

  Long Sword exhaled loudly, apparently listening to her conversation. She continued to ignore him and pointed west, out across the sea to the horizon. Blue Rice glanced at the expanse and took another swig from his flask.

  “But the Nagato District,” she said with a flick of her hand to indicate the other side of the channel, “that’s another matter. Many call it by its literal name, ‘Main Gate.’ The Ōe clan are the stopper on the bottle, the bottle being the rest of the empire. Their forts also stand at the ready.” She thought about what she’d just said, and added, “We certainly will be interrogated by the sakimori barrier guards.”