“I won’t,” Arik said as he prepared himself to enter the tavern and take on the persona of someone else. He still wasn’t a great actor, but the tailor was already drunk, and if he just kept the lie that he had developed on his walk over, he was pretty confident he would be able to get the information.
At least he hoped this was the case.
“Remember not to drink too much.”
“Alcohol doesn’t have the same effect on me,” Arik reminded Meosa.
“And that’s a pity, if you ask me. Sometimes a man needs to get drunk to remind himself how wonderful it is to be sober. Is that how the saying goes? Maybe it’s the other way around. Yes, I believe so. Anyway, I’m here. Let’s get the password, disciple.”
Hearing Meosa call him a disciple yet again reminded Arik of who he actually was. He paused for a moment and looked down at his hands, to the way he had arranged his robes and how he now wore his haori cape as if he were some sort of middle-class nobleman. He’d seen himself in the mirror and how he had done his cheeks up with red paint, Arik actually becoming the student of a Hidden Warrior, a master illusionist.
To think…
“Is something the matter?” Meosa asked.
“No.”
Arik entered the tavern and located the tailor up at the front bar. There was a side room with another bar that seemed to be stocked with more bottles than the one in the main space, less crowded too. Arik squeezed through to the front, but before he could reach the bartender, he was stopped by a barmaid with her hair cut short.
Something about her seemed familiar, Arik pausing for a moment as he took her in, trying to figure out if he had ever seen her before. She had an angular face, her curly dark hair in a side bun, her eyes warm in a way that made Arik feel welcome. She was perhaps a few inches shorter than him, in black with a gray apron that had been recently pressed. For some reason, she made him miss home and he didn’t know why.
“My lord,” she said in a cheery way as she gestured toward an open table.
“I think…” Arik cleared his throat, tried to change his voice to some degree. “I think I will have my drink in the other room. I have a friend there. I’d like to…” He looked at the bottles behind the bar, where a bartender was busy talking to a couple in what seemed like a lively conversation. “A bottle of rice wine, perhaps something local. Do you have something infused with peaches? I’ve been…”
“I’ve been to the orchard on the north side of town recently for a wedding,” Meosa said quickly.
“Ahem, I’ve been to the orchard on the north side of town recently for a wedding. The air,” Arik nodded and began again, “I mean, the scent in the air, yes, so fresh and nice, it has been giving me a craving ever since. For wine. And peaches. And peaches and wine. But both. Yes,” he said, his exterior limbs fluttering. “Both.”
Meosa tried not to laugh. “What the hell are you going on about, disciple!?”
“Say no more,” the barmaid told him as she kindly placed her hand on Arik’s arm. “I know the perfect bottle. I’ll find your seat in the other room and bring it there.”
She turned quickly and Arik followed her back to the main space, where she quickly cleared off the table with two empty flagons on it.
Once she wiped it clean, she motioned for Arik to sit, and quickly returned with a small clay bottle that had been sealed by wax and two matching clay glasses. By this point Arik had already produced the money, spending just over five hundred Jadean sen on the bottle.
“Let me know if you need anything else, my lord,” the barmaid said as she uncorked the bottle and poured a cup for Arik. She placed it in front of him, leaving him to do the rest once his supposed friend arrived.
“That was easier than I thought it would be,” Meosa said, “even if you bungled your conversation with her.”
“I was trying to seem drunk.”
“You sounded like someone who has fallen off a horse a few too many times. But I digress, all we need now is a certain tailor…”
“Right.” Arik looked back to the bar, spotting the man. Smoothing his nerves, even though he knew it wouldn’t work for very long, he drank half of the glass of peach-infused rice wine.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Meosa said as Arik felt the liquor burn down his throat, his healing ability starting to kick in, assuming that he had been poisoned.
You can do this, Arik thought to himself as he turned to the tailor, who was now drinking alone, a sullen expression on his face. Arik approached, took a deep breath, and tapped the man on the shoulder.
“Say, don’t you work for Kogu?” he asked in his fake voice. “Yes, I believe I saw you there earlier. Did you see me inside?”
The man turned to Arik, and vomited onto the front of his haori cape.
“I will kill him for this!” Meosa roared, patrons starting to turn to the commotion.
As a disciple, Arik’s immediate response wasn’t to twist away in disgust, nor was it to get angry with the man. His first response was to heal him, Arik placing his hand on the man’s neck just as the tailor fell forward, the disciple both stopping him from falling, and immediately starting to absorb some of his intoxication.
The short-haired barmaid from earlier appeared seemingly out of the blue with several towels, an annoyed look on her face that made Arik think that she had dealt with him before.
It was busy enough in the tavern for neither of them to garner too much attention, Arik able to lead the man over to the table he’d been sitting at, and help him into his seat. He healed the tailor just a touch more, ignoring the vomit, the man’s eyes finally blinking open and seeing what he had done to Arik’s clothing.
“It’s fine,” Arik said, before switching his voice again. “It’s fine. Perhaps I startled you. I saw you earlier at Kogu’s manor, but you may not have seen me, so I stopped by to say hello.”
“I’ll never go back there again,” the tailor said with disgust as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “He fired me and hired my assistant instead.”
“Use this to your advantage, disciple,” Meosa told Arik.
The barmaid approached once again and gave Arik some rags to clean off his clothing. He did just that, noticing the woman hover just for a moment longer than she should have. But the tailor didn’t seem to mind, the drunkard cursing the businessman and everything he stood for.
“If it were up to me, he wouldn’t even be allowed in the city. Treating local businesses like trash. He doesn’t know who I am. He doesn’t know how long my family has run a business here. Why… why… since the times of Sorgus de Moonagwa!” The tailor drunkenly slammed his fist against the table, Arik barely able to stop the bottle of rice wine from falling. The man’s eyes darted to the bottle. “Do you mind? Who did you say you were again?”
“Get the password, and let’s go,” Meosa said. “Based on the tailor’s utterly disgusting performance thus far, I would say this supposed businessman was justified in firing this buffoon!”
“That password system is so strange,” Arik said just as the barmaid stepped away. “Having to sit on the ground like that…”
“It’s stupid,” said the tailor, “and nearly impossible to keep up with. Today the password was ‘weasel’, tomorrow? Who knows? It changes twice a day. I’ve gotten it wrong at least six times. No, seven, but luckily, my assistant remembered it. The damn fool. Both of them. All of them. Everyone in this damn tavern!”
“We aren’t going to be able to get the password from him,” Meosa said, Arik nodding in agreement. “I’d say leave the bottle. There is always another way. Let’s go, disciple, before this fool draws any more attention to us. Remember, sooner, rather than later, you’re going to steal the Mask of the Fallen from this businessman, and it will probably be best for you not to have been seen with this souse of a tailor. Also, you need to wash your cape before it permanently smells like vomit.”
Arik stood and gestured toward the bottle of peach-infused rice wine. “It’s all yours,�
�� he told the man with a big smile.
“You… you mean it? What did you say your name was again?”
Arik turned away, leaving the tavern before the barmaid could return. Hojo has to know another way in, he thought as he moved directly to the shadows. If anyone knows, it’s him.
.Chapter Two.
“Test metal with fire, humans with words.”
–A quote carved into bone by Hidden Warrior Hirata Masuhiro de Iga of the School of Illusion, and later published in a collection of his carvings, Hirata in Stone, First Edition, Yoshimura Books, Year 1019.
The ruins on the outskirts of the former Jadean capital of Iga were a sight to behold.
According to Hojo, they were constructed around Year 400, when the School of Illusion was first founded. The Taomoni Conflict, nearly one hundred and fifty years later, led to their destruction and abandonment as Jadeans spread out across the country. When they returned years later to erect their first capital, they left the ruins as they were. All that stood now were moss-covered stone walls, a few arched windows, the ruins all but forgotten aside from their prominence in yearly harvest celebrations.
From what Arik could tell, they were the only people there.
“You don’t need to learn what I’m going to show you next,” Hojo said, “not with the assistance of your kami. But it is good for you to understand how it works, and if you did spend a significant amount of time practicing this technique, it would make you stronger. So I’m going to show you anyway.”
Hojo approached the first wall and looked up to the top, the master illusionist producing his grappling hook. He sent it straight up with an underhand toss, hooking it into place, Hojo then demonstrating to Arik how one would test their own weight before ascending. He started off toward the top of the wall.
Once he reached it, he sat and looked down to Arik.
Hojo’s solution to entering the manor had been one that Arik had assumed all along— scaling the walls, getting the Mask of the Fallen, and leaving as quickly as possible. He was set to do that tonight, though he would use Meosa’s power to send him over the top rather than the grappling hook.
“Just say the word and I’ll get you up there,” Meosa reminded Arik.
“I’ll give it a try.”
Mirroring Hojo’s maneuver, Arik tossed the grappling hook up, missing the ledge the first time. He tried again, and managed to snag it on the ledge. But one tug of the rope told him that he hadn’t hooked it well enough. He yanked the grappling hook back down, stepping aside as it hit the ground next to him.
Arik attempted it once again, this time hooking the grappling hook in a way that it would support his weight. He was about halfway up when it became harder and harder for him to pull himself to the top, the muscles in his arm screaming, biceps pulsing. Yet he continued, the disciple eventually reaching Hojo.
He sat near the master illusionist, quickly catching his breath.
“Quite the view,” Hojo said as he stared out at a lush valley, mountains in the distance surrounded by halos of clouds, a large hawk spiraling in the air catching Arik’s attention. He watched the bird finally dip toward the forest below, tracking its prey.
“When you get over the wall tonight, you must be prepared to strike down your enemy if necessary, like that hawk,” Hojo told Arik. “The Mask of the Fallen will be in the main hold. You counted how many buildings?”
“Eight,” Arik told him. “No, nine.”
“Yes, nine. You may have to search for it, but the hardest part should be getting into the compound. Once you’re in, grab the item, and get out of there as quickly as you can. We have discussed ways to deceive your pursuer, but I will go over them again. Remember the power of misdirection. There is a moat outside of the compound, as you know. Before you enter, set up rocks that will allow you to create a distraction on the other side of the moat if need be. If you are being pursued toward the moat, head in the opposite direction of the distraction you make. Even if they don’t hear the splash, someone will likely see the ripples.”
“Should I wear the mask once I retrieve it?”
“No. It will be in a red wooden box, not very large, one that you could keep documents in. You will use your haori cape to tie the small chest to your back.”
Meosa had already grilled Hojo regarding this information, and how he had obtained it. The master illusionist claimed to have already checked out the manor on his own, that while he could have simply taken the mask then, it was important for Arik to do it himself, to know the ropes.
Arik was past the point of questioning what he was doing to obtain the legendary item. The Mask of the Fallen would aid him in winning the tournament, which would allow him to prevent Nobunaga from starting an all-out war.
It was worth the risk.
“Do you see that smaller wall there?” Hojo gestured toward a wall that was about ten feet high, the top crumbled. “It’s not as high as this one, and there are ways to scale it without using a grappling hook. Come, I’ll show you something.”
The master illusionist retrieved his grappling hook and walked along the wall until it dipped closer to the ground. He hopped down and approached the smaller wall, where he set his grappling hook aside and retrieved his sword.
Hojo produced his sanjuku cloth from the shoulder bag he currently wore. “The swords that illusionists wield are able to lock to the scabbard,” he said as he showed Arik his weapon, and how one was able to loop a leather strip tied to the grip through a small groove on the scabbard.
Unlike Arik’s sword, Hojo’s weapon didn’t have a guard, the grip nearly smooth with the blade.
“The trick is to rope your cloth through this hole here on the bottom of the grip,” he said once he had locked the scabbard to the weapon, “then tie it around your wrist.” Hojo demonstrated what he meant, and once he was finished, he was left with a sheathed sword attached to the yard-long sanjaku cloth, which was then affixed to his wrist.
“What will you do now?” Arik asked, not quite certain at what the master illusionist was showing him.
“Infiltration is one of our specialties, and one of the ways that an illusionist scales a smaller wall like this, one that you can’t exactly jump and reach the top, is through the technique I’m about to show you. Watch.”
Hojo approached the wall and set his sheathed weapon at an angle against it. He looked up to the top and placed his foot on the grip of his weapon. With the swift motion he boosted himself up, his other hand reaching above his head. Hojo quickly latched onto the top of the wall and then pulled his weapon up, now with both hands on the ledge above. His sword bounced once against the wall as he slowly raised himself to the top.
Hojo sat on the top of the wall and looked down at Arik, his gray eyes focused on the disciple. “With a little practice, an illusionist can do this without making any noise. Tie the cloth to your sword, use the height given by an angled sword against the wall to boost yourself up, then pull the sword up with you. Everything should be fluid. Always.”
“These illusionists and their tricks…” Meosa said.
“This technique allows you to scale a smaller wall and then quickly make use of your weapon if necessary, especially depending on who may be on the other side. There could be a guard that you have to drop down on, or someone might see you when you come up. Of course, if you’ve properly investigated the area, that second part wouldn’t happen. If done correctly, you now have your sheathed weapon attached to your arm, where you can either undo it quickly, or drop down on top of them, using the weapon to choke your target. All are viable options.”
Hojo hopped down, undid the cloth. Soon, his weapon was once again at his side, his shinobi tools hidden away.
“Let’s climb a few more walls, and then relax for the rest of the day. It’s time to mentally prepare for what you plan to do tonight.”
****
A single question came to Arik as he kept to the shadows, the disciple once again disguised as a beggar, but this time with
dark-gray usuzumi ink smeared across his face, his caltrops with him and tucked into an inner pocket, as well as his compact mirror, his sword, and his sanjaku cloth: what have I become?
The Mask of the Fallen would help him win the tournament set to take place soon, giving him a chance to either kill Nobunaga right then and there, or begin his training with Combat Master Altai. He hadn’t given much thought to what would happen between Hojo and him, and the illusionist training he had undergone.
But now was the time to put it to the test.
Well away from the manor’s main entrance, Arik approached the moat only after making sure there was little light that could give him away. This included waiting for a dark cloud to float in front of the moon, the disciple setting up several large rocks along the banks of the moat for potential misdirections later on.
“Ready?” Meosa asked.
“In and out,” Arik told him.
He remembered who he was doing this for, everyone from Master Guri Yarna to his parents and his sister, Mori Ehara, to Jinmo and those who had been killed at the graduation ceremony or enslaved. This was for all of them, and not only that, it was also for his country, and the people of all realms, who Arik knew didn’t deserve the war to come.
In and out… He thought as Meosa lifted him just a few inches above the ground, the aqueous kami easily carrying Arik across the moat and making little sound in doing so.
Arik touched on the other side onto a six-inch-wide strip of land and pressed his back against the wall, afraid that he might have brought attention to himself.
He was starting to understand why Hojo wanted him to do this.
While Arik had competed in tournaments back at his school, the nervousness he was feeling, the apprehension tinged with excitement, was a sensation that he had yet to encounter before.
He had never stolen anything; he rarely lied, and lately, if he did lie, there was a reasoning behind it. He certainly had never broken into an estate before, this particular infiltration already more stressful than the armory he had conned his way into back in Avarga.
Mask of the Fallen: A Cultivation/Progression Fantasy Series: (War Priest Book One) Page 31