The princess glanced down at the disintegrating sheet of parchment, still muttering to herself. When she had started practicing, she would often stop after the symbol for “messenger” before going on to the kanji for hyozan, or “iceberg.” Since taking her brush in hand several hours ago, she had not paused at all, blending the two symbols together in a series of smooth, practiced motions, chanting all the while.
The symbol under her brush twitched. Michiko’s eyes widened, but she kept tracing and chanting. It was beginning to work. She struggled to remain calm and to keep her rhythm steady.
There was a wet cracking sound as the kanji tore itself free of the paper and rose into the air. Michiko slid back in her chair, unwilling to breathe for fear of disrupting the ritual. She edged over so that she was between the floating symbol and the open window.
The messenger symbol did not try to leave, however, but floated before her as if waiting. Michiko took a breath and spoke softly, but clearly.
“Find him in the Takenuma Swamp,” she said. “I have a new commission for him and his reckoners.”
The symbol bobbed in the air. Michiko drew another breath and went on.
“Tell him I am in my father’s tower. I am a prisoner. Rescue me, and the reward will stagger the greediest of hearts.” Michiko paused, remembering her previous encounter with this would-be savior. “Even his.
“Go now,” she said. “Tell Toshi that I will be waiting for him.”
The messenger symbol rotated in the air before the princess then shot out of the open window and disappeared into the gloom.
Toshi Umezawa sat at the bar in one of the worst taverns the world had ever known. Most of the buildings in Takenuma Swamp were grim, but The Rat’s Nest was in a class by itself. The cups were filthy, the wine was foul, and the clientele was criminally insane. It was perched up on bamboo stilts like every other establishment in the Numai section of the swamp, but the Nest’s east end had sunk far deeper into the muck so that foul, oily water lapped at the patron’s feet at one end of the room.
There were only two things on the menu: a grayish rice wine that tended to strip the enamel off ceramic cups and a wad of unidentifiable meat on a stick. Apart from the nezumi-bito rat-folk, who could eat just about anything without retching, Toshi had never seen anyone take so much as a bite of the meat skewer without turning green and fouling himself.
Toshi mimed taking a sip of wine but poured the gray liquid on the floor instead. He surreptitiously filled the cup from the flask of water he wore on his belt then poured that out, too. Only then did he fill the cup again and drink. The wine residue was still too strong, though, and he grimaced as the noisome liquid burned his throat.
Toshi had spent a large part of his life convinced that he deserved better than he got, but this outing marked a milestone in his disappointment. I’m a newly spiritual man, he thought. Surely I shouldn’t have to pray for a decent drink.
Around him, a handful of nezumi and human reprobates also made do with the extremely limited menu. None of the other patrons paid much attention to the average-looking fellow with the long hair and the samurai swords, which was one of the reasons he had chosen this bar and this district. Almost all of the fen residents were outlaws, thieves, or ochimusha like him. Unless he had stolen from them or they were planning to steal from him, they had no business to discuss.
The door opened to his left, and Toshi glanced at the newcomer. He smiled briefly. Here was someone he had business with, someone who was a damn sight more pleasant to look at than the grubby one-eyed bartender or the filth-caked nezumi at the far table.
Kiku stood in the doorway for a few seconds, sneering in disgust at the interior and everyone in it. She was stunningly beautiful and resplendently dressed, wrapped in pale purple silk and fine embroidered satin. Her wrap was slit up each side below her waist, revealing her shapely legs up to her hips, and her blouse was tightly wound around her to display both her considerable curves and her natural grace as she walked. She sported wide, flaring sleeves that ended just below the elbow and matching purple gauntlets that covered her forearms to the backs of her hands. Her bright black eyes glittered like precious stones, but the rest of her face was concealed behind a folded paper fan she used to waft the foul tavern air away from her face. A large purple camellia decorated Kiku’s shoulder, its soft petals a perfect contrast to her sharp eyes and painted fingernails. Toshi thought her poise and beauty would have stood out at a rich man’s formal banquet, but here in the Nest she was like a beautiful dream of an angel bringing him water in the desert.
Toshi sipped his drink to hide another smile. An angel, to be sure, but a dangerous one who could kill just about everyone in the room in one fell swoop if she cared to. Kiku was a jushi, a mage for hire who specialized in dark magic that was as powerful as it was unpleasant. Toshi had worked with Kiku before, so he was respectful but not afraid. He had convinced her to meet him here precisely because she was so formidable.
Kiku visibly steeled herself and strode boldly into the tavern. Wisely, none of the other patrons attempted to speak to her or catch her eye on the way. She stood next to Toshi for a moment, spread a purple satin square on the moldering old stool, and rested lightly on the edge of it.
“There’s been a change in plans,” she said. She snapped her fan shut and rested it across her lap. “Boss Uramon wants to see you now.”
Toshi smiled foolishly. He toasted Kiku and spilled some of his drink on the bar. “That’s not a problem. I want to see her, too.”
Kiku reopened her fan with a loud crack, quickly enough that the metal spine at the edge shattered the tiny ceramic cup in Toshi’s hand.
“You can drop the clumsy drunk act,” she said. “I know you’re neither.”
Toshi glanced at his empty hand, his fingers still curled around the space where the cup had been. “All right,” he said. “I was only doing it to spare the bartender’s feelings.” He leaned in and whispered, “He’s very sensitive about the wine. I think his mother grows the rice herself.”
Kiku sniffed. “She grows it in the septic fields, from the smell. Come on.” She stood and motioned for Toshi to follow.
Toshi rose to his feet and tossed a few coins onto the bar. He had hoped for a chance to talk to Kiku alone about Uramon, but if the Boss wanted to see him sooner, he could accommodate that. Uramon was one of the most influential figures in the Takenuma underworld, and Toshi had worked for her in the past. It had taken some doing, but he had managed to redeem his contract with the Boss so that he was no longer obliged to serve her while also maintaining a cordial relationship with her. If she wanted to see him now, she either had work-for-hire or she wanted information.
In any case, all Toshi wanted now was to get inside Uramon’s manor and take a look around. His discussion with Kiku could wait.
The purple-clad jushi held the door to let Toshi through first. He bobbed his head and stepped out onto the sodden bamboo deck.
“Oh,” he said, when he saw the group waiting for him outside. “Great.”
Six serious men armed with daggers and hatchets stood at the far end of the deck. Two more masked jushi waited next to a huge brindle dog with an enormous square head. The dog was silent, but he was straining so hard against his leash that his handler had to anchor himself onto one of the bamboo spires that held up the roof.
Before he could dash back into the bar or draw his sword, Toshi felt a gentle hand touch his shoulder. He tried to spin out from under the caress, but as he did he saw a flash of purple. He froze in mid-spin with one eye on the dog and the other on Kiku.
The jushi had placed one of her purple camellias on Toshi’s shoulder. She was smiling casually.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It won’t do anything to you unless I tell it to.”
Toshi remained rock-still, sweat beading across his forehead. Kiku’s flowers could be deadlier than a snake bite and more caustic than acid.
“How do I keep you from telling it to?”
“By coming along peacefully. None of your tricks, none of your traps, none of your kanji magic. Uramon just wants to talk to you.”
“I’m willing to talk. You don’t need this. Or them.” He motioned toward the hatchet men with his head.
“Self-obsessed, as usual.” Kiku opened her fan and casually waved it under her chin. “This little outing was originally sent to bring back some troublesome rats who have been shockingly bold over the past few weeks. Uramon suspects someone new is moving in on her territory. Just as I was getting ready to come and see you, she requested the pleasure of your company. She said the other rats could wait.”
“If there is someone moving in, it’s not me. I’ve been lying low.”
“I actually believe you. But it’s not me you have to convince.” She snapped the fan shut and prodded Toshi with it. “Move along now. Stay beside me and don’t go to quickly. If I lose sight of you, the flower will put down roots in your torso.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Toshi glanced around at the assembled mercenaries and goons as the hatchet men formed up around him. The two jushi and the dog took up the rear. Sadly, the friendliest face he saw belonged to the burly canine straining to break its leash and savage him.
“All right,” he said. He gallantly offered his arm to Kiku. “Off we go.”
Kiku sniffed and slapped his arm away with her fan.
Boss Uramon’s manor was at the far end of the swamp on the border between Takenuma the ruins at the edge of Konda’s domain. Her home had once belonged to a rich retainer, but he had been called away years ago to fight kami. When he didn’t return, Uramon had his family and servants driven off so that she could move in. From here she kept an eye on her interests in the swamp as well as those in more polite society.
Dozens of low-level thugs meandered around the grounds as Kiku and Toshi led the strange procession through the main gate. Uramon employed a huge staff of indentured servants and outright slaves who had mortgaged their futures past the point of redemption. Her home was one of the busiest commerce centers in all Kamigawa, with a steady flow of black market goods and dozens of enterprising tradespeople looking for work. Uramon stood at the center of this network of illegal commerce, extracting her share of whatever goods or services passed through her hidden sphere influence.
Toshi knew the house well. For a time in his youth, he had been one of Uramon’s reckoners, the brutal gangs that maintained her reputation through intimidation and violence. When someone defaulted on a usurious loan or failed to produce protection money, her reckoners paid a visit. When an Uramon courier was waylaid or some of her stolen property went missing, she sent her reckoners. Any debt, any slight, any injury to Uramon’s organization would prompt a visit from the fallen warriors in her service.
It was a dirty, dangerous job, and getting out from under Uramon’s influence was the best thing Toshi had ever done for himself. Years ago he had formed his own independent band of reckoners and dubbed them the hyozan. With a significant investment of time, effort, and currency, he had convinced Uramon to accept his departure. Now he was back, and while he had settled his account with Uramon, the Boss was never one to let go easily of something she owned. If he were lucky, she would merely ask him a few questions and offer him work. If not, things could get messy.
They left the dog and the hatchet men outside. The other jushi entered the manor but fell back and let Kiku lead him into the manor’s interior. She stayed close as they went inside, brushing aside the sentries who rose to meet them. Since their party was expected, they had no trouble navigating through the opulent rooms on the first floor and climbing the staircase to Uramon’s chamber on the second. The burly guards outside Uramon’s room nodded to Kiku and opened the door.
Uramon kneeled in the center of the room. She was resting on a square stone platform in the middle of a rectangular pit filled with black sand. A collection of irregular-shaped rocks were scattered across the surface of the sand. Tall candles burned at each corner of the pit. Uramon carried a long-handled wooden rake, which she pulled through the sand, tracing parallel lines between and around the stones. She was singing softly to herself in a low, meditative voice, a study in tranquility.
Toshi had never been able to calculate Uramon’s age. Her face was always covered in a thick layer of white powder, and her hair was either dyed black or she wore an excellent wig. She had a round face, but there was no softness to it. Her expression was always one of disinterest and her eyes were frequently half-closed. Behind her slitted lids, though, they were sharp and penetrating. Neither beautiful nor homely, Uramon’s face was a nondescript mask that she had spent a lifetime perfecting. Unless she spoke or made eye contact, it was impossible to imagine how such a bland woman had mustered such a successful criminal empire. People taken in by this false lack of charisma often found themselves working for Uramon without knowing exactly how.
“Hail Uramon, venerable boss of Takenuma.” Toshi bowed.
Uramon kept singing, but she lifted the rake out of the sand. Carefully, she hauled in the tool and rested it on the stone platform. Only then did she fall silent and gaze up at Toshi and Kiku.
“Umezawa,” she said. “What a happy occasion this is. Thank you for coming.”
Her voice was like her face, dull and unobtrusive, but Toshi did not relax. He knew the speed and the sharpness of the mind behind that sallow voice. Uramon would not be disarmed by his personality, so he must not be disarmed by hers.
“All you had to do was ask. We’re old friends.” He gestured to the camellia on his shoulder. “Now that I’m here, can we transplant Kiku’s friend somewhere else?”
Uramon rose. “I think not. At least, not yet.” She folded her arms into the sleeves of her simple black robe and stepped into her wooden sandals. As Toshi watched and waited, she shuffled across the surface of the black sand, barely disrupting the careful rake-lines and avoiding the stones. When she reached the edge of the pit and stepped onto the lacquered wooden floor, not a single grain of sand came with her.
She gestured for Toshi and Kiku to follow her as she crossed to the far side of the room. She sat on a square pillow facing the door and motioned for Toshi to step forward.
“I understand you’ve had some trouble with the soratami,” she said.
“Moonfolk?” Toshi said. “I think I saw one once, as a boy, but they don’t usually come to Numai.”
“They don’t usually come to any part of the swamp,” Uramon said. “Lately, that has changed. I had hoped you would know something about it.”
“No, Boss. I’ve been out of circulation ever since I got religion.”
Uramon smiled indulgently. “It’s good to pray, my boy. Although there’s hardly a kami left who won’t try to take a bite out of anyone who calls for its blessing.”
“I’m new to it,” Toshi admitted. “I don’t think I’ve gotten the spirits’ attention properly just yet, but I keep trying.”
“Excellent. And you have no idea why the soratami have been stirring up the rats?”
“Have they? No, Boss, I don’t.”
“Hmm. That’s not what Marrow-Gnawer told me.”
Toshi forced a smile. “How is my old friend Marrow? I haven’t seen him lately, either. Is he well?”
“Not at present, but he is very truthful. My hatchet men are experts at teasing the truth out of people, as I’m sure you recall.”
Toshi’s smile wavered. “Indeed I do. And he says I’m mixed up with the soratami? That’s very odd. He’s not very bright, you know. Perhaps he meant someone else?”
“Why don’t we ask him together?” Uramon clapped her hands. The door to the chamber opened, and two large men dragged in a limp nezumi. The rat-man’s feet barely scraped the floor.
“Open his eyes,” Uramon said. One of the guards grabbed the black fur on top of Marrow-Gnawer’s head, pulled his head back, and shook it.
Toshi held his frozen smile. One of Marrow’s eyes was swollen shut, and his face w
as a mass of bloody bruises and badly healed cuts. Toshi glanced down and noticed two of his fingers were missing and that his legs were covered in tiny wounds like pinpricks.
Marrow-Gnawer groaned. His good eye fluttered open just as the second sentry tossed a dipper of water in his face.
The nezumi coughed and ran his long tongue across his lips and muzzle, taking up as much of the cool liquid as he could. The guard shook him again and shoved him forward so that he fell to his knees.
“Marrow-Gnawer,” Uramon said. The rat-man hissed piteously.
The boss turned to Toshi. “He and his fellows were leaving one of my establishments with all of the night’s revenue on their backs. Fortunately, my employees were able to convince the gang to stay and chat for a while. He told me quite a tale.”
She spoke once more to the nezumi. “Tell Toshi what you told me, Marrow.”
The rat-man groaned. He steadied himself on all fours and looked up at the humans. He coughed and wiped his mouth, leaving a streak of blood on the back of his hand.
“Moonfolk commissioned jobs in the ruins,” he said. “Toshi interfered. Saw the soratami, ran off. But the job was ruined. The soratami blamed us, and now they own me and my whole tribe.” He cast his eyes down again. “Didn’t want to rob you, Boss. Had to. Soratami would have killed me.”
“I understand, Marrow, but by now you must realize how short-sighted that decision was.” Uramon nodded to the sentries, who hauled Marrow-Gnawer off his feet and dragged him into the corner of the room.
“So,” she said. “The soratami are encroaching on my business. I would normally send my own reckoners to deal with this, but it seems that you already have an inside line on what they’re up to.”
“I don’t, Boss. I really don’t. It was bad luck that put me in the middle of Marrow’s job. I just wanted to get away.”
“I believe you, Toshi. Of course I do. But the facts as I see them are: The soratami are interfering with my operation, and they’re using the nezumi as stooges. You’ve had dealings with both, and you were always one of my most reliable reckoners, in spite of your foolish insistence on freelancing.”
Heretic, Betrayers of Kamigawa: Kamigawa Cycle, Book II Page 2