by John Norman
“Fumitaka is already asleep,” said one of the Ashigaru.
“I fear we must be on our way,” said Tajima.
“So soon?” said the leader.
“I fear so,” said Tajima.
Haruki indicated the kitchen entrance to the eating hall, through which we might exit, to rendezvous outside with Tajima and the slave.
Certainly we had dallied overlong in this place.
I had scarcely risen to my feet, when I heard a new, and a very angry, voice. “Besotted dolts!” it cried. “Drunken tarsks! Two Ahn you are late at the checkpoint! Who will vouch for you? Who will bring you to the camp, and conduct you safely to the rice wagons? Your spoil is at the door, the cart is empty! Dally at an inn, will you! Do you not know there are bandits about?”
I noticed the innkeeper move quickly past us, exiting through the door to the kitchen.
“We were inveigled into drink, noble one!” cried the leader of the Ashigaru. “It is the fault of that noble one. Ai!”
I gathered he had been struck.
“Yes, Officer,” said Tajima. “It is all my fault. I did not wish to hold these fine fellows from some appointment, but merely to pass the time of day with jolly companions.”
“I shall jolly them!” said the voice, and I heard some more blows, and protests, now, perhaps, from the other two Ashigaru. “On the floor, on your bellies!” cried the angry voice. “I shall consider taking your heads!”
“Mercy, noble one!” said the leader. “Who will pull the rice cart?”
“Ho,” said the voice, seemingly suddenly pacified, and interested. “You have two swords.” He would be addressing Tajima.
“As do you, warrior san,” said Tajima.
I gathered that polite bows might have been exchanged.
“These oafs are unreliable, and insufferable,” said the voice.
“Thoughtless, perhaps,” said Tajima.
“They are without honor,” said the voice. “They are lazy, greedy beasts. One could line them up behind any banner at hand. They would eat by day and desert by night. They are as skittery as a jard and as sly as a barn snake. More allegiance would be proffered by a turtle.”
“They are foragers, probably recently impressed,” said Tajima. “They are not with the march. One must not judge all Ashigaru by these happy fellows, many of whom are disciplined, loyal, well-trained, reliable, valuable, dangerous men.”
“They are all peasants,” said the voice. “They think only of their stomachs, only of eating and drinking, of sitting about and escaping work. Unfortunate that one must fill the ranks with such.”
“Surely they have their place, and well support the work of we nobler sorts,” said Tajima.
“Who are you?” asked the voice.
“Ronin,” said Tajima.
“This is an unusual place to be washed ashore,” said the voice.
“It is my hope the current will carry me to the house of Yamada,” said Tajima.
“The shogun always has a place for those who manage sharp swords well,” said the voice.
“One would hope to be found suitable,” said Tajima, humbly.
“Where is the innkeeper?” asked the voice.
“I do not know, he was here,” said Tajima.
“I do not like it,” said the voice.
“How so?” said Tajima.
“He is doubtless a peasant,” said the voice.
“Perhaps,” said Tajima.
“Is that an inn slave?” asked the voice.
“No,” said Tajima. “She is my slave. I bought her for work and girl sport.”
“She is obviously of the peasants,” said the voice.
“Obviously,” said Tajima.
I could not see the reaction of Nezumi, for the dragon screen.
“That is the one good thing about the peasants,” said the voice, “aside from raising our rice, that they also, upon occasion, produce lovely daughters, suitable for the collar and the contract, useful for serving and pleasing men of quality.”
“Precisely,” said Tajima. “It would be inappropriate to expect such delights from women of quality.”
“True,” said the voice. “I think I shall now take the heads from these louts. Stay where you are, tarsks. Do not move.”
“Perhaps I could offer you a drink?” said Tajima.
“Just one,” said the voice.
“Perhaps you might spare them,” suggested Tajima.
“Why not?” said the voice.
“But only one drink?” asked Tajima.
“Perhaps, two,” said the voice.
Behind the dragon screen, Haruki whispered to me, “I am afraid.”
“Why,” I asked, “gardener san?”
“The innkeeper is missing,” he said.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Inn Has Visitors
Haruki had scarcely confessed his apprehension when, suddenly, with boisterous shouts and a rushing of bodies, several men crowded into the inn, hurrying through both the main entrance and, I gathered, the rear entrance, as they emerged into the eating hall through the door leading to the kitchen.
I heard Nezumi scream.
“Do not touch your weapons,” I heard, “or you die!”
The tanto was ripped from my belt, and Haruki, too, was relieved of his knife. Our hands were then tied behind our backs.
“Excellent swords,” I heard, from the other side of the screen.
With a miscellany of blades and clubs Haruki and I, after a bit, bound, were ushered about the screen. The three Ashigaru still lay on their bellies on the floor. Tajima and another fellow, a stout fellow, but clearly a warrior, were sitting cross-legged on the floor, their arms tightly bound. Nezumi, trembling, knelt in one corner.
In the center of the eating hall, as though bestride the room, in a short jacket and fur boots, was a short, thick-bodied man. I took him to be the leader of the intruders. He had a wide face, large arms for his body, a scraggly mustache which drooped to his throat, and eyes which, in a human, seemed almost feral. Interesting, I thought, that a man so short should be in charge of at least fifteen ill-clad brigands. But decision and aggression, intelligence and vanity, authority and command, do not all have similar habitats. Leaders are where one finds them, and leadership is not measured by height and weight, nor by age or station. It is one of those rarities which, expressed, is both intangible and unmistakable.
The innkeeper, or he whom I had taken to be the innkeeper, now reappeared. “It took you long enough to respond to my signal,” he said.
“It took you long enough to signal,” said the leader of the intruders.
“Others had arrived,” he said, “among them one with two swords. Such are dangerous. I thought it well to drunken him, with the rice guards. He might then be less to fear. How many men would you wish to lose?”
“He does not appear drunk to me,” said the short, thick-bodied leader of the intruders.
“Perhaps, at the edge of death, one sobers quickly,” said the innkeeper or he whom I had taken to be the innkeeper.
“Shall we carry out the rice and burn the inn?” asked one of the men.
“No,” said the leader. “It serves as a splendid trap.”
“The foragers have done well,” said another, “as have we. There is much rice, hard to obtain with the exactions of the shogun for pasangs about.”
“An entire handcart,” said another.
“The villages will be pleased,” said another.
“Is there not loot in the inn?” asked a man.
“What there was, we carried off, long ago,” said he whom I had taken to be the innkeeper. “We kept the inn girls, that we might, if it seemed appropriate, display them, and have them serve, utilizing them for purposes of disguising our tidy trap.”
“They know you are not their master,” said a fellow.
“He was bribed away,” said a fellow.
“That or be slain,” said another. “He chose wisely.”
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bsp; “The girls,” said he whom I had taken to be the innkeeper, “would abide our sham, giving not the least signal of our deception, or have their throats cut.”
I saw that Tajima and the warrior with him, apparently he who had so liberally castigated the heedless, if not derelict, foragers, had been disarmed, as well as bound. Their weapons seemed now to be in the hands of, or sashes of, various of the intruders. It is frequently the case that brigands arm themselves from the spoil of their victims. Indeed, a superb Pani sword, composed of matched steels, with its successive temperings, layerings, and edgings, usually the product of several smiths, which takes weeks to bring to its perfection, is booty of no small price. Warriors will commonly kill a peasant who is found in possession of one. One supposes that a peasant is not entitled to such a weapon, that such a weapon should not be entrusted to a peasant, indeed, that it is forbidden to them, that it dishonors so fine a weapon if it should be so unworthily, so shamefully, possessed, and that a peasant, in any case, could not afford such a weapon, and so has stolen it, and, as warriors are reluctant to part with such things, on which their lives may hinge, that a warrior must have been killed to obtain it. The warrior might have been an enemy, to be killed on sight, but considerations of class, and propriety, become involved. It is not unknown for an enemy to avenge the death of an enemy, if the enemy was thought to have been inappropriately slain. Warriors who seek one another’s head may have more in common with one another than either of them will have with an individual of a different quality, even a supposed ally. Too, perhaps it is unwise to allow, say, a peasant, or merchant, to possess an object of such lethal beauty; who knows what may occur in the night, or if one should be careless in crossing an unfamiliar threshold?
“You are Arashi, the bandit, are you not?” said the fellow, the warrior, tightly bound, sitting cross-legged on the floor, next to Tajima.
“I am Arashi, the patriot,” said the leader of the intruders.
“It is known you are about,” said the warrior.
“But not seen,” said Arashi.
“It is thought you were crucified,” said the warrior.
“Five times,” said Arashi, “but they were others, not even of my band. Perhaps such reports, promulgated by such as you, mollify the shogun.”
“They gave you different names,” said the warrior.
“And the leaders of five bands were thought apprehended and executed?” asked Arashi.
“Yes,” said the warrior.
“But innocent men died.”
“Yes.”
“And I remained unseen,” said Arashi.
“I see you now,” said the warrior.
“Who are you, noble one?” asked Arashi.
“I am Yasushi, twenty-third constable of the march of Lord Yamada, Shogun of the Islands,” said the bound fellow next to Tajima.
“He came alone to the inn,” said he whom I had taken to be the innkeeper, “to inquire after three foragers, the rice guards prone before you.”
“He is a fool, to risk his life and swords, to inquire after foragers.”
“A brave fool,” said Tajima.
“You fellows,” said Arashi, kicking one of the prone foragers, “why are you on the floor, so?”
“We were commanded to the floor,” said the leader, “that our heads might be the more easily taken.”
“You are bigger fools than he,” said Arashi.
“No,” said Tajima. “It is a splendid tribute to the discipline maintained within the ranks of the cohorts of Yamada.”
“It is second only,” said Arashi, “to the discipline maintained within my own band.”
“An unreliable concourse of self-seeking dolts and bumpkins,” said Yasushi.
“There is no man here who will not, at my command, cut his own throat,” said Arashi.
“Order several to do so,” said Yasushi.
“One must be prepared to kill swiftly and savagely to maintain such discipline,” said Tajima.
“True,” said Arashi.
“And soon risk a knife in the back,” said Tajima.
“Not as long as I can provide rice,” said Arashi.
“Rice is scarce in the villages?” said Tajima.
“Yes,” said Arashi.
“There is an alternative to force, and fear,” said Tajima.
“Loyalty, honor?” said Arashi.
“Yes,” said Tajima.
“I have heard of such things,” said Arashi. “In the villages they are not real. In the villages hunger is real, death is real.”
“Rise against Yamada,” said Tajima.
“Challenge, rather, the rising of Tor-tu-Gor, the tides of Thassa.”
“I do not think it wise for you to remain too long in this place,” said he whom I had taken to be the innkeeper.
“Gather up the rice by the door,” said Arashi, gesturing to some of his fellows. “Load the cart. We are soon away.”
Three of his band left the hall.
Arashi then returned his attention to the three prone Ashigaru.
“Ai!” said one of them, kicked.
“There is much rice,” said Arashi. “It is little wonder you paused to celebrate.”
“One grows thirsty, high one,” said the leader of the three foragers.
“How is it you were so successful?” inquired Arashi.
“Men are generous when they are kneeling, head down, and a glaive is at the back of their necks,” said the leader.
“You were unwise to stop here,” said Arashi. “You would have done better to hurry back to the North Road.”
“It is true, high one,” said the leader. “But wisdom may not appear until the moons have risen.”
“You were fools to lie here, docile, like trussed verr, waiting to be butchered,” said Arashi.
“Not really, high one,” said the leader. “The rice might be lost, if we were not to transport it back to the camp.”
“Clever rogues,” said Arashi. “Now we shall see how clever you really are. I offer you a choice. Join my band or die.”
“We are your men,” said the leader of the three foragers.
“Despicable peasants!” cried Yasushi, he who had identified himself as the twenty-third of Lord Yamada’s march constables.
I had no idea how many such constables serviced the march. As there were several thousand men involved, hundreds of warriors and a great many Ashigaru, I supposed it must be several. Aside from the business of scouts, patrols, skirmishers, spies, and such, ancillary to the major movements of men, a march must be ordered, supervised, policed, and supplied. Banners are not likely to fly on the rice carts but without the rice carts the banners may not fly at all.
“Who are these?” inquired Arashi, now giving us his attention.
Haruki and I, bound, had been standing to one side.
“Two wayfarers,” said he whom I had taken to be the innkeeper. “One is clearly foreign, as may be seen from the eyes and skin, and the firelike hair. I take him to be a deserter, a mercenary fled from the holding of Temmu, one forsaking a doomed cause.”
“Then at least one man here is wise,” said Arashi. “Mercenaries have no loyalty, save only to gold or rice.”
“The other is clearly Pani, and of our sort.”
“I imposed upon him,” I said, “that he serve me as intermediary and guide.”
Arashi turned to his men, and gestured to the bound warriors, and to Haruki and myself. “Search them,” he said, “and rifle their packs, if such there be.”
“You should be soon gone,” said he whom I had taken to be the innkeeper.
“Here!” called one of the intruders, tearing the string of coins, not many coins, to be sure, from the neck of Haruki. My wallet contained a better trove, but it contained no more than what it bore when I had been drugged long ago in the holding of Temmu. Similarly disappointing, I am sure, were the meager gleanings extracted from the two warriors. Yasushi, in his search for missing foragers, had carried but two coins, an
d of bronze, folded in his sash, and Tajima, in his venture to obtain a slave, had carried but one, of copper. Their swords and knives, however, given their exquisite smithing, were of considerable value. On that score Arashi and his men had no cause for disappointment. Tajima’s Nezumi, too, of course, had some value, but, given the condition of her hair, and as she had not been bid upon, it was not clear what it might be.
“These two,” asked Arashi, indicating Haruki and myself, “are not with the young warrior, and the slave?”
“No,” said he whom I had taken to be the innkeeper. “They dined secretly, and separately, concealed behind the dragon screen. I think they fear detection. One is a fugitive, and the other, it seems, is an abettor of his flight.”
“But unwillingly so,” I said.
“He is of the peasantry,” said Arashi. “We may put the choice to him.”
I realized then, to my unease, that the choice, or such, was not to be put to everyone. I tested the ropes. I was well tied.
“Do not turn to me, high one,” said Haruki. “I am a humble gardener. You have no flowers to tend and I would consume rice. Too, I have no skill in cutting throats.”
“Please, be off,” urged he whom I had taken to be the innkeeper.
“The rice is loaded,” said one of the intruders, entering.
“So hurry,” said he whom I had taken to be the innkeeper.
“I would have more here than rice,” said Arashi.
“There is no more,” said he whom I had taken to be the innkeeper.
“There are girls in the shed,” said a fellow. “Six.”
“I need them,” said he whom I had taken to be the innkeeper, “to serve, to maintain the facade of authenticity.”
“Put them on a rope and tie them to the back of the rice cart,” said Arashi.
“No!” said he whom I had taken to be the innkeeper.
“We will find someone to sell them, in a Yamada camp,” said Arashi.
“What am I to do for inn girls?”
“Hungry peasants will bring in other daughters,” said Arashi. “But buy only the most beautiful, for we may wish to sell them later.”
It might be mentioned that it is not only hungry, desperate peasants, driven to extremities, who sell their daughters. Others may do so, as well. The matter is cultural. It is not unusual, for example, for proud, wayward daughters to be marketed. The life of such a girl changes. It is difficult to be proud and wayward when one is owned. And, of course, there is always money, or goods, to be made from the sale of a daughter. That is a temptation. Also, it might be mentioned, some daughters request their sale, if only to escape the drudgery and limitations of the villages.