The girl said nothing but he could smell her fear and her grief, not for herself but for her brother who they both knew must be dead.
The house smelled of fermenting bean paste. Normally it would have made him feel hungry but now it nauseated him.
“Killed by the guards outside the wall,” the older brother said when he returned. “Better than being captured.” He had changed from his town clothes into a dull-colored jacket and leggings like that of a farmer, but he carried his bow and a quiver of arrows. “I am going into the country for a while.”
“Is Father safe?”
“He was discovered and arrested.”
The two Muto men looked at each other in disbelief.
“How…?” said one.
“It is not possible,” murmured the other, his voice petulant. Jiro could see how slow and inflexible they had become. They thought they were invulnerable; they thought they could outwit everyone, but now Otori had appeared like a fox in a flock of ducks, and soon they would all be headless.
“You are not safe here,” the older Muto master said. “It seems he has been informed about every house and its secrets.”
“Someone has betrayed us,” said the girl. “Someone from the Tribe.” Her face was contorted with fury. “Wasn’t he close to your family, the Muto, in the Middle Country?”
“Save the accusations for later,” the older brother said. “I will deal with Otori.” He embraced Jiro, an action so unusual Jiro feared it meant they would never meet again.
“He has offered to spare anyone under the age of sixteen,” the younger Muto master said, his eyes on his own son.
“I would sooner kill them myself.” The older brother spoke as if he were already the head of the Kikuta family, but he would die three days later and the following day his father would be hanged.
The older Muto master took poison, the younger fled with his son to the east.
“Your brother took a shot at him but Otori heard the bowstring,” the girl said to Jiro. “His horse, who is as cunning as he is, heard it too. I could have told your brother that. Not that he would have listened to a girl. Now he’s dead—he took poison.”
Better than being captured.
“I suppose that means you are the last of your family,” she said. “I wonder if I am the last of mine.”
I am the Kikuta Master, he thought. It brought him not the slightest shred of consolation.
They had moved from house to house, from wells to lofts, escaping the slaughter that took place in their wake. Even their ruthless upbringing could not inure them to the shock of witnessing the extermination of their kin. He saw in her his own blank eyes, dulled wits, and numbed limbs. On their last night she crawled into his arms. At dawn he traced the Kuroda tattoos of the five poisonous creatures that covered her back; snake, scorpion, centipede, lizard, toad. She took her hands in his and pressed her lips to the line across his palms that marked him as Kikuta.
“We’ll be married,” he said dreamily. “We’ll start again, a new family of our own, maybe in one of the other islands, free of the Tribe.”
“No one is ever free of the Tribe,” she replied.
Even as she spoke they heard Otori’s guards breaking down the doors.
That was the moment when they should have bitten into the poison capsules, but neither of them did. Jiro waited to see if the girl would, and then he would follow, but she didn’t. Perhaps she was waiting to see if he would. Then it was too late. Their bodies wanted to live and be joined again. Desire betrayed them into hope.
So they were brought into Otori’s presence alive and forced to their knees, their mouths held open with sticks and cords. He, The Dog, extracted the poison with gentle, Kikuta marked hands.
He had never been inside the castle before. There were fleeting glimpses of luxury in the cypress wood floors, the woven wall hangings, a smell of sandalwood, but the room they were taken into was unadorned, white walled, like a training hall. He knew instinctively that was what it was, and that Lord Otori, his Kikuta relative, trained here. And that The Dog could take on invisibility and not be perceived by any of them. And that he heard now the same soundscape that Jiro did, the tread of guards on the walls, street cries from the town, horses neighing in the water meadows, the surge of the tide against the rocks in the bay, just as he had heard the chock of the bowstring drawn by Jiro’s older brother.
Jiro had expected him to be older, more brutal, more like a demon; this man was not much older than his brother, and there was a resemblance. You could see he was from the same family, perhaps a distant cousin. But he had an unexpected lightness to him, a dazzling, multi-faceted quality, very different from the dour single-mindedness that was demanded of the Tribe.
There were two other men, the senior retainer Sugita Haruki whom he knew by sight, and another man who looked like a monk, though he was dressed like a warrior. But it was Otori himself who loosened the cords that bound their wrists. He studied them both, saying nothing.
“So you are the last two,” he said finally, with no air of pleasure or triumph, but something more akin to sorrow. “I will give you the choice I gave your relatives. You will renounce the Tribe and serve me, or you can die by poison or the sword.”
He gestured towards a small table where the wax tablets had been placed in a celadon bowl. Next to the bowl lay a short sword with an unadorned handle and a blade so sharp it was almost transparent.
When neither of them replied he went on. “You are both young. You will find working for me has many benefits and rewards. Your talents, which I know are considerable, will be respected and put to use.”
“Against the Tribe?” the girl said, her voice tiny and defiant.
“If I am to rule the Three Countries, and I intend to, I have to break the Tribe.” He said it calmly, without vindictiveness, and smiled at them.
How did we misjudge him so? Jiro thought. Why did we take him for a weakling? The gentle demeanor, he saw, masked a complete ruthlessness. This would be a man worth serving. It would not be a betrayal: he was, after all, Kikuta. If he commands me, I must obey.
He felt desire to live flood through him. Never had the flow of his breath, the surge of his blood, seemed so precious. He looked up and into Otori’s eyes, holding his gaze for a moment, before wrenching his own away, fearing the sleep the Kikuta could deliver. Certainly The Dog would possess that skill as he possessed all the others.
“They call you Jiro, don’t they?” The Dog leaned towards him.
“Lord Otori,” Sugita said in warning, taking a step forward.
The Dog gestured him to stay back.
“I already have a young man called Jiro in my service,” he said. “He is about the same age as you, but of course not with the same talents. I need young people like you. Swear allegiance to me. I will give you your own name. “His voice was compelling and calm.
Jiro felt a weight lift from his shoulders as he drew breath to speak. His new life stretched before him. But with a movement of incredible swiftness, taking even Otori by surprise, the girl grasped the knife and stabbed herself in the throat. The blood, shockingly bright, vermilion, sprayed across his face and threw a splashed pattern against the white wall.
Jiro looked again at The Dog, saw the regret and pity in his eyes and felt tears spring into his own for everything that might have been. The girl reached towards him even as her eyes glazed. The sword fell from her hands into his.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and used the blade before regret could unman him.
“Believe me, so am I,” said The Dog, the last words Jiro heard before his sharp hearing finally failed, and his spirit fled after hers into the realm of the dead.
TAKE YOU HOME
David Dalglish
JULIANNE SAT WITH hands folded across her lap, just as her mother had instructed, as their carriage rolled through the streets of Veldaren. The stone road was uneven and crowded, their driver lucky to keep them at a consistent pace for more than a second or two.
The curtains were drawn, preventing her from seeing out, which left Julianne incredibly bored.
“Will we be there soon?” she asked.
“Your asking won’t bring us there any sooner,” her father said, head leaning against the side, cradling by his large hand.
“It won’t be long,” her mother said, casting an annoyed look to her father. She looked tired, dark circles underneath her blue eyes, her long brown hair lacking any luster as it fell past her neck. Julianne sensed the tension, and she prayed it wasn’t her fault. Her parents had bickered about this trip to Veldaren for weeks, with neither seeming like they wanted to go. Veldaren is dangerous, her father had said over and over again. But her mother always countered with language of tradition, trade, contracts, things far beyond nine-year-old Julianne’s understanding. All of it must have meant something, though, for her father had relented, and together they’d traveled south from Felwood to the city of Veldaren.
Illustration by DAVID ALVAREZ & OKSANA DMITRIENKO
Not alone, of course. They’d had their house guards, plus some servants, most of whom followed in the carriage behind them. The only strange addition was the man who sat beside Julianne to her right. He was a quiet man, having entered their carriage just before they drove through the gates of the city. She’d flushed upon first seeing him, for he was very handsome, his blonde hair cut to the neck, his blue eyes sparkling whenever he smiled, which was never enough for Julianne’s taste. Whenever she could she peered at him, and she swore he was always watching from the corner of his eyes. Sometimes he ignored her. Sometimes he’d wink at her and smile.
The man was so charming it made it easy to ignore the long blades belted to his waist, to forget that she didn’t know his name. Whatever the reason he’d joined them, Julianne had a feeling those swords were involved.
“Get out of the way!” she heard the driver shout, and the carriage lurched to a stop for the thousandth time that day.
Her father sat up, pulling back on the curtain so he could look out.
“Gods damn it,” he muttered.
“Want me to take a look?” asked the blond stranger.
“It’s probably for the best,” her father answered.
The stranger pushed open the door and stepped out. The sounds of the city rushed in, louder than ever. She heard shouting, arguing, an intermixed bustle of motion and footsteps. The daylight was almost blinding, and she squinted and turned away. Wishing she could go with him, Julianne thumped her head against her door and lifted the curtain slightly. She was so short, she could only see the upper portions of the square wooden homes built on either side of the road.
Her mouth opened to ask again how long until arriving at their temporary home in the city when a shadow covered the door. She spotted a hooded man wearing a green cloak for the briefest of moments before the door ripped open. Instinctively, Julianne let out a cry and tried to scoot back, but hands were on her, a bag pulled over head. Her parents screamed, and she joined them as rough hands pulled her out of the carriage. Throat burning, she fought as coarse strings at the bottom of the bag tightened, choking out her cry. She gasped for air as her feet bumped along the stone, her tiny body easily carried. As the world turned brown, and then black, she heard the distant sound of swords clashing, coupled with the screams of men dying, dying just as she was now.
WHEN JULIANNE CAME to, the bag was no longer over her head. Her eyes slowly opened and she fought waves of nausea in an attempt to gain her bearings. She was in an empty building, dark, dusty, and with a tall ceiling. Her last few moments of consciousness flickered through her, reawakening her fear. Letting out a gasp, she pushed her eyes fully open to take in her surroundings. Her gasp made hardly a sound, for a gag was tightly wound about her head and shoved into her mouth. She sat in a chair, hands tied behind her with a large piece of rope. All around her were men with dark clothes and long green cloaks. At their waists, tucked into belts and loose hanging sheaths, were daggers and swords.
“The girl’s awake,” said one of the four men, glancing over. He had a hood pulled over his head, much like the others. His face was badly scarred, and when he smiled at her, it was the ugliest thing she’d ever seen. Immediately she tried to stand and flee, without thought or reason. The binds held her down, and all she accomplished was rocking her chair from side to side.
Casually, as if it were nothing at all, that same man walked over and backhanded her across the face. Tears ran down as she cried into the gag, and she felt her right cheek starting to swell.
“No need to rough her up, Jack,” said another of the men.
“Nothing says I can’t, either,” Jack shot back, and he winked at Julianne. “The rules of the job say she has to be alive when he gets here. I don’t remember hearing she had to be dolled up and pretty, though….”
The way he was looking at her, smiling, filled Julianne’s stomach with bile. As Jack took another step toward her the door to the warehouse burst open, and a fifth cloaked man rushed inside. His hood was down, his short red hair wet with sweat. He looked young to Julianne, easily younger than all the others.
“What the fuck, Lee?” asked the oldest of the five, a man with wrinkled skin and gray hair who leaned against the wall beside the door.
“The Watcher!” Lee shouted, turning about and kicking the door shut. “The Watcher’s on our tail.”
Jack took a step back, a hand dropping down to the sword at his side.
“How do you know?” he asked. “He drop in all nicely to tell you?”
“Fuck you,” Lee said, wiping a hand across his forehead. “I found Kirby’s body three streets over, and the Watcher’s Eye was carved into his stomach.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” said the older man. “The Watcher’s killed plenty of Serpents in his day. What makes you think he’s looking for us?”
“If you’d let me finish I’d tell you,” Lee said. “There was a message written with Kirby’s blood in the dirt beside him. ‘Where’s the girl?’ it said. We’re fucked, all of us, we’re gods-damn fucked!”
Julianne’s eyes were wide as they bounced from one man to the other, trying to make sense of the situation. Who was the Watcher? And why would these five be so scared of him?
“Let me get this straight,” the older man said, as he drew his sword and stepped closer to Lee. “You found Kirby killed by the Watcher, recently killed I might add, and then you ran straight here?”
Lee’s face, already pale to begin with, paled even more.
“Not…straight here,” he said. “I ducked through a few alleys first. I’m not stupid, Stan.”
The others drew their own weapons, and there was no hiding the frustration on the older man’s face.
“Ducked a few alleys?” he asked. “You wet-nosed moron. Did you hang out a sign at the door asking the Watcher to come in for a mug of ale, too? Shit. We’re leaving, now.”
Jack gestured toward the door.
“What about our payment?” he asked. “If we’re not here when—”
“We’ll set up another meeting,” Stan said. “Something we can’t do if we’re fucking dead. Have I made myself clear?”
“Perfectly clear,” said a voice belonging to none of them. The men in the green cloaks froze, and in that sudden calm the intruder descended from the rafters. He was a swirling chaos of gray cloak and boots and flashing swords. He landed in their center, and though she never saw the hit, Jack fell backward, clutching at his neck as it gushed blood.
Then Julianne knew. The way the others hesitated to act. The way Lee let out a horrified scream as a large urine stain darkened his trousers. The way the intruder smiled beneath his dark hood, as if merely amused by the weapons they raised against him.
This had to be the Watcher.
Stan had the courage to lead the attack, and all but Lee joined in. The Watcher spun in place, cloaks whipping about the air. Julianne could not follow his movements, and it seemed neither could her kidnappers. The men were beaten back
, one losing his hand, another screaming as a wound on his chest seemed to open on its own. Stan continued on, stubbornly refusing to be overwhelmed by the display, and then suddenly the Watcher lunged into him. Their bodies crashed together, rolling. When they came to a stop, it was the Watcher who stood, shoulders hunched, cloaks falling forward to hide his body.
His smile was gone.
“Get back here,” he said, his voice a whisper that somehow Julianne heard with ease. She wondered a moment who he spoke to, then saw Lee flinging the door open to the warehouse. A slender dagger flew end over end through the air, stopping in Lee’s neck. The young man let out a cry, then dropped to his stomach.
With that, it seemed the fight was over. The Watcher walked from body to body, checking for signs of life. Only Jack made noise, weeping as he clutched his bleeding neck. He lay not far from Julianne’s bound feet, and the sounds he made, the way his whole body seemed to shiver, filled her with an overwhelming desire to vomit. Only the gag kept her from doing so.
Without saying a word, the Watcher leaned over Jack, curled a blade around his throat, and then cut. Jack’s convulsions grew, but only for a moment. Then his eyes rolled back and he lay still, leaving Julianne’s stifled weeping as the only sound in the warehouse. The Watcher sheathed his blades then turned to her, and she let out a muffled cry. His face…it was covered in shadow but for his mouth and lower jaw. The grim smile there, so cold, so determined, convinced her this man was not her salvation, but merely another kidnapper. Eyes widening, she kicked and struggled, desperate to free herself from the bonds as the man stepped toward her.
To her surprise, her display halted his approach.
“Calm yourself, Julianne,” he whispered. “I’m here to free you.”
That whisper…why whisper, when everyone was dead? She stopped struggling, though, for there was no use. Sniffling, she stared at the Watcher, wishing the gag was gone so she could plead with him. The man knelt down so that he was at her height, and then he touched his hood with his hand. It never moved, but somehow the shadows receded, revealing a handsome face, square jaw, blond hair, and pretty blue eyes. Julianne felt hope kindle for the first time in her breast. The man…the man from the carriage?
Brigands (Blackguards) Page 10