“But itsa see-cret!” his son protested.
Isao grinned and said, “Then tell me quietly!”
Daisuke fell silent as he pondered this course of action. “Al’ight. Dun tell people, kay?”
“Of course not,” Isao promised solemnly, and listened intently as his son put his little mouth next to Isao’s ear.
“Sharp-Ichi’s back ‘gain!”
Isao raised an eyebrow. “Sharp-Ichi?” Who the heck is Sharp-Ichi?
“Yeah, Sharp-Ichi! Papa’s sneaky-sneaky frien!”
“Ah, you mean Master Ichiro?” Isao said with a smile.
Daisuke didn’t respond for a few moments, before saying, “Nnnnnooo. I means Sharp-Ichi!”
Isao bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Why do you call him Sharp-Ichi?”
The response was immediate. “Silly Papa!” Daisuke giggled. “Cause he’s not Soft-Ichi, ovvy-ovvy-ovvi-ossily!”
“Obviously.” Isao corrected absentmindedly, his mind dwelling on his son’s words. Because he’s not Soft-Ichi? Could it be that he… nah. That’d be ridiculous. He’s only four, after all.
“Where is Sharp-Ichi, then?” He asked after a moment.
“In my room!” Daisuke announced proudly. “He help me ‘scape as long as p’omise to get Papa!”
Now that made sense. Daisuke was bound to attempt to escape his naptime—it had been a stunt he had performed every day for the past few weeks, ever since he turned four and graduated into what he considered ‘big boyhood’. At least this way, the chances of him getting into some sort of mess decreased drastically.
Not to mention the fact that Ichiro tended to buckle when faced with Daisuke’s endearing, hopeful gaze.
Carefully and quietly Isao sneaked his way through the halls until he reached his son’s room. He slid open the shoji, stepped inside, and closed it after him before finally setting his son on the ground.
Immediately, Ichiro slipped out of the shadows in the corner of the room. “My lord Isao.”
“Ah, Ichiro. Welcome back to Ginshi.”
Ichiro knelt and bowed his head. “It is good to be back at last.”
At that moment, Daisuke decided the adults had talked their boring stuff enough, and charged forward squealing “Sharp-Ichi!”
Ichiro arrested the little prince with a gentle hand on his head, ruffling the hair slightly. “Yes, yes, young Lord Daisuke.” Then he glanced up at Isao. “Sharp-Ichi?”
Isao shrugged elegantly. He was very good at them (shrugs, that is). “Because you’re not ‘Soft-Ichi, apparently.”
Ichiro blinked. “Ah. I see.” With that he glanced down at the small boy he held ‘captive’ and smiled. “How clever you are, young lord Daisuke.”
Young Lord Daisuke grinned happily (not really paying attention) and made a move to tug down the mask Ichiro wore over the bottom half of his face. Ichiro ducked back, but now kept a wary eye on his little visitor.
“Do you have the message from young Shogun Tatsuya for me?” Isao asked, watching the battle waging between the Shinobi and the Prince.
Ichiro lifted his eyebrows at Isao’s way of referring to Shogun Miyamoto Tatsuya of Karigane. He was only five years older than Karigane’s young shogun.
“Of course,” Ichiro said, reaching into his gi. “I have it with me right now.”
Isao smiled his thanks and took the scroll, then bowed.
The pr ince rolled open the scroll and frowned at it.
My dear Prince Hamasaki Isao, Prince Heir of Nagisa, I must admit what you have told me troubles me greatly. As you are well aware, Masaki and Karigane do not get along very well, and knowing Shogun Nishimura Tsuneo, any plan that comes out of an alliance between Masaki and Akiyama would not be a pleasant thing by any means.
However… I cannot take any action without proof. I cannot have my men throw their lives away only for us to realize it was a great mistake.
Be that as it may, I have discrete sources resources and information ready at your disposal if you need any help.
Shogun Miyamoto Tatsuya, Lord of Karigane
Isao looked at the scroll for a moment before smiling faintly. It was not the answer he had hoped for, but it was the best and the wisest. Tatsuya was a true credit to his realm and clan. Still, he sighed, and the burden on his shoulders felt a little heavier.
Ichiro gave his lord a careful look. “My lord Isao?”
Isao blinked twice to dispel his absent-mindedness and slipped a smile on his face. “Ah, yes? What do you think of Lord Tatsuya’s decision?”
“Well, I…” Ichiro began, but Daisuke swiftly butted in, “Tas-ya? Unca Tas-ya? Who ha’ soooo much a-dul’ drink t’at Papa fell ‘sleep at the table? Wif the funny sky eyes?”
Isao twitched slightly at his least-favorite recollection from his birthday celebration a few months before. Drat Tatsuya. The scrawny little eighteen year old shouldn’t have been able to beat him…
He shot a glare at Ichiro, who had emitted what most people would consider an innocuous cough.
But Isao knew. Oh, he knew.
Behind that mask and those bland, bland eyes, Ichiro was laughing half to death inside.
Isao was the Shogun’s heir, and he couldn’t even get respect from his own vassals. Disgraceful, disrespectful blighters.
“Yes, Uncle Tatsuya, with the funny sky eyes.” Isao confirmed, deciding to skip over the whole ‘drinking Isao under the table’ bit.
“So what are your thoughts, Ichiro?”
Ichiro tilted his head forward, considering. “Shogun Tatsuya is in a difficult situation, my lord; no matter how much he may want to help us, he cannot justify it without proof, not if he wishes to be a Shogun worthy of his people. The fact remains we do not have proof that Masaki and Akiyama are considering anything beyond an alliance of some sort, and we do not have much proof for that either besides rumor. It would be foolish indeed for him to declare war over rumor and conjecture.”
Isao sighed. It was true, of course, but it still rankled.
“And besides, my lord, Shogun Tatsuya has promised aid in our information gathering, and you know as well as I he will jump to aid us if it does come to war. He is being very generous.”
The prince scratched his chin. It was true—there was little love lost between Shogun Tatsuya of Karigane and Shogun Tsuneo of Masaki. There was evidence suggesting that the Masaki’s Shogun may have supported the attempted coup that brought about the death of Tatsuya’s father. Isao sighed again but smiled, “Well, it’s better than could reasonably be hoped for—Tatsuya is a good friend.”
“Papa, Papa?” Daisuke tugged on his father’s hakama, pausing in his play with the carved wooden horse Shichiro had given him for his birthday. “Papa, wats you talkin ‘bout Unca Tas-ya?”
Isao pursed his lips thoughtfully as he decided what to convey to his son. Daisuke was only four after all, but he was the Shogun’s firstborn grandson and there was no reason at all to keep him totally in the dark. Isao had no plans to deprive his son of his childhood, but there was no problem in quietly educating him now and then. Mind made up, he plopped to the floor in front of his son and pulled Daisuke into his lap.
“Weeeellll, Shogun Dumb Old Man—you remember where Shogun Dumb Old Man is from?”
“Ye-es! Sho’un Dumb Ol’ Man in Maski!” Daisuke said, waving his wooden horse around. Isao beamed in pride and ruffled his son’s hair.
“Exactly! Shogun Dumb Old Man in Masaki! Well, he’s being all sneaky—not the kind of sneaky Sharp-Ichi and I are, the mean kind of sneaky, you know—and he’s gonna try to beat us up.”
Daisuke stuck out his tongue. “Stu-pid Sho’un Dumb Old Man! Don’t he knows that Papa’s the bestest best?”
Isao shook his head gravely. “No, he doesn’t know I am the bestest best, that is why his name is Shogun Dumb Old Man.”
Ichiro delicately raised an eyebrow, but Isao ignored him.
Daisuke nodded back, and his father continued. “So I sent a letter to Uncle Tatsuya, a
nd he was all like ‘let’s go and beat up Shogun Dumb Old Man! We can do it!’.”
“Yeah, go bea’ up Sho’un Dumb Old Man!” The little prince cheered. Isao held up a finger though.
“Nooooo. It would not be smart. We don’t have any proof. So I told Uncle Tatsuya, ‘no, no, we must be patient’.” He explained solemnly, ignoring the heavy gaze of his subordinate.
Daisuke tilted his head to the side, thought about this, and nodded. “Yeah, Papa’s smart. Not like Unca Tas-ya. Papa is bestest best affer all!”
“So Papa came up with a brilliant plan,” Isao said, cheered by his son’s affirmation. “Can you guess what it is, Dai-chan?”
Daisuke bit his lip thoughtfully.
Isao leaned close and whispered, “I’ll give you a little hint, my son. What is Papa the best at?”
His son’s face lit up and he leaned his head close, whispering, “Being sneaky-sneaky!”
“Exactly!” Isao praised. “We are going to be sneaky-sneaky, so much sneakier than Shogun Dumb Old Man’s mean sort of sneaking. And so Papa got Uncle Shichiro’s help in being sneaky, and we’ll figure out what Shogun Dumb Old Man’s plan is.”
Daisuke’s face brightened and yelled, “YAY UNCA RONIN!”
His father the prince laughed. “Yes, Daisuke, yay for Uncle Ronin. And once we find out what Shogun Dumb Old Man’s plan is, we’re gonna go and beat him up. You know why?”
His son threw his arms in the air. “Cause Papa and Unca Ronin are the most bestest best ever!”
“Exactly!” Isao said, sweeping his son in a hug against his chest. “How smart you are! You’ll be an amazing Shogun one day!”
“Of course he will, he’s your son, after all,” a new voice said, and Isao’s face broke out into a grin as he spun to face the speaker.
“Aika! I thought you were taking a nap?”
Aika smiled and shuffled into the room, a hand rested on her slightly distended belly. “I woke up, honored husband. I’m not going to sleep all the day away just yet. However, it seems as if someone who should be napping isn’t.”
Daisuke squirmed. “But Mama I hates naps!”
“So do we all,” Isao said, ruffling his sons hair, “But you won’t ever grow up to be a big strong shogun if you don’t take naps, so listen to Mama, all right?”
Daisuke pouted, but gave his Papa a hug before sliding reluctantly out of his lap and making his way to Aika, grabbing ahold of her kimono. “Bye, Papa. Bye, Sharp-Ichi.”
‘Sharp-Ichi’ bowed deeply. “Farewell, young lord. May you have pleasant dreams.”
Daisuke rubbed an eye and nodded. “Uh-huh.”
His mother laughed gently and took his hand before bowing to the adult denizens of the room. “I thank you for watching him, Master Ichiro. I hope he didn’t disturb you or your subordinate too much, my husband.”
Isao grinned and shook his head, swinging easily to his feet and striding to her side. “You know I always have time for either of you, beloved.” He reached out and took her hand, threading his fingers through her soft ones. He did love her hands so, he thought with a happy smile.
She smiled up at him, her brown eyes sparkling.
“And I suppose it got you away from paperwork?”
Isao gave her an offended look, “Now, now, wife, is that any way to speak to your honored husband?”
“It is if my honored husband wants to actually have some time off for the festival this week and not be buried in paperwork,” she said.
Isao winced. She shook her head, smiled, and gave a squeeze of his hand before letting go and bowing.
“Until later then, honored husband. I have to put our son to bed.” And then she led a lightly protesting Daisuke away, and Isao watched her go with a fond smile. He turned to Ichiro and said, “Of course you have your own loyalties, but as far as I’m considered, my Aika is the best woman in all the world.”
“She is quite exceptional.” Ichiro acknowledged, but said no more, and Isao smirked knowingly before getting down to business.
“Anyway, now that we’ve discussed Tatsuya’s plans, what news do you have of my wandering little brother?”
Ichiro pulled out a map and spread it on the ground. “My informants have tracked him traveling in Masaki, visiting inns along the great North-South road, heading north to Akiyama. Last missive, he had just crossed the border and veered south west, along the border.”
“Interesting,” Isao murmured, “I wonder what exactly he’s looking for.”
*****
The wind blew across the mountains, and Shichiro lifted his head and took a deep breath. He could smell oncoming rain, and the mustiness of forest growth, but the air had the crisp taste of the mountains. He was on the border of Akiyama already. He’d follow the border, checking out the border outposts, and work his way down towards Nagisa. Normally he’d stop by Manami’s temple (it was the closest) but she had told him she’d be visiting the Shogun for the next month or two.
He pitied her. Sure, she’d be living in the lap of luxury at Konohamiya, but the price was the constant company of Princess Yasu and her two harpy-like daughters, Shigeko and Kimiko. Manami held out hopes that Shigeko would have calmed down some now that she was wed, but Shichiro didn’t hold out much hope.
Sometimes, he almost preferred his cursed, wandering existence to his old life. Here, at least, he was not hounded by anyone, nor ridiculed by Yasu and her children.
Here, he was just a wandering ronin.
He tilted his head thoughtfully, imaging a map. In three week’s travel, he would be close to that strange pagoda, and the pretty little princess that dwelt therein.
Shichiro hesitated, thinking. He knew, surely, that his presence was most likely a burden (only Isao could ever enjoy being with someone cursed like him), but… It would be nice to have a friendly roof over his head, and pleasant company (devoid of slippery, spying ninjas).
Perhaps, just this once, he could be selfish.
The ronin took in a deep breath of air, tilted his odd straw hat down over his eyes, and set off down the road.
*****
Hanako smiled at her handiwork. She had been toiling away at it for some time now, ever since the Ronin Shichiro-san had visited. And now, it was almost done.
Ronin-san had related to her how difficult climbing Hanako’s pagoda had been, so Hanako had immediately set about figuring out a way to make it easier for her friend, should he ever come again (and she smiled quietly at the thought that she had a friend, someone besides Mother to practice her hospitality on!). It would still be a bit yet before her work would be done, but she was close.
She had requested to have most of her thread dyed black, ostensibly to embroider a kimono (claiming to be inspired by winter branches and birds’ silhouettes), but only some went towards the embroidery project.
The rest Hanako had carefully spun into long masses of thread, which she had gathered together and braided rope, about the width of her thumb.
It was a perfect plan—Hanako had always disliked the feel of others touching or tugging or dressing her hair, so she had long ago secured from Mother a promise that only Hanako herself was allowed to dress her hair, except for the most important occasions (it was an odd stipulation, that Hanako had wondered at… she had never left her pagoda, so why would there be special occasions to exempt? Hanako did not know, but she wondered what the future might hold).
Using this promise, Hanako had proceeded to hide the small braid of tightly bound thread in her hair, doubling it back and forth to disguise the length, and because her hair and the black dye were the exact same shade, her handmaidens were never the wiser.
This way, Hanako thought, pleased at her own cleverness, the braid-rope will be hidden whenever my handmaidens come up to clean my chambers.
She carefully began her ritual of weaving and pinning the braid into her hairstyle, and she smiled happily as she pinned the last fold into place.
She hoped her gift would make her new friend happy—p
erhaps if Ronin-san was happy, he would come again, and smile in that nice, true way that felt like the sun coming from behind a cloud. She hoped he would—she had never seen a smile quite like his before.
For a moment, she pondered the difference between his smile—his summer-sunshine and deep, grounded roots smile—and the blank, frozen expressions of the handmaidens, and Mother’s perfect, painted, scarlet smile. Hanako compared them, and wondered why they were so different. Perhaps… Perhaps Ronin-san’s smile…
But no, she could not think such things about Mother! It was disgraceful for a daughter to even consider such thoughts! So quickly, Hanako packed this thought away and went about making tea.
The thought was forgotten, for the moment, but it was not gone.
*****
The ronin trudged his way through the forest. It had been close to three months since he had last set foot on this mountain, but he liked to think those three months were well spent. There was definitely… something… brewing between Akiyama and Masaki. What that something might be…. Shichiro had very few clues.
He had stopped at the border town that Prince Akihiro passed through on his way to Chiyono, and he had gathered as much information as possible (in the right situation, Shichiro mused, sake was truly a wondrous thing).
The guards at that place had reinforced the vague rumors of alliance that Shichiro had heard, which was worrying enough. Yet it was what he had discovered while touring the border posts that truly worried him.
As far as he could tell, the Princess of Akiyama was gathering men.
Akiyama could not be considered to have much of a militaristic presence, if it all. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to believe that the mustering was Princess Fujioka’s way of increasing the stability and safety of her country.
Shichiro refused to believe it was that simple.
He was a warrior, a samurai even if masterless and without a clan, and the way of the sword was his way of life. He had long ago learned to listen to, and to an extent trust, his instincts.
And right now, his heart did not say it is but a wise precaution.
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