The noon sun stood high in the sky. Satō picked up her bundle — thanking quietly the servant girl from Kirishima for salvaging so much of their belongings — and headed towards the fence of poison ivy.
“Wait, please,” said Torishi. He entered the bamboo hut and emerged with a burning log from the fireplace.
What is he doing?
The bear-man chanted in his strange language and started walking around the building, singing and setting fire to the dry straw walls. The hut quickly burst into flames, like a giant funeral pyre.
He cast the burning log into the stream and stood for a while in front of the blazing house with his head hung low; a giant black silhouette against the yellow flames. In his light brown tunic, woven of bark cloth and richly decorated with black patterns, and embroidered red and blue headscarf, he looked truly regal, as the great chieftain of a proud race should. Finally, he turned around. His face was grave, but calm.
“Thus perished the last village of the Kumaso,” he said. “Let us leave this forsaken place.”
CHAPTER 4
“We will now vote for the second time on Hotta-dono’s proposal from the previous meeting. And if this time we have a stalemate, then, according to the law, we will refer to His Excellency’s decision. Are we all in agreement?”
Chief Councillor Abe waited until all the other councillors grunted their confirmation.
“In that case, please raise your hands if you believe we should initiate our secret negotiations with the Barbarians.”
He raised his hand, as did Naosuke; this was expected. The two Matsudairas voted in the same split way as before. Young Kuze looked at them with contempt. It seemed there would be a stalemate again, after all. This suited him; the Taikun was bound to disagree with the motion.
But then the old Councillor Tadamasa also raised his hand, slowly, with a visible effort.
“Makino-dono,” the elder of the Matsudairas asked with a frown, “are you sure you understood the question?”
“I may be old, but I’m not senile,” replied Tadamasa angrily.
“May I ask what changed your mind?” asked Kuze, struggling to keep calm. His right hand twitched close and open.
“No, you may not,” the old Councillor said and lowered his eyes, seemingly fascinated with the dark lining separating the tatami mats on the floor.
There was a long silence. At last, Chief Councillor Abe coughed and spoke.
“Then I declare the vote to have passed. We will send the message to… no... I will go meet the foreigners myself. Hotta-dono will accompany me.”
Kuze Hirochika rose in indignation.
“Then there is nothing for me to do here. While you talk like weaklings, I shall prepare the defences of the capital. Let’s see whose way will prevail, a clerk’s - or a warrior’s.”
He turned to Naosuke and seethed through his teeth.
“It’s your fault, Hotta-dono. I don’t know how, but I know you did this. It’s another one of your tricks. But you’ll regret this, mark my words. Your days as the Councillor are numbered.”
“Titles are meaningless. I exist only to serve the Taikun,” said Naosuke and bowed.
The interior of the Inner Palace was austere, contemplative, compared to the lavishness of the Outer and Middle courts. Those ones were designed to awe and overwhelm the Taikun’s guests with gold flakes, priceless paintings, ancient scrolls and vases, and rich gardens. The Inner Palace was where the Taikun and his family relaxed. The walls were plain black and white lattice of bamboo and paper, with all the effort put into harmony and balance rather than decoration. Beyond the Taikun’s private rooms lay the great Ōku hall, the many-corridored harem where his wives and concubines spent days painting, playing instruments and engaging in ceaseless intrigues and power struggles. And surrounding all this was the Taikun’s private garden, with moon viewing verandas, tea houses and delicate pavilions overlooking decorative ponds teeming with koi carps and small brown turtles.
It was on one of the garden verandas that the great Taikun, Tokugawa Ieyoshi, lay on his side, admiring the plum trees growing around a small, circular pond. They bloomed for the second time this year and were an unusual colour of pure scarlet, their petals floating like drops of blood on the surface of the pool. Ieyoshi was not superstitious, but even he wondered if it wasn’t some kind of an omen.
The Taikun was an old man; tired of life. His efforts at reforms had failed, his treasury empty, his borders undefended; he was all too aware of the shortcomings and dangers facing his nation. He glanced with worry at his only son, Iesada, who sat beside him, observing the flowers with a blank look. A weak-minded and weak-bodied boy, he was not an heir fit for the challenges of ruling a country in these difficult times. Ieyoshi could have only hoped he would live long enough to guide the Yamato nave across the seas of trouble before an untimely death.
The squeaking of the nightingale floor in the Corridor of Bells announced the arrival of the boy messenger at the veranda. The Taikun slowly turned his aching body towards him.
“What news of the Council, boy?”
“The Council has voted to open secret negotiations with the Western Barbarians, kakka.”
The Taikun suddenly jumped to his feet with agility defying his age and health.
“What!?” he roared. A flock of startled sparrows flew from the peony bush. “How did that happen? Abe was supposed to make sure there would be no talks!”
“Word in the palace is, Makino-dono was convinced by Councillor Hotta to support the motion. Abe-dono was simply outvoted.”
“And who proposed the motion in the first place?”
“Councillor Hotta, kakka.”
The Taikun closed his hands in fists and gnashed his teeth.
“He will pay for the insolence. His usefulness has at last expired. I will force the little pale devil to resign. Come, Iesada, you should learn from this.”
Reluctantly, the Taikun’s heir picked himself up from the veranda floor and followed his father down the Corridor of Bells to the Room of Scrolls, where the old Taikun liked to prepare his edicts and despatches before officially dictating them to his secretary.
“Make me some ink, son, my arm is weary. Now, let’s see... we shall do it the old fashioned way. To Hotta Naosuke, the esteemed Councillor, etc., from Tokugawa Ieyoshi, Great Commodore of Yamato, etc. The secretary will fill up all the required titles. Please accept this gift as an expression of our gratitude for your services. We trust this ancient cha ceremony set, said to belong to Sen Sōsa himself, the first headmaster of the Omotesenke School, will be to your liking. We know how fond you are of the Ceremony, and we hope in the near future you will find sufficient time to fully appreciate its beauty.”
“That’s it? We’re sending him a tea pot?” Iesada blinked, his face showing utter lack of understanding.
“Have none of my teachings reached through that thick skull of yours?” Ieyoshi said and sighed. “Read between the lines, boy! You need time to practice Way of Cha, time you can’t spare if you are busy running the government. That’s the way we deal with things at the court. Subtle and refined. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father...”
“Do you? Sometimes I wonder. Come with me to the Middle Palace, we shall make this letter known. And you,” he said to the boy messenger who waited patiently in the door. “Get me Abe. I need to remind him the Council is just an advisory body.”
Dōraku examined the surroundings of the shrine, discovering the tracks by the burned-out remains of a gate leading into the forest. It was the middle of the night, the forest was pitch black, but his eyes could easily spot the signs of a battle which had taken place around the torii gate: the earth torn and the trees shattered by magic, the discarded weapons; the charred remains of an oxcart and a few links of a shattered iron chain. But the bodies had been taken away for funeral, and the rain washed off the footsteps; even he could not tell them apart.
Everyone in town spoke of nothing else but the fire a
nd devastation of a large part of the shrine and the death of many priests and samurai in the conflagration. Those who spoke the loudest were blaming it on some careless kitchen maid or a rogue lightning strike. After greasing a few palms here and making a scary face there, Dōraku soon learned a different story: that of a flying monster, coming down the mountain and destroying everything in its path.
Two days had passed since he had come to his senses on the rocky slope of the Takachiho Mountain. The day before, he had to kill a deer; but an animal’s blood was not enough to sustain him after the exhausting regeneration.
Cursed thirst. If only I had more time to rest…
There was an odd set of tracks leading east, up the slope; it seemed as if some bulky giant had run through the forest, followed by more hurried steps in the same direction. He traced all these tracks down to a line of tall, grey rocks. Here the first set seemed to disappear into thin air, while the other group scoured the ground searching for clues, much like Dōraku himself was now doing. They then departed north along the rock face.
“They aren’t here anymore.” A young voice surprised him. He turned around to see a girl dressed in the simple clothes of a shrine servant.
“And how do you know who I’m looking for?” he asked and frowned. He didn’t like being surprised.
How can she see me?
“I helped them escape. They went up there,” she said, pointing to the east, over the rocks, “but I can’t tell you how they got away. It’s a secret.”
She covered her lips with her hand and giggled.
“Who are you? How did you find me?”
“I’m just a servant girl, samurai-dono. But I can see… things.”
“Have you seen the battle?”
“No, samurai-dono. I can’t stand the sight of blood.”
He stepped closer and saw the girl was blind.
She senses my thirst.
“Are you going to help them?” she asked.
“I’ll try,” he replied and turned north.
“What are you doing, samurai-dono? That’s not where they went!”
“Now that I know they survived, I can see where those people have gone too,” he said.
“But they may be in danger.”
“And are they in danger now, girl?”
“N…no,” she admitted. “For the moment they are in safe hands.”
Dōraku looked at the servant girl carefully.
“That’s a remarkable gift you have, child.”
“The priests think it comes from a demon.”
“The priests are all dead,” he said, “and believe me, I would know if it was a demon. Here,” he added, throwing her a large silver coin, “this should pay off whatever debt is keeping you here. Move to some other shrine, where they will recognize your talent.”
“Thank you, samurai-dono.”
The old, bald Nanseian, Shō, threw a thick piece of firewood into the air and chopped at it with the edge of his hand. Two cleanly sliced parts fell to the ground. He grunted, satisfied.
“Show off,” mumbled Azumi.
She was crouching against a cedar tree, clutching a large straw basket in her arms.
“Why can’t you just use an axe, like everyone else?”
“I need to stay fit. You could do with some exercise too.”
She shrugged.
“I don’t care.”
“You may want to watch your tongue, woman.”
She stared at him in cold fury.
“And who’s going to tell him? You can’t even find three lost kids!”
“You were there too,” he barked.
“I’m not a tracker. And I was wounded.”
“They used magic. I can’t deal with magic.”
“Neither can I. Makes you wonder why he chose us to pursue them.”
“The Master is after the dorako. His magic is needed there. We’ll be fine, they can’t have just disappeared. It’s only a matter of time.”
She kept staring at him. He ran his hand over his bald head. He was always uneasy near her.
Is it because I’m an shinobi… or because I’m a woman?
“What did he promise you, Nanseian?” she asked. “What would you do with the Reward?”
“My father is the king of Nansei,” he replied proudly. “A rightful king. Yet he has to pay tribute to Satsuma. I would change that.”
He punched a nearby tree, to show what he would do with themasters of Satsuma. The blow left a satisfying, fist-size crater in the trunk.
As if in answer, the bushes parted and a tired, grey-clad swordsman appeared on the glade before Shō.
“What is it?” the Nanseian asked.
“We found this in the forest, Shō-sama.” The rōnin handed him a tattered, bloodied piece of white cloth. Shō studied it for a moment.
“The priestess,” he said, picking up a red hair. “You haven’t found the body, then?”
“No, just this. The rest of the group followed the tracks into the woods; they sent me here to report.”
“Very well.” Shō nodded. “Get up, Azumi. We have a hunt on our hands.”
The assassin rose and started tying the straw basket to a sash on her back.
What was that?
She turned around swiftly, but there was only the forest.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I thought I saw something, over there in the trees.”
“Must have been a deer.”
“A climbing deer?”
“A monkey, then. Hurry up, woman.”
There are no monkeys in these forests, Nanseian.
It was already dark by the time Azumi and Shō reached the camp the grey-clads had set up around the waterfall cave.
“We found them running through the woods,” one of the swordsmen said, casting two frightened men onto their knees before Shō. The Nanseian squinted to see their faces better in the light of the torch.
Poachers.
“They have an interesting story to tell.”
One of the men told the tale of their meeting with two armed, spell-casting youths.
“Only two?” the Nanseian asked.
“Yes, Shō-sama.”
Shō nodded at the rōnin. One of the poachers understood the gesture and raised his hands in despair. His pleas for mercy were cut abruptly by a quick sword cut. His companion jumped up and tried to run away. As he was passing Azumi, she raised her hand in silence. The sickle blade pierced the poacher’s neck; the man fell to the ground, clutching the wound and gurgling.
“Have you found anything else in the cave?” Shō asked, turning away from the dying poacher crawling in the grass.
“Only traces of campfire and this,” one of the men presented a handful of jade comma-shaped jewels and a piece of string. The Nanseian furrowed his brow in thought.
“Magic”, he said and spat. “Who’s the best tracker here?” he asked.
“That is me,” said the swordsman who spoke first.
“Take a torch and try to figure out what went on here. As soon as the day breaks we follow the trail further. They can’t have gone far; they’re tired and injured. Somebody finish that man off!” he added, annoyed.
The tracker returned shortly before dawn.
“There were two of them coming in — and one carried — but three left. They either got help or somebody captured them. Big feet, lots of hair,” he added, presenting a bundle of long, black hair he had gathered from the branches around the cave.
“Black hair? You recognize any of this?” the Nanseian asked Azumi.
How can you not recognize it?
“It’s a bear,” she said.
“Right. A big man in bear skin should be easy to find. Wake up you lazy oafs!” he shouted and started kicking those who would not get up quickly enough, “the trail is fresh.”
In half an hour the camp was packed and the group made ready to follow the tracker up the mountainside, deeper into the forest. They walked for a quarter of a ri when
the tracker stood up and sniffed.
“Smoke.”
He wrinkled his nose.
“Strange smoke. That’s no campfire. Stay here; I’ll see what’s going on.”
Minutes passed, and the tracker failed to reappear. Shō scratched the top of his bald head.
“You,” he said to another of the grey-clad swordsmen. They all looked the same to him.
“Check what’s up with him. But be careful.”
As soon as the swordsman disappeared in the bushes, Shō selected three others.
“Shadow him. Run back if there’s any danger. Don’t get heroic.”
He didn’t have to wait long before an abruptly cut shout echoed through the forest.
“Shō-sama! It’s a tra-”
The Nanseian clapped his hands and motioned others to follow him. There were six warriors still left, and a few hired hunters, armed with bows; Azumi followed behind. They all hurried in the direction of the shout and ran through an opening in the wall of poison ivy out onto a wide, sunny glade. Remains of a small house built of straw and twigs were still smouldering near a calm stream. A tall man, clad in a purple hooded cloak, stood in the middle of the glade, with his back, towards Shō. He held twin swords in his hands; the blades dripped with blood. Her heart skipped a beat.
“No… no, no, no,” said Azumi, stepping back.
“What’s wrong?” asked Shō, but he couldn’t wait for an answer. The man in the hooded cloak turned around to face them. His eyes were golden, and his face pale like old paper: just like Azumi remembered. The six grey-clad swordsmen surrounded him in a narrow circle.
The Nanseian took a long, cautious look at the two bloodied swords and ordered his men to step further back. The hunters drew their bows and targeted the man, but Shō told them to put down the weapons.
“Arrows can’t hurt him.”
He stepped closer, though sweat covered his bald head.
“What is your quarrel with us, Fanged?”
Fanged?
“I will have no quarrel if you turn around now and go back to your master, Nanseian,” the Swordsman spoke.
“That I cannot do. Step aside and let us continue the hunt.”
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 75