Sword of Honour

by David Kirk

  He stepped forward, arms beginning to bring the sword over his head.

  Akiyama’s feet parting as he kicked off to lunge, sword whipping around, aiming upwards, seeking to sever those arms before they could bring the sword over, clever, pre-emptive.

  Duped.

  Musashi’s body checking the strike, jumping backwards instead, both feet leaving the earth, sword still high above.

  Akiyama’s sword slashing across where those arms should have been.

  Musashi twisting his body in the air, seeing the blade of his enemy arcing before him, slicing nothing. Landing, body sideways, immediately putting all his weight on his front foot.

  Akiyama turning his sword, reacting, desperate, bringing it up to put the length of it between them, seeking to skewer Musashi’s onrushing heart.

  Too short.

  One hand only on his sword, long arm stretching out to its utmost extent, Musashi reached over the guard and smashed his sword downwards. All strength, all weight, body tipping forward, everything behind the blow, battering Akiyama’s arms aside as it went.

  The point of Musashi’s sword raking downwards, downwards, deep and cleaving, the proper cry of striking, a great ssssssssa! erupting uncontainable from his lips.

  Akiyama didn’t scream. He gave one low gasped grunt, fell to his knees, and then tried to stand once more but staggered away drunkenly. His sword fell from his hands, and then he pawed feebly at his chest and collapsed onto his back.

  Musashi was perfectly still, longsword held out by his side where the fullness of the blow had taken it. In him, though, the great joy of victory erupted, and everything seemed to hum as though his spirit had been struck like a bell. These were the moments he was made for, that no wooden sword duel could compare to. He tried to keep the grin from his face, knowing that such delight was shameful. But it was there, this marvellous wellbeing, this pride . . .

  One-handed! One-handed! No one could cut a man with a sword in one hand! That was what they said, that was what they had said for centuries, what they were certain of. Another delusion of theirs that he had shattered, another profound victory.

  He wanted to scream and shout and dance, but he contained himself; rotated his sword in his single hand, saw the blood there, made himself look. He took deep breaths, thought of calm and dignity. Slowly he rose out of his combat stance, and with one final inhalation forced the primal triumph from him, leaving him only with a deep, human satisfaction.

  The smoke rose. The wind blew. The world went on. He turned to look at Akiyama where he lay.

  The man was not dead. Slowly Musashi walked over to him, and looked down. So clean was the cut it seemed as if Akiyama was barely wounded, a thin dark line across his chest where the blood was soaking into the brownish material of his clothing from beneath.

  It occurred to Musashi then that perhaps this was why the samurai had taken the old Chinese swords, the heavy, short, double-edged weapons that were used for battering through armour as much as cutting, and refined and refined them over centuries into what the longsword was now – a slender single-edged thing of grace designed purely for splitting and slicing.

  Wounds so clean they were no more than a line drawn across a man, and the billows of a kimono masked this only further. The elegance of mortality, easy to believe that it was painless, that dying for a Lord or a school was nothing. The long calligraphy strokes of a death cult writ upon the bodies of men.

  Strokes that he here upon this hill had written.

  Musashi forced himself to see, because he longed to be a good man, and because he thought a good man would want to understand what he had wrought. With the point of his sword he peeled Akiyama’s torn clothing back, and saw.

  When Akiyama breathed in it went heeeeeeeeeee.

  When Akiyama breathed out it went ngu ngu ngu.

  And when Akiyama started laughing, it gurgled forth from both his mouth and from his wound in a bubbling choke.

  Chapter Nine

  Kyoto

  The cadastre was unfurled, spread across the hard darkwood flooring of Goemon Inoue’s personal chambers, and every morning he, the captain of Kyoto, would stand and look down across his supposed city spread before him in the exact same manner as one who prodded a burn to see if it yet hurt.

  See it then: the ten-thousand-year city, the millennial city rendered in black ink on white paper. Encircled by the peaks of thirty-six mountains, nestled between the river Katsura in the west and the river Kamo in the east, and, from river to river and from north to south, Goemon saw the familiar recreated rigid angles of the great moat that had been built by the Regent Toyotomi that marked the boundary of the city proper, saw the dozens of bridges broaching it, saw the myriad gates that led inward. In the north-east of the city he saw the abode of the Son of Heaven, in the south-west the grounds set aside for the castle of his most noble Lord Tokugawa, and in between these poles like a geometric pattern on butterfly wings he saw the interlocking of all the streets, blocks upon blocks thriving and vital, the estates of distant absent Lords and hovels reliant upon alms all marked and recorded here, dens of sin and peaks of virtue, the markets of great guilds of rice and silk and salt and oil surrounded by backstreets and alleyways and all the deep cunning a city could hold; as long and as broad as the outstretched arms of two men, this cadastre, ruthlessly detailed with minutiae of ownership and conflict and still so lacking.

  Here a hundred thousand homes according to some, and a population in constant flux with travellers and merchants and warriors and Lords and scoundrels all coming and going, and within that number and the number of the residents how many schemes, how many plots? Mouth dry, body slick with sweat, he stood and looked down upon it as he always did, and wished for nothing more than an arrowhead of cavalry simply to plough through it all.

  But there were no horses here.

  Goemon rolled the cadastre up and placed it back in the neat lacquered chest from which it came, and then began to prepare himself to actually walk upon those streets. He chose to wear three underkimonos. Two of them were padded and added the appearance of weight to his midsection, intended to draw the eye away from his shoulders and make him seem solid, implacably balanced. Over these came the outer kimono of dark silk, which hung to his ankles, and over the skirts of this he wore wide stiffly pleated hakama trousers. Both were bound tight around his stomach with a broad belt he tied himself.

  Finally, his jacket. This was of wide billowing sleeves and the hem of it hung to his midthigh. The silk it was made of was dyed a rich, deep black. On either breast, on either arm, and in the centre of his back the crest of his Lord was sewn in white. Three inwardly facing hollyhock leaves, broad and pointed, encircled by a ring. The crest of the Tokugawa.

  It still jarred his eye to see that aberrant symbol upon himself, jarred him in the manner of cold bringing forth white paths of scar.

  He spent a few moments debating whether or not to wear his helmet of office. It was of steel painted black and circular in shape, a disc with a hammered indentation in the centre to accommodate the crown of his head. The crest of the Tokugawa was inlaid at its fore in bronze. Militant and imposing, which was not in itself undesirable, and yet his duties today were civic. He decided it was better to remind the city of his authority rather than his face, and tied the cords of the helmet beneath his chin.

  A longer debate was whether or not to ride in a palanquin. Nobility and men of the highest office rode in palanquins. It would imply him high and worthy and a man to be listened to, and convey the majesty of the clan. But was it majesty that the clan wanted him to convey? Kyoto was the Son of Heaven’s city, and no person or thing within it could compare, or even suggest itself comparable, to that indisputable grace. He fretted, caught, and then went with what was most familiar to him. He left the garrison with a bodyguard of eight men and travelled the streets on foot. Better to show his swords, the two things in this city in which he had unwavering faith, than the reed curtain of a lacquered box.

>   Goemon went first to the Chaya guild of salt, two great warehouses that stood in a walled compound in the south of the city. The men there bowed to him. He reminded them of their duty to pay their taxes punctually and honestly. He went to the Kiyomizu temple on the slopes of Mount Higashi. There it was Goemon who bowed to the high priest in his purple robes, and assured the holy man that his seat on the Son of Heaven’s council was safe and that the ascendant Lord Tokugawa had no intention of interfering with the council itself.

  He followed his list of appointments diligently. His men carried the standard of the Tokugawa in lieu of the palanquin, here the crest black on a white field, an icon that had seldom been seen in Kyoto until this year. Goemon was aware of the way the people stared at it balefully, of how they murmured of the delicate hollyhock flower suddenly thriving in the city as fierce as the stubborn yutzu vine.

  His face, however, he set in perfect sternness.

  He arrived at the school of Yoshioka at least a full hour late, and Goemon was well aware of this as he and his men walked down Imadegawa avenue. He saw a member of the school standing waiting in front of the gates, a bald samurai clad in their curious brown-green silk. The man must have stood there for the entire delay, yet Goemon did not increase his pace. He decided neither could he apologize: he was the clan and the clan held the power.

  The Yoshioka man sank to his knees at Goemon’s approach. ‘Most honourable Captain of the most noble clan Tokugawa,’ he said in the elaborate courtly tongue, ‘it is the humble honour of Tadanari Kozei to welcome the most honourable Sir Inoue to the Yoshioka school of the sword.’

  ‘Rise,’ said Goemon.

  Tadanari obeyed. He bowed and let Goemon enter. In the yard of their compound a cadre of adepts were waiting to bark a salute to the triumphant Lord Tokugawa. They were swordsmen, who merited respect, but their numbers and their power paled to that of the Tokugawa. Acknowledging them fully would imply equality, perhaps, and after a moment’s hesitation Goemon gave only a stiff nod to their assembly.

  The master Kozei showed him around the school, the barracks, the gardens, and lastly the dojo. Goemon took it all in impatiently, having been subjected to a half-dozen similarly circuitous and supercilious tours of buildings he held little interest in already that day.

  ‘Are you not taking me to the head of your school?’ he said, curt as he thought appropriate. ‘Where is Sir Yoshioka? Does he think himself above the most noble Lord Tokugawa?’

  ‘The most honourable Naokata Yoshioka regrettably lies stricken with a grave malady, and is unable to receive the privilege of the most honourable Captain Inoue’s presence. Humbly, Tadanari Kozei serves in the most honourable Sir Yoshioka’s absence.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Goemon, and then thought it would be best here to add a kindness: ‘I will pray for Sir Yoshioka’s health.’

  Tadanari bowed in gratitude. His eyes were black and the lids of his eyes were as still as though they were carved of wax.

  The master led him to a forehall, where they waited for a meal to be brought to them. They knelt opposite each other in the formal position, thighs rested on calves and the pressure of the entire body’s weight wrenching constant at the knees. Neither one of them revealed his discomfort; this had to be endured for the sake of manners. They looked both at and through each other in silence. Goemon would have guessed Tadanari’s age to be fifteen, perhaps even twenty years greater than his own, the bald man appearing to be in the waning years of his fifties. Yet the samurai retained a dignified presence about himself, a hardness in the shoulders, a bearded jaw that brooked no argument.

  The longer he looked at the master of the Yoshioka, the less Goemon wanted to look. He found himself, if not intimidated, then at least keenly feeling the disparity in their ages. The man seemed ensconced here, and not just solely in this room. He gave out a sense of ownership, of possession.

  Goemon’s eyes fell elsewhere. At Tadanari’s belt he saw netsuke beads clasping the thongs of the pouches that hung from his waist, beautiful things carved out of either ivory or some pale wood that held a sculpted edge as fine as bone. He recognized the form of an ogreish being sitting cross-legged with a halo of fire rising from over his shoulders, a lash clutched in one hand and a foreign, double-edged sword clutched in the other.

  ‘Saint Fudo.’ He nodded. ‘You have an affinity for the saint of swordsmen.’

  Tadanari mimicked the nod. ‘It is he who has an affinity for all of us, most honourable Sir Inoue.’

  That was all they spoke, were permitted by etiquette to speak, until the food was brought in. The meal was of yuba, rolled skins of tofu dipped in soy sauce and wasabi. Goemon offered his polite thanks and began to eat, slurping the skins quickly. Halfway through his platter, he became aware Tadanari and his lesser men that had joined them were savouring each mouthful, considering the flavour. The food must be some delicacy of the city, he realized. Yet he could not admit the mistake clad as he was in Tokugawa livery, and so he fought the blush and forced himself to eat at exactly the same speed he had done before.

  When he was done he set his chopsticks down as though he was entirely without guilt, and placed his hands upon his thighs.

  ‘My thanks,’ he said, and he spoke with great care to twist his accent into that of Kyoto. ‘It was most delicious. To business, then.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Tadanari. His own plate remained half full but he gave gestures and servile staff came and began to clear the cutlery and dishes away. ‘It was with great delight that this most humble school received the request of the most honourable Captain Inoue for an audience. If you will permit the audacity, the most humble Tadanari Kozei foresaw the intent of such a meeting.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Goemon. ‘Then it shall not take you long to accumulate a registry of your numbers. I assume each man carries two swords, and that is fine and well, but my most noble Lord would also have of you a tally of all additional swords your school possesses in its armoury. Bows also, polearms, guns if you have them.’

  This was clearly not what Tadanari had anticipated. The bald samurai paused for a moment, finding words, his eyes wandering to the floor but his face remaining still. The request had jarred him enough, in fact, that when he spoke next he had abandoned the courtly tongue.

  ‘Most honourable Captain,’ he said, ‘I would question the need for the Yoshioka school submitting a catalogue of our arms to your most noble Lord. We are the foremost of the martial schools in the capital. During the conquest and ascension of your most noble Lord, members of our school served faithfully as swordmasters under his gracious and just command, and other Lords sworn to his wise rule. Does that not speak of our trustworthiness?’

  ‘As I understand it, many of you served under false Lords of the traitor coalition also.’

  ‘We are faithful, I assure you,’ Tadanari said. ‘Adepts of our style serve many Lords, this is true, but we ourselves harbour no affiliation to their political stance.’

  ‘I was at Sekigahara,’ said Goemon. He had meant it to sound imposing, or as a hint that he himself was a blooded warrior that Tadanari should not take lightly, but it came out even to his own ears as a shallow boast.

  Tadanari bowed in respect regardless. ‘I assure you, Captain, our sole interest is the sword and the beauty of its wielding. We infallibly and willingly serve the rightful government. Indeed, that was what I had assumed your visit here was in regards to.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Tadanari gestured to the adept attendant at the door. He slid it open, and a third man came in bearing a lacquered tube with great reverence. This man placed the tube upon the floor, bowed to it, and then shuffled backwards on his knees out of the room once more. Tadanari then bowed to the tube, unscrewed its lid and very gently brought forth a scroll within.

  He unrolled it with great care and laid it on the tatami mats before Goemon. The writing upon it was very ornate and it was stamped and sealed in gold leaf.

  ‘As you can see,’ sai
d Tadanari, ‘the school of Yoshioka are the incumbent swordmasters to the Shogunate. I had assumed your most noble Lord Tokugawa had sent you this day that we could continue to render faithful service to your master.’

  ‘My most noble Lord has not been awarded the Shogunate yet,’ said Goemon.

  ‘It is, however, imminent,’ said Tadanari.

  Goemon did not deny this. He read the entirety of the proclamation. He read it again, feeling the eyes of the Yoshioka upon him. The proclamation of office was worrying. It concerned an authority the true power of which he did not quite understand, and neither its relation to his Lord. He waited for as long as he could, until he squeezed out an attempt at command.

  ‘As I see it, this appoints your school swordmasters to the Ashikaga Shogunate,’ he said. ‘They have not held power for half a century. This has no relevance.’

  ‘If you would examine it closer, no mention of the fallen Ashikaga is made,’ said Tadanari. ‘Thus we are sworn to the Shogunate itself, regardless of which bloodline holds that mantle, and will be honoured and humbled to fulfil our duty to the most noble clan of the Tokugawa.’

  Goemon said nothing.

  ‘This is a proclamation ordained by the Son of Heaven himself,’ said Tadanari.

  It was. In desperation, Goemon chose the safety of acting affronted.

  ‘It is true,’ he said, ‘that my most noble Lord is indeed seeking to appoint a swordmaster and is considering which school he shall adopt as patron. If attaining this appointment holds the interest of your spirit, it might be prudent for you to send the head of your school to Edo to demonstrate the virtues of your style. I believe the masters of the Yagyu and the Itto are attendant already, others on their way.’

  ‘Honourable Captain,’ said Tadanari, ‘this . . . If I may be so forthright, the school of Yoshioka should not be made to parade itself in some lowly audition. The position is ours by right. We have immutable precedent.’