Death's Kiss

by Josh Reynolds

  Batu slowly shook his head. “No. Or at least, I would have said such, before all this began. She is headstrong, yes. But not cunning – clever, yes, but not cunning. You understand what I mean?”

  Shin nodded. “I do. If she had not intended to go through with the marriage, she would never have agreed to it in the first place. That she did implies that she meant to do what was best for her family, whatever the personal consequences might have been.” He hesitated. “What about Reiji?”

  “What about him?”

  “Shijan also mentioned that Reiji might have stolen some papers from him.”

  “Papers?”

  “Forge records.”

  Batu grunted. “Did he mention anything else while he was being so talkative?”

  “Reiji is missing.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “If Reiji is looking to pay off his debt to Honesty-sama, selling that sort of information might be the way to do it,” Shin said. “And consider this – how hard would it have been to acquire similar records from the Shiko? Especially if he were friends with Gen.”

  Batu shook his head. “I’ve met the boy, Shin. He’s a petulant fool.”

  “I’ve met him as well, however briefly – and I agree. But this is the sort of thing a petulant fool might do. Especially one in debt to someone like the infamous Honesty-sama.”

  Batu grunted. “Is this a theory, or a fact?”

  “That depends on whether you think Shijan and Ikki were telling the truth,” Shin said. “I think I shall need to talk to Ruri again – tomorrow morning, perhaps. And you need to start looking for Reiji.”

  Batu nodded wearily. “Ide Sora will not like this, if she learns of it.”

  “The more quickly he is found, the less likely she is to find out.” Shin rose. “Like good hunters, we can but follow the trails where they lead.” He paused at the door.

  “Though I will say, this one is proving somewhat crooked, to say the least.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bargain

  Aimi moved through the house like a ghost, not quite seeing the rooms around her. She wished she had not burned the poems. They were the only thing she had of Ruri’s. If the worst were to happen – she would have nothing at all.

  Her hands clenched and relaxed. Her father had once said her habit of flexing her hands was akin to muttering to oneself. She did not smile at the thought. Memory of her father did not bring joy – only sorrow.

  She stopped. Her feet had taken her to her father’s study. She paused outside the door. Shijan had taken it, as he had taken everything. She did not begrudge him such privileges, though it would have been easy to do so.

  Her father was gone; someone had to take control. To steer the ship. The thought brought with it another wave of sadness. First her father, then Ruri – it had been too much. She was honest enough with herself to know she was not ready for such challenges. Maybe one day, but not now. Idly, she peered into the room – and stopped.

  “Reiji, what are you doing?” she called out. Her brother was stooped, looking in one of the cabinets that lined the far wall. He shouldn’t have been in here. Shijan would be upset.

  Reiji turned, startled. “Looking for something,” he said, almost too quickly for her to follow. He didn’t bother to gesture. He rarely did. “Not that it is any of your business, sister. Shouldn’t you be moping somewhere, or have you finally come to terms with it?”

  Aimi glowered at him. Reiji had taken a nasty delight in her suffering. He always had, even as a child. As the youngest, he was free to do so, and she had endured it as an older sibling must. But not today. It is not my fault Gen is dead, she signed. He was a fool.

  “Gen was not a fool – save when it came to you,” Reiji said. He went through the cabinets one by one. She wondered what he was looking for.

  She stepped into the room and stood over him. What is that supposed to mean? Her gestures were sharp – combative.

  Reiji rounded on her, and she took a step back. “You led him on, and then, when he’d had enough, you had your pet lion kill him.”

  Aimi shook her head, appalled by his words. Reiji had always lived in his own world – he saw things how he wished, not how they were. Their father had coddled him; he’d been so young when their mother died, barely more than an infant. Her father had not had the heart to discipline him, not in any way that mattered. And Shijan was even worse.

  I made my feelings clear in no uncertain terms, she signed, feeling the old anger build. As the youngest, Reiji should have been the one to marry for political reasons, but she had shouldered that responsibility willingly, though not happily.

  Reiji snorted. “Say what you like, sister, but I know the truth.” He dropped to his knees and lifted a tatami mat. He gave the floorboard a knock. She heard nothing, but he seemed pleased by whatever sound it made. “Ha! I knew it.”

  She tapped at his shoulder, trying to get him to look at her. When he didn’t, she said, “Knew what, brother – what are you doing?”

  “Getting what I am owed.” He started prying at a floorboard. It came free more quickly that Aimi would have expected. Reiji reached in and removed a pouch that clinked.

  You’re stealing from Shijan, Aimi signed, her gesture one of disbelief.

  Reiji stood, bouncing the pouch on his palm. “No. He stole from me. These are my winnings from my last run at the dice. He confiscated them. Said it was the price I paid for embarrassing him.” He beamed at his sister. “He thinks that I do not know about his hiding spots. For a caretaker, he is not very good at taking care.”

  Aimi frowned at him. Her hands moved slowly. Are you mad, or just a fool?

  “I told you, I am not stealing! This was mine.”

  Reiji froze even as the words left his mouth. Aimi turned, realizing someone was behind them. Shijan stood in the doorway, studying them with what she thought might be amusement. “Take it,” he said, gesturing for her benefit. “I suggest you use it to pay off a few of your remaining debts.” He entered the room, and his cousins stepped aside. Shijan’s man waited in the corridor, head bowed.

  Aimi covertly observed him. She could not recall when he had come into Shijan’s service. She could not recall much about any of the servants, something Ruri used to chide her for. Shijan looked down at the hole in his floor, and then at Reiji. “Were you going to replace the board, or…?”

  Reiji sneered. “You do it. It’s your floor.”

  Shijan nodded. “So it is.”

  “Until Aimi comes of age, at least. Then it will be hers. Or mine.”

  “Even so. Until then, I am in charge. Which is your bad luck.”

  Reiji frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Shijan fixed him with a stare. “The Ide have suggested, quite charitably, that a new marriage be arranged. For you. A wife from another province, with familial ties to both the Ide and the Shiko. A suitable match, I am told.”

  “I… I have no wish to marry a Shiko…” Reiji began.

  “I am beyond caring about your wishes, Reiji. You will do this thing. But first, you will pay your damned debts. And you will stay out of sight – Batu is looking for you.”

  Reiji blinked. “What – why?”

  “Because he is Batu, and because the Crane has whispered into his ear. It does not matter. You will stay out of sight until the negotiations are finalized. Do you understand me?”

  “You… You cannot do this,” Reiji blustered. “I do not consent – why don’t you do it?”

  “Because I am the caretaker, boy,” Shijan said, with a mirthless grin. “If you are heir, you must be the one to marry.” He paused. “It will do you good, I think. She is supposedly quite plain – but sensible. We could use some common sense in this family.”

  Reiji turned and fled. That was the only word for it. Aimi watched him go, not without some sympathy �
� though, admittedly, very little. She knew what it was to be offered up as a political token. The difference between them was, she had been willing to play the part, and Reiji was – well, a twit.

  He might flee the city, you know, she signed.

  “You didn’t,” Shijan said, dropping the floorboard back into place.

  Reiji is not as brave as I am.

  “True. You have always had more courage than sense.” Shijan rolled the mat back and stood. He turned, fingers curling and twitching. “I admire that about you, cousin.”

  I rather thought the opposite, she signed.

  Shijan bowed his head, but did not stop signing. “I must go out. There are things that must be done before tomorrow. The negotiations will be settled then. I would be obliged to you if you would attend. We should show a united front.”

  “United, but without Reiji?” she asked, out loud.

  His hands made the sign for certainty. “Yes. It is better that way, I think.”

  •••

  Tashiro listened to the song of vice, and found it as annoying as ever. The rattle of dice, the murmur of prostitutes – the stale smell of spilled sake and rice wine. The fug of opium and alcoholic fumes dulled his senses and made his eyes water.

  He ducked through a curtain and into the back, away from the noise of the common room. The Jade Hare was busy tonight. It was always busy. Too many in this city sought meaningless pleasure as soon as Lady Sun had set. Then, as far as Honesty-sama was concerned, that was as it should be.

  No one knew where he’d come from, or why he’d chosen Hisatu-Kesu as his home. What was known was that within a fortnight of his arrival, he’d begun a bloody takeover of the city’s criminal rackets. Bodies had filled the gutters to overflowing before he’d finished. Now, every gang worth the name worked for him. And if you didn’t, you soon did, or you came to regret it. Even the Iron Sect trod but lightly on Honesty-sama’s shadow, and then only when absolutely necessary.

  Tashiro fingered the hilt of his katana as he walked down the wooden corridor, accompanied by the creak of nightingale boards. His employer – he would not call such a man master – was cautious by nature. And, like all cautious men, he was calculating as well. He had many abodes in the city, and each was as much a fortress as its nature allowed. He never resided in one for more than a single night at a time.

  Even now, Tashiro knew of only a few of them. Though he was ostensibly Honesty-sama’s man, that did not mean his employer trusted him to any great degree. A wise – if somewhat annoying – decision on his part, given Tashiro’s true loyalty to the Iron Sect.

  The sect had encouraged him to insinuate himself into the cartel, so as to better influence it. So far, however, his influence was limited to the occasional comment – and the altogether too frequent bladework that Honesty-sama required of his favored ronin. Not that he had ever told anyone that; most especially Emiko. It would not do to let the others think there were limits to his usefulness.

  At the end of the corridor stood a heavyset man, bare arms crossed over a barrel chest. Tattoos adorned every inch of visible flesh. Tashiro bore similar tattoos, though reluctantly and not on his arms. Honesty-sama believed in branding his property.

  The big man looked him over perfunctorily and knocked lightly on the door. A muffled invitation came from within, and he slid the door open for Tashiro. Inside, the office was much like every other office Honesty-sama maintained throughout the city. It was stripped bare of ornamentation and color, with only a few candles for light. There were no windows, and only the one door. He entered – and stopped. Honesty-sama had a guest.

  This, in itself, was not unusual. Many sought him out, for Honesty-sama was known to dole out favors and forgive­ness – for the right price. But mostly, the pilgrims were heimin; only rarely did the noble-born darken Honesty-sama’s doorway.

  As the door slid shut behind him, Honesty-sama gestured for Tashiro to approach. He was a big man, round but not soft. He looked like a laborer, but for the fine cut of his kimono. His skin was free of ink, and his scalp was shorn of hair. His face was craggy, worn into flat planes by time spent out of doors and in rough country.

  He sat on a plain mat, a bowl of soup and rice by his knee. A cup of tea sat opposite. His guests were allowed no refreshments, not until business was concluded. He smiled as Tashiro knelt a respectful distance to the side and slightly behind him, placing his swords aside. “As courteous as ever, Tashiro,” the crime boss murmured.

  As always, Tashiro was struck by how surprisingly soft and warm the other man’s voice was. Whatever he had been, Honesty-sama had a courtier’s voice. Smooth and gentle, even when saying the most terrible of things.

  “Do continue, my friend,” Honesty-sama said, motioning to his guest. “You may speak freely in front of Tashiro. He is my good right hand.”

  “If you insist. But I ask that you send your servants away.” The voice was familiar enough that Tashiro paused. Only for an instant, and unnoticed by either man. He peered at the guest. The bushi – and he was a bushi, by the way he talked and sat – was clad in fine, dark robes and a cloth mask. The mask was reminiscent of those worn by high-ranking members of the Scorpion Clan, but bore no identifying markings. It was simply a veil of dark cloth with holes for eyes.

  Honesty-sama shook his head. “They are both mute and illiterate. They will share nothing of what they see and hear.” He smiled. “I am not a man prone to whimsy, as you well know. If they are here, it is because they have purpose. Just like you.”

  It was a calculated insult, and the masked man bristled visibly. Tashiro hid a smile. He did not know the noble’s name. Only a few in the sect did – he was not a member, after all, but their pawn. What he did know was the bushi ought to have been keeping a low profile as Emiko had warned him to do, not seeking an audience with a crime boss. He wondered what had brought the man here, now.

  “Now then, to business,” Honesty-sama said. “I must say I was surprised by your message. Why did you wish to see me?”

  “I wish to make a deal.”

  “A deal?” Honesty-sama folded his hands over his belly and smiled benignly. “One might say it is hubris to make a deal with a man to whom you owe so much money.”

  “I can make you more koku than I owe,” the bushi said, in acid tones. “The least you could do is hear me out. You owe me that much.”

  “Tashiro.”

  Tashiro stood, snatching up his sword as he did so. He thumbed the blade free of its sheath, ready to draw and slash in a single, smooth motion. The bushi fell back onto his rear, eyes comically wide behind his mask. “Wait – wait!”

  Honesty-sama twitched a finger. Tashiro paused. “Why? You have insulted me. And after we have worked so efficiently together these past months.” Tashiro cut his eyes to the crime boss. He knew that the bushi had been providing information to the cartel at the behest of the sect. Supposedly he was paying off his debts; in reality, there was no chance he would ever get out from under either party. He was too useful for that.

  “Forgive me – I spoke hastily,” the bushi babbled. “I… I am overwrought.”

  “That is no matter to me, little man.” Honesty-sama leaned forward. “But you are right – you have done well by me, and so I am inclined to be forgiving. What do you want?”

  “M- Men.”

  “You have men. You are a bushi. You have plenty of little soldiers to play with.”

  “I need men of a certain… caliber. Men who cannot be traced to me.”

  Honesty-sama smiled. “Ah. You need killers. How many?”

  “As many as you will give me.”

  Tashiro frowned. Why was the fool hiring men? He must be up to something – but what? He wanted to demand answers, but knew better than to voice any interest. Honesty-sama might wonder why he cared, and that could quickly become awkward.

  “Are you up to someth
ing then, my friend? Something interesting?” Honesty-sama stroked his neck, his expression curious. He gestured, and Tashiro let his sword settle back into its sheath. “Something profitable, perhaps? Something to do with the negotiations, maybe?”

  The bushi hesitated. “Perhaps. Time will tell.”

  Tashiro wondered if he ought to kill the fool before he did something to endanger the sect. He could always apologize to Honesty-sama. But no – not yet. He had to be careful.

  “What do you have for me in return?” Honesty-sama asked. “More papers, more records? They will have to be important ones for something like this.”

  “I have them. Here.” The bushi reached into his kimono, and Tashiro tensed. The bushi withdrew a small leather pouch and handed it over. Tashiro gave it to Honesty-sama, who opened it and perused the contents. He grunted.

  “Those are the delivery manifests for the next six weeks. Including shipments from Shiro Iuchi. Any one of those will profit you greatly, especially if you sell them on the other side of the mountains.”

  “Do not tell me my business.” Honesty-sama was silent for a moment. Then, “For what you have offered me, I can supply you two dozen men.” Tashiro’s eyes widened at the number. He was still not certain how many men Honesty-sama could call on, but two dozen cutthroats was a small army.

  “I need men who can hold a blade – not touts and gamblers.”

  “Oh, they’ll be hardened brigands, I assure you. Murderous scum, the lot of them.”

  The bushi hesitated. “Archers, as well.”

  Honesty-sama frowned at this. “Archers? Yes. I have a few men good with a bow. A few ex-ashigaru, some poachers. They know how to put an arrow into a target. Does that satisfy you?”

  “Yes. So long as they can follow orders.”

  “They will follow your orders so long as I tell them they must.” Honesty-sama smiled and gestured expansively. “Are you certain you won’t give me a hint as to what you’re planning? Perhaps I can be of some greater help.”

  The bushi shook his head. “Suffice to say, it will mean great changes for the city. And profit for you, if all goes well.”