Long moments later, a faint voice came from within, thick with sleep. “Yes, yes, yes. I’m coming.”
Every moment that Ken’ishi listened to the fumbling within was excruciating.
Norikage finally slid open the door, his eyes red and his thinning hair tousled. “Is someone dead?”
“Worse,” Ken’ishi gasped. “My sword is gone, stolen.”
Norikage’s bleary eyes widened. “Are you certain?”
“We must call out the village, find out if anyone saw anything!”
“Wait a moment. Come inside and let us talk.”
Ken’ishi balked. Every moment wasted was a moment that the thief used to take Silver Crane farther away.
“Come inside, Ken’ishi.”
Ken’ishi sighed and acquiesced, and Norikage scanned the street for a moment to be sure there were no onlookers when he shut the door. They stopped in the entry.
“We cannot tell the villagers that we’re looking for your sword.”
Ken’ishi stiffened and squared to face him. “What?”
“Calm yourself a moment and listen to me. You are samurai-born. A ronin by circumstance to be sure, but still samurai. Your sword is the symbol of your power here as constable, your authority. What happens when that symbol is gone, and we are left without the means to enforce our will? We have no other warrior weapons save a rusty spear or two left over from wars fifty years gone. Do you want to enforce your orders with a pitchfork?”
Ken’ishi thought about this for a moment. He had, at times, felt the tenuousness of his grip on authority here, just an outsider with a sword. He had become friends with a few villagers, but most of them simply tolerated his presence as someone willing and able to keep order. Most of them were good, kind people. But not all. And some of them truly resented his presence. A few might decide to cause trouble.
“You see my point,” Norikage said. “We can launch an all-out search, or we can make a few inquiries. The latter seems more prudent. And accusing any of the villagers, without being sure, will only breed more ill will. Already some do not approve of our treatment of Chiba.”
“For now.” Ken’ishi wanted to pick up every house and shake it until Silver Crane fell out.
“Who might have stolen it?”
“There are possibilities.”
“Do you remember the spy dressed as a monk, the one you killed three years ago?”
“Yes. He called himself Yellow Tiger, writing a letter when we found him. That man was working for someone.”
“Perhaps there is a new such someone about. Are there any strangers in the village?”
“There is one.”
My old barn
having burned to the ground,
I can now see the moon.
— Masahide
“He’s in his room,” Naoko said, wringing a washcloth.
“Where?” Ken’ishi clenched his fists.
The hard seriousness in his eyes turned her face as gray as the bun of her hair. “The second room from the end, but—”
“Is he still in there?”
“I suppose so, but—” She raised her hands in supplication. “Please don’t break anything! Every time you fight in here I have to replace the burned tatami or buy new crockery or mop up the blood.”
Norikage bowed. “We only want to speak with him.”
“You said that last time!”
“Where is Kiosé?” The last thing Ken’ishi wanted was to put her in danger.
Naoko shuffled after them as they went toward the room. “It’s very early. Perhaps she is still sleeping.”
Norikage raised a hand to his lips and touched her shoulder. “Please stay here. There’s no need for you to be in danger. He could be a very bad man. Ken’ishi and I might have to arrest him.”
She swallowed hard and nodded, bowing. “I’ll be in the kitchen.” She hurried away.
Ken’ishi lowered his voice. “Do you have a dagger?”
“No. How many times must I tell you I am not a warrior?”
“But sometimes you are a crafty fellow.”
“I have not had my tea yet. The day is too young for craftiness.”
Ken’ishi felt as if he were walking naked into a storm of blades. His fingers hurt from clenching. His bow and handful of arrows were back in his house, untouched by the thief. It would be too unwieldy a weapon in these close quarters anyway.
Gray light spilled over Ken’ishi and Norikage from the small window at the end of the hall. He reached the Raggedy Man’s door. “Open up, sir.”
A high, tremulous voice called back, “Who’s there?”
“The village constable, sir. You must answer a few questions.”
“Oh, the village constable, is it?” Shuffling, shifting bedclothes, feet sliding on tatami, filtering through the rice-paper door. “What do you want?”
“Some questions, sir. Open the door.”
The door slid open, and Ken’ishi looked up into the hook-nosed face of the Raggedy Man. The Raggedy Man gazed down at him over a red, axe-head nose. Long nostrils flared, and small dark eyes sparkled. He stood naked except for a loincloth, his spindly body like a doll made of pale sticks. “Oh, it’s you,” the Raggedy Man said.
Norikage began, “We are sorry to disturb—”
Ken’ishi stepped forward. “Where were you last night?”
The Raggedy Man’s eyes narrowed. “Here of course. What is this about?”
“You’re a stranger here, and last night … there was some bad business.”
“‘Bad business.’” The Raggedy Man scoffed. “You’re little more than a stranger here yourself, and you must accuse me?”
“How do you know that?”
“I am an old hand at judging men, boy. I can assure you I was within these walls from sundown until this moment.”
“You should keep a civil tongue, sir. We can arrest you.”
“You don’t frighten me. You look rather weaponless for a constable.”
Ken’ishi grimaced and looked away. “Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts last night?”
“Madame Naoko.”
“You weren’t with Naoko all night.”
A female voice sounded from the shadows in the room. “But I was.”
The Raggedy Man stepped sidewise.
Kiosé knelt beside the futon, wrapped in a blanket.
A stab went deep into Ken’ishi’s heart. His mouth would not work.
Norikage cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Kiosé, you were with him all night?”
“Yes.”
Ken’ishi blurted, “But you don’t do this anymore!”
Kiosé’s hair curtained her eyes as she looked at the floor, flinching at the harshness of his tone.
The Raggedy Man stepped forward and stretched his long neck. “Listen to me, constables. I didn’t pay her a thing. She came to me. Never begrudge a person’s chance to assuage loneliness. If you suspect me of something, tell me now, and I’ll deny it. I won’t have my reputation tarnished by ridiculous accusations.”
Ken’ishi tensed, fists balled. “Entertainers are not known for their honor.”
“Neither are ronin.”
Norikage interposed himself between them. “Pardon us, sir. Kiosé, perhaps he could have slipped out while you slept?”
She said, “No, Norikage-sama. We … did not sleep much at all.”
The dagger in Ken’ishi’s heart went deeper.
Norikage turned to the Raggedy Man. “How long are you going to be in the village?”
The Raggedy Man cleared his throat. “I intend to move on today. There are more villages down the road. Maybe in the next one, the constable won’t be inventing trouble for an innocent entertainer walking life’s path.” He cast a contemptuous gaze on Ken’ishi.
Norikage bowed. “Very sorry to have troubled you, sir.” He took Ken’ishi by the arm and led him down the hallway.
* * *
Ken’ishi stomped outside. “We should arrest
him!”
Norikage drew back at his vehemence. “For what? Kiosé is no liar. How could he have taken it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you stay up late yourself?”
“No.”
“Did you examine your house? Perhaps the thief left something behind.”
“Nothing was out of place. Only the sword is missing.”
Down the street, a figure shuffled toward the docks. Rough hands scratched through unkempt hair. Chiba hawked and spat. Bruises darkened his swollen face. He took notice of them and stopped.
In an instant, Ken’ishi remembered the strange smirk Chiba had given him yesterday. He lunged down the street.
Chiba’s eyes bulged, mouth falling open. He dropped his food pouch and water gourd and ran.
Ken’ishi’s fleet stride caught Chiba before he had gone ten paces. The ronin threw himself onto Chiba’s back and bore him to the ground. A bawling cry of pain burst out of the fisherman as Ken’ishi’s weight pasted him into the dirt. Ken’ishi slammed his fist into Chiba’s ear, making him yelp and curse. A familiar boning knife appeared in Chiba’s fist. Ken’ishi grabbed Chiba’s wrist and smashed it over his knee. Something popped, and the knife fell to the earth. Ken’ishi snatched up the knife in one hand, grabbed a handful of greasy hair in the other, dug his other knee into Chiba’s back, and held the cold blade to his throat.
Chiba’s struggles stopped. He wept and gasped for breath.
Ken’ishi growled. “Where is it?” He yanked back hard on Chiba’s hair and dug his knee deeper between his shoulder blades.
Chiba cried out in pain. “Filthy ronin! Kill me … and have done! If you don’t … I’ll kill you!”
“Where is it?”
“What are … you … talking about?”
“This is your only chance! If we find it in your house, we’ll make sure the governor’s executioner tortures you well before they hang you!”
“I don’t know … what the hell … you’re talking about!” A trickle of blood ran down Chiba’s throat.
“You know something! I saw it in your face yesterday. You’re too much of a fool to play clever.”
Chiba’s elder brother, Ryuba, ran toward them, carrying a boat hook. “Hey! Leave him alone!”
Ken’ishi shouted, “Stop! Or your brother dies!”
Ryuba skidded to a halt a few paces away.
Norikage caught up, coming forward, hands raised, “Ryuba, put down the boat hook, or we must arrest you, too.”
Ryuba spat, “Arrest me, too? Why are you arresting him? Again!”
Ken’ishi said, “Put down the boat hook, or I’ll take off his head with his own knife.”
Ryuba slowly lay down the boat hook.
“Back away!”
Ryuba backed away.
Ken’ishi said, “He has something of mine, or knows who does.”
Ryuba’s face was tight. “You’re saying he stole something? What was it? My brother is an idiot and a drunkard, but he’s not a thief!”
Norikage said, “Were all of you home last night?”
“The three of us were in the inn until very late, drinking. We wanted to try out the latest batch of saké. Naoko and Kiosé saw us there! Maybe you’ll believe them!” Ryuba spat on the ground. “This idiot was the drunkest of all. We had to carry him home. He couldn’t have stolen a kiss from a whore last night.”
“Damn it!” Ken’ishi threw Chiba’s face into the dirt as he stood, knife quivering in his hand. Chiba choked and gasped between his feet.
Ryuba’s eyes blazed with hatred. “He’s done nothing wrong. At least, not today. Let us go, or we’ll miss the tide.”
Ken’ishi threw the boning knife down the street. “We’re going to check your tale with Naoko.”
“As you wish, constable.” Ryuba sneered the last word, with a hint of threat.
Ken’ishi stormed back up the street toward his house.
“Where are you going?” Norikage called after him.
As the wheel follows the hoof
Of the ox that pulls the cart,
My sorrow follows your footsteps,
As you leave me in the dawn.
— The Love Poems of Marichiko
“Perhaps I was not as thorough as I should have been,” Ken’ishi said, sliding open his front door.
Inside, he scrutinized the windows, the rear door, even the chimney, anywhere a thief might have entered. Nothing was out of place. He stood near his futon, which was still on the floor, forgotten in his earlier panic.
“The thief must have passed within two paces of me!”
Frustration coarsened his throat. Why had the kami not warned him?
Memory of his four-day enchanted sleep in the woods added to the sinking feeling in his gut, exacerbated by the memory of other things he had lost.
Perhaps the kami had warned him, and he had just been too weary, too stricken, too foolish to listen.
Too distracted by the past and the future.
Norikage’s sharp attention scanned the room as he stepped up onto the tatami. He stopped near Ken’ishi’s buckwheat-husk pillow. “You should dust more often.”
“Kiosé … cleaned my house the day before I left.”
“The rest of the place is spotless.”
“She is an excellent housekeeper.”
“Even when it is not her own.” Norikage knelt and rubbed three fingers across the tatami, examining a film of fine dust near Ken’ishi’s pillow. He sniffed it, then jerked back.
“What is it?”
Norikage gestured to the all but imperceptible layer of dust, now with three faint finger-tracks through it.
Ken’ishi drew his finger across the dust and sniffed. A strange, sharp, flowery smell. The same that had been in his nostrils when he awoke. “Dust smells like dust. This does not smell like dust.”
“Perhaps a kind of sleeping powder. Whoever would use such a thing knew exactly what he came for, and where to find it. And now he has spirited away with your sword.”
Ken’ishi groaned and fell back on his haunches.
“Why would such a person want your sword, your father’s sword? The world is full of swords. Your family is from the far north. Who on Kyushu would want this sword?”
“I don’t know.”
“More importantly, where would the thief take it? Dazaifu? Hakata? Across the straits to Honshu?”
Ken’ishi had no words to fill his mouth, to break the silence, to fill the cavern of his mind. Since the day Kaa had presented him with Silver Crane, it had represented everything he was. Son to a murdered father. Heir to a family name he did not know. Warrior set adrift by fate. Without Silver Crane, who was he?
He felt Norikage’s gaze upon him for a long time, but could not face it.
Finally, Norikage said, “I will make some inquiries around the village. Perhaps someone saw something.”
Ken’ishi did not know how long Norikage was gone before the black miasma in his mind dispersed to allow a thought.
Silver Crane had finally spoken to him, and it happened when Ken’ishi meditated, sought the Void, then reached out to the sword. Perhaps he could seek the Void now and reach out, and Silver Crane would answer. Perhaps distance did not matter. Perhaps it did, and time was short.
He adjusted himself into seiza position, closed his eyes, allowed his mind to empty. Picturing the bracken and detritus of his everyday thoughts, of his pain and fear, pouring out like waste from a privy collection jar, leaving the jar empty yet whole, placing a lid on it so that passing thoughts would not tumble or splatter within.
His efforts took much longer than normal.
Only in the emptiness of that vessel could he find the timeless spaces between instants, forget the past, forget the future. From those spaces, he called to Silver Crane.
Timeless moments of silence.
Then …
Its presence tugged at him like a glistening thread disappearing over the horizon.
So
uthwest.
It was moving southwest. Rocking.
A boat?
No.
A horse.
A man on horseback.
Ken’ishi reached out again.
A single idea, a lone concept, came back to him, sharp and metallic. Destiny.
The shock and power of it knocked him loose from the Void, and he opened his eyes.
Southwest. The thief could be headed for Hakata, Dazaifu, even farther south, depending on the road.
Destiny. Was the sword destined to be stolen from him? Was it his destiny to reclaim it? Was the sword following its own path? Did Silver Crane want him to follow?
No matter. He was going after it. If he could sense its presence now, he could do so again, and follow it.
Moments later, his old traveling pack hung from his shoulders, a bokken thrust into his sash, his bow and arrows across his back. It all suddenly felt so familiar, as if it had not been three years since his feet walked the dirt of the road. The difference was that now he did not look like a brigand, and even carried a bit of real money in his purse. But this time, he had no companion.
And with only a wooden sword, he could hardly call himself samurai.
No more time to waste.
Norikage’s eyes bulged to see Ken’ishi in his traveling pack. “Where are you going?”
“After my sword.”
“You think you can find it?”
“I must. If I cannot, there is no reason for me to be here. I cannot be constable without it, not for long.”
“But, Ken’ishi! Damn you, what am I to do? I cannot break up a drunken brawl or arrest a thief.”
“Pick one of the young men and give him a bokken. If I can return, I will.”
“Perhaps we can commission another sword for you. It will be expensive, but—”
“Without this sword, I am nothing.”
Norikage sighed. “I should come with you. I can hardly manage here without you.”
“No. Aoka village needs you. Choose a strapping deputy to take my place until I return. And brace up, because you must. Farewell.”
* * *
Naoko’s face brimmed with concern as he stuffed the handfuls of rice balls and smoked fish into his pack. She even gave him a handful of sticky rice cakes filled with bean paste for the “days when life is difficult.” In previous days as a man of the road, he had never had the luxury of so much food. He could walk many ri with this much.
Sword of the Ronin (The Ronin Trilogy) Page 9