Sword of the Ronin (The Ronin Trilogy)

by Travis Heermann

  He bowed low to her. “Naoko, you have always been very kind to me.”

  “Aren’t you coming back?”

  “I do not know where my path will lead. Perhaps to hell, and I must follow it even there.”

  Naoko bowed in return, tears brimming. “Farewell, Ken’ishi-sama. I hope you find what you seek.”

  “Farewell.”

  Naoko said, “Kiosé is out back, washing.”

  Ken’ishi stiffened. He bowed to her again, and went outside, wiping his nose.

  He found Kiosé and Little Frog together. She was hanging linens from a drying rack. The boy was naked, stomping laundry in a tub of wash water. Kiosé was encouraging him to greater effort. “Good work! Wonderful helper! One-two! One-two! One-two!” He stomped harder and harder, grunting, grinning wider and wider, splashing water in every direction.

  Kiosé spotted Ken’ishi’s approach, and her body tensed. “Good day, sir.”

  He stopped in front of her. She bowed to him.

  Little Frog ceased his stomping and hooked a finger in his mouth, watching Ken’ishi intently.

  Ken’ishi said, “I’m leaving. Something has been stolen from me. I must get it back.”

  Her eyes remained downcast.

  “Do you truly not remember me?” he said. “Kiosé?”

  Her gaze flicked up for only an instant. “I’m sorry, sir. My memory must be terrible …”

  “I want to come back, but …”

  “Good fortune in your search, sir.”

  “Perhaps when I come back, you will …”

  She waited for him to finish, but his words simply trailed away like the trickle of retreating tide, ungraspable.

  He stepped forward, took her chin in his hand, gently lifted her face to meet his gaze, cupped her warm cheek. “I hope you awaken from your dream.”

  Kiosé’s eyes glistened with something, but it was not recognition.

  Ken’ishi stepped back. “Good bye, Little Frog. Be a good boy.” Then he turned and strode away as fast as he could without running.

  Little Frog called after him, “Bye!”

  PART 2: THE FOURTH SCROLL

  When the tide receded again, the Chinaman’s lumbering bulk broke the blackness to bring another bowl of gruel.

  The night is too long to the sleepless.

  The road is too long to the footsore.

  Life is too long to a woman

  Made foolish by passion.

  Why did I find a crooked guide

  On the twisted paths of love?

  — The Love Poems of Marichiko

  Yasutoki folded his hands in front of him to keep from wringing them in excitement. “Your visit is … unexpected. It is dangerous for us to meet.” His belly was doing somersaults like a court acrobat while Kage sat across the table from him. The cramped, shadowy room lay far removed from the Roasted Acorn Saké House’s common room, from which sounds of revelry carried. The dark walls were stained with the smoke of a hundred years of lamps, and dim evening sunlight shone pink through the slats of the narrow window.

  Yasutoki had not heard from his long-time associate, this mysterious shadow warrior, for some months. Who could say where such men kept themselves? This time, Kage had announced his coming in his occasional guise as a saké merchant, but the unexpected visit could only bode something momentous.

  Kage’s voice was as bland and nondescript as his face. “Does one so well-entrenched in Otomo no Tsunetomo’s court have anything to fear from meeting a simple visiting saké brewer?” He gestured to indicate himself. “I always enjoy visiting Hoshiya, such a busy castle town.” He sipped from his cup.

  Yasutoki frowned, feeling his patience stretched thin by Kage’s smug lack of urgency. “The owner of the Roasted Acorn is my man, but one never knows when a random tidbit of rumor might fall upon the wrong ear.” Yasutoki fully intended that Lord Tsunetomo lay upon his death bed never having known the truth of Green Tiger’s dual identity. “So tell me. What is this about? Has the drunken fisherman from Aoka village proved good to his word?”

  “Indeed.”

  Yasutoki almost jumped to his feet. “You have it?”

  A merest suggestion of a smirk. “Indeed.”

  Yasutoki had not dared to hope that the bundle of woven straw Kage brought with him contained a sword. The sword. “Show me!”

  Kage untied the bundle and rolled it out, revealing a further bundle of tightly wrapped linen. The leisurely time Kage took unwrapping it whipped Yasutoki’s heartbeat into a clamor. He gripped the edge of the table to keep his hands from shaking.

  “It was frightfully easy,” Kage said. He lifted a tachi with both hands from the bundle of linen.

  Yasutoki held his breath as he offered his hands to receive it. The scabbard’s lacquer was battered, its once-beautiful mother-of-pearl inlays of moon and cranes now chipped, its ray-skin hilt stained with sweat and blood, its circular silver tsuba, engraved with the shapes of cranes chasing one another, tarnished. At first glance it looked like little more than a poorly maintained relic with a pronounced antique-style curvature. A flash of anger shot through him at how the ronin had allowed such a treasure to decay. Was this truly Silver Crane?

  He eased the blade free of the scabbard and revealed the truth. His breath caught at the glimmering polish of the ancient steel, with its exquisite, intricate temper line formed to resemble feathers.

  Kage sat back and sipped his saké with a smug curl on his lips.

  Yasutoki’s mouth was dry. He had only dared hope that the ronin with Silver Crane would be found. And now, here it was in Yasutoki’s possession. Today had been just another day in Lord Tsunetomo’s court, overseeing the house and estate, arranging supplies and handling other minor matters, until Kage’s urgent message arrived this morning over breakfast. In one moment, his entire life had changed.

  “Well done,” he breathed, “Well done. And what of the ronin?”

  “I left him alive. I am certain he woke up that morning somewhat discomfited. I could have killed him easily, but that was not part of the bargain.”

  “Quite correct. He still may be of use to me alive.” So many possibilities. He might make a superb ally, if he could be convinced to join forces with Green Tiger. He was also a powerful bargaining tool if Yasutoki ever chose to exert pressure on Lord Tsunetomo’s stunningly beautiful young wife, Kazuko.

  Yasutoki had delivered Lord Tsunetomo’s marriage agreement to Lord Nishimuta no Jiro, had been at the banquet that night where Lord Nishimuta had announced his daughter’s betrothal, and had noted well the heartsick agony of the young ronin who had saved her life. Young little Kazuko had done better concealing her pain, but the looks she gave the ronin spoke libraries. Yasutoki had seen her leave the castle that night, presumably for a lovers’ tryst before the ronin had been exiled from Nishimuta lands.

  Lord Tsunetomo might someday wish to know that Kazuko had not been a virgin when he married her.

  Kazuko might someday wish to know that her lost beloved still lived, and what would she give for that knowledge?

  So many possibilities …

  “What are you going to do with it?” Kage asked.

  “First and foremost, I am going to give thanks to our ancestors of the Taira clan that Silver Crane is now in worthy hands, and entreat the gods that we can once again rise to power. What I do after that is none of your concern. You have done well. Visit my moneychanger in Hakata. He will see that you are paid per our original bargain, along with a worthy bonus.”

  Setting the sword down beside him, Yasutoki raised his cup of saké. “Let us spend a moment to celebrate. Our plans are soon coming together.”

  * * *

  Hatsumi froze, and Kazuko nearly bowled into her, almost knocking the basket from the other woman’s hands. Hatsumi squinted up the street toward the Roasted Acorn Saké House. The sky had deepened to purple, turning the buildings and the people moving between them into varying shades of colorless silhouette. The air was redolent
with the smells of cooking and smoke.

  Kazuko regathered her composure. “What is it?”

  Hatsumi pursed her thick lips over protuberant, blackened teeth, frowning. “What is Yasutoki doing coming out of a saké house at this time of night? A bit early for drinking.”

  Kazuko tried to follow her longtime handmaid’s gaze. “Where?”

  Hatsumi pointed up the street. “There. The man with the basket hat and straw bundle.”

  Indeed, there was a man walking ahead of them up the street, wearing a woven basket hat, carrying a bundle of straw under one arm.

  Kazuko said, “How can you tell that is Yasutoki? Hoshiya is a sizable town. The hat covers his features—”

  “I can tell,” Hatsumi snapped. “I can tell by his walk, his carriage, his shoulders.”

  Kazuko tried to discern the distinctiveness of those qualities in the man walking away from them, but she could not, so she tried to make a joke. “Perhaps it’s just because he’s leaving the saké house. Perhaps all men walk like Yasutoki after a few jars. He’s never struck me as particularly graceful.” She smiled, but Hatsumi’s face grew sourer.

  “He’s far more … graceful than you give him credit for. Too graceful.”

  “Surely you’re talking about something else now.” Kazuko’s eyes followed the man until he disappeared up the hill, around a corner.

  “I don’t want to talk about that. Come, we still have a way to walk.”

  “Oh, please, Hatsumi!” Kazuko smiled at her, cajoling. “If he’s broken your heart, you must confide in me so I can help you.” Anything to distract from her own morass of unpleasant thoughts that awaited every moment her mind went still.

  Hatsumi’s sniffle died behind a granite-hard tone. “He breaks my heart every day. I don’t need any help.” Then a single tear trickled. “If only he loved me.”

  Kazuko’s heart sank. “Oh, my dear friend.” She laid her hand on Hatsumi’s arm while Hatsumi wiped a tear. “You mustn’t dampen your sleeves for him.”

  Hatsumi fixed Kazuko with a mournful gaze. “It’s been so long since I heard tenderness in your voice. Why today? Why now? Because you pity me?”

  “I asked you on the picnic this afternoon for just that reason. We’ve been together for as long as I can remember.” Kazuko took Hatsumi by the elbow, and they walked up the slope toward the swooping angles of her husband’s castle.

  “You were just a slip of a girl when your father gave you into my care. Such a beautiful child you were.”

  “I have been … poor company for much of the time since we were sent here to join with the Otomo clan. You are loyal to me as no one else could ever be.”

  “I have spent my life being your servant, but you’re like my little sister sometimes.” Hatsumi squeezed Kazuko’s hand. “I have not been very good company myself. I worry too much lately about that … man.” She growled the last word.

  They walked through the market district, which was now closed for the evening. The wide street was littered with the detritus of commerce, small scraps of food, bits of paper, like Kazuko’s thoughts. “Do you mean Yasutoki?”

  “Yes, of course! Who else would I mean? Oh … him. I thought you were done thinking about him.”

  “Oh!” Kazuko felt herself blushing. “Of course. He has not crossed my mind for a long, long time.” Not since this morning.

  “He was nothing more than an uncouth ruffian, bent on stealing your honor from your family. Good riddance to such trash. But let’s speak of him no more. The mere thought makes my blood simmer. We’ve had such a lovely day. Please, let’s speak of him no more.”

  “Of course.” Kazuko blinked away an unexpected tear.

  Hatsumi sighed with contentment. “I am sure he’s dead in a ditch somewhere by now. Besides, you have Lord Tsunetomo now. He is a good man, a powerful lord. Your father made a good match for you. You were lucky Tsunetomo-sama was so patient. Had he been any less kind, he could have made things very hard for you.”

  “I’ve had enough melancholy to last a lifetime. The sisters at the temple tell me I cling too much to the past.” Perhaps one day, she would come to realize that and choose to let it go. Perhaps then the ache would go away.

  The slope of their way toward the castle steepened, and Hatsumi began to puff. Thanks to Kazuko’s endless hours of training with Master Higuchi, she felt no weariness at all. Her voluminous robes of elaborate silk and embroidery concealed how lithe and strong her limbs had become. Hatsumi would chide her as unwomanly, but Kazuko was proud of that strength.

  Martial training was the only thing that had saved her through the years of aching loneliness, longing for a man she would never see again. Not her husband’s love, nor her handmaid’s advice, nor games and conversation with her sister-in-law, Lady Yukino, nor all the diversions available to the wife of a wealthy lord, nothing could close the hole in her heart. And Hatsumi must not know that it had never gone away, never fully. Hatsumi hated Ken’ishi with an unreasonable fervor, he who had saved both of them from the demon bandit Hakamadare and his gang, and hated that Kazuko had loved him.

  “So,” Kazuko said, as briskly as she could manage. “Tell me what Yasutoki has done, and I shall have my husband scold him for you.”

  “I cannot understand him! He tells me he loves me, has eyes for only me, and then he beds the first low-born trollop who crosses his path! He gives me extravagant gifts, makes hints of marriage, but when I press him, he demurs. When we’re abed, he gives me words of love, but these days … his little man remains asleep. Oh, he just frustrates me.”

  “How can I help?”

  “Send me a love potion, or send for an augurer to tell me my fate. If I’m to be forever alone, better to know now.”

  Kazuko’s heart warmed at the news that Yasutoki’s attentions had moved away from Hatsumi. Hatsumi had already been hurt by him, but whenever Kazuko was in Yasutoki’s presence, she found herself tense, on edge. She did not trust him. The fact that Yasutoki and Hatsumi had been trysting for nearly three years meant that his intentions toward her were not honorable. If only Hatsumi did not pine so for him. He would never marry her.

  Having tasted the feverish rapture of love herself, like a spike of lightning through her heart, through her loins, how could Kazuko blame Hatsumi for feeling the same emotions, especially after the horrors she had endured at the hands of the demon Hakamadare. The sudden, brutal attack, the sounds of dying men, the enormous crimson-purple hands that had whisked Hatsumi into the air and flung her in the bushes, the blazing yellow eyes and three vicious horns. And then … the rape, and Hatsumi’s screams.

  A wonder that poor Hatsumi had ever let a man get close to her ever again. She often lamented that no man would ever want her after being so soiled.

  If not for Ken’ishi, the same would have happened to Kazuko.

  By the time they reached the castle gates, Hatsumi was grumbling with displeasure at the exertion of the climb. Kazuko took her by the shoulders and smiled. “Let today be the first of a new time for us. No more unpleasantness between us. No more sourness. No more melancholy. You are my big sister.”

  Hatsumi smiled, and tears of happiness sparkled. They went into the castle together. Kazuko looked up and down the road for a glimpse of the man Hatsumi said was Yasutoki, but she saw nothing.

  As she gazed up the castle’s whitewashed walls, the massive edifice of its fortifications, the towering keep with its graceful swooping roofs, she thought about the man waiting for her upstairs. Tsunetomo would greet her with a bemused smile, and ask her if she were still drinking the special brew the temple sisters had made for her—the fertility tea—and she would smile and say, “Yes, of course, Husband,” and later on he would bed her, and she would lose her sorrows in the endurable pleasure of those moments, enjoying the strength and skill of her husband’s hands and body. Yes, she was happy to have Lord Tsunetomo. So much more mature than Ken’ishi’s wild, hot, tortured passion. So much more measured, balanced. Calculated.
r />   But unless she produced an heir soon, how much longer would he be happy to have her?

  With a single grain of barley, the bud sprouts, and although it is endowed with the same functions as the original barley, if water and earth do not unify, it will not become barley at all.

  — Takuan Soho, “The Clear Sound of Jewels”

  The boy without a name recognized the forested mountainsides on either side of the strait, but he did not know the boats that rode the swirling waves, their decks covered in men with bows and armor, cabins filled with trembling women swathed in embroidered silks like flowing rainbows. Long, straight black hair flowed down the women’s backs, their faces pale, powdered, painted, streaked with tears. He was small, so pitifully small, and the hoarse cries of the men on deck, filled with anger and tension, frightened him.

  He had crossed this stretch of water once himself when he was older, or perhaps in another existence.

  And he did have a name. They called him Antoku, and they all bowed to him. They were fighting about him, these men with their stern faces and hard eyes. So rough, these warriors. As his grandmother explained, his enemies all wanted his power. He wished he was bigger, so that he would know what to do. His grandmother kept a watchful eye upon him, never letting him stray too far into the throng of blades and bows.

  Banners floated above, but when he tried to see the mon on the flapping silk, his gaze slid over it and up into the red-streamered sky. He could see on the banners that the mon was there, and that it was important, but the harder he tried, the more his eyelids felt weighted down, closing, half-blinding him.

  He liked riding on a ship, but the sea was rough today, and the steersman was having difficulty maintaining a steady course. The boy’s eyes just rose over the gunwale if he stood on his toes, and he could see all the other ships flying the same banners as this vessel, but this vessel hoisted other banners with swirling, changing images chased with gold. So many ships in every direction, some of them so close that an agile man might perhaps leap from one to the next, more ships than he could count on many, many sets of fingers and toes, like an entire tree of fallen leaves floating upon a wind-rippled pond.