A sudden pull dragged his eyes to the palanquin.
The kami screamed in his mind.
He found his hand on the hilt of his bokken, and at the same moment, one of the bodyguards noticed as well.
“Kneel, ronin dog!” the bodyguard snarled, turning toward Ken’ishi, hand on his own sword.
Ken’ishi knelt and pressed his forehead to the cobblestones.
The palanquin stopped, blocked by the wagon.
The bodyguard shouted at Ken’ishi, “Move that wagon! Make way!”
Ken’ishi climbed into the wagon, took the reins as he had seen Shirohige do, and flicked them. The wagon lurched as Pon-Pon jerked, but the wagon rolled aside. The kami roared in his awareness like a typhoon wind.
Destiny.
The word rang clear like the clash of blades in his mind, echoing.
Silver Crane was near, painfully near!
But where? Could it be in that palanquin? How could that possibly be?
Or was it the women that had driven the kami into such a frenzy? One of them moved so much like … Kazuko.
Part of him wanted to chase after the palanquin, tear off the flap and look inside, but he would not survive an instant afterward.
Long silken hair and embroidered silk robes like splashes of rainbow floated deeper into the orchard, disappearing from view. Could it have been Kazuko? No, she was married off now to some distant lord.
He watched until the palanquin disappeared down the slope into the town, and was left with a tingling, lingering sensation that something enormous had just passed him by in the darkness of a dream.
“Excuse me, sirs,” Ken’ishi said to the samurai. “Who was that in the palanquin?”
One of them glared at him with disdain. “Our lord’s chamberlain.”
“Do you know where he’s going?”
“You ask too many questions.”
Shirohige came huffing down the path, brows knit together into a single white caterpillar. Climbing into the wagon, he said, “What’s gotten into you? What are you gawking at? You look like you just crossed paths with a monster.”
* * *
The wooden box with Yasutoki’s personal seal sat right beside him in the palanquin. It would not leave his sight until he reached Hakata. The bamboo shades kept out the sun, not to mention unwanted eyes, but they made the interior stiflingly close. He hated making the trip to Hakata in this heat, but Hatsumi’s behavior had grown intolerable. With Tsunetomo’s leave to acquire ore and charcoal for smithing and new horseflesh from the Kanto Plains, it was time for Yasutoki to remove himself for a while.
He had made inquiries around the castle, but Hatsumi was locked in her room, seeing no one except Kazuko. Some of the servants spoke of her wandering the hallways at night like a weeping ghost.
Lord Tsunetomo had not been happy with Yasutoki’s plans to leave again so soon, but he had made a strong case, citing a contact with a horse trader, as Lord Tsunetomo was seeking always to expand his herds.
Tsunemori was, as always, delighted to see Yasutoki packing up to leave for a while. The lord’s younger brother was a detestable lunkhead, but too perceptive by far for Yasutoki’s comfort. Tsunemori would be buzzing with poisonous talk in Tsunetomo’s ear about Yasutoki from this moment until he returned, but that could not be helped. Tsunetomo accepted the enmity between his brother and his chamberlain as a useful tension.
As soon as Yasutoki reached Hakata, he could begin contacting the scattered shreds of his clan. With such a powerful symbol as Silver Crane, they would rally again, reclaim the favor of the emperor’s court, and cast down the military usurpers. The Taira would rise again.
* * *
As the wagon trundled back down the slope toward the town, Shirohige wore a sour face.
Ken’ishi said, “So you didn’t sell anything.”
Shirohige spoke through gritted teeth. “The chamberlain had just left the castle, and the chief handmaid of Lady Otomo was indisposed. No one would see me.”
“It must be hard, living on the good will of others, making them want to buy your wares. Living by the sword seems easier.”
“Words can be like swords. You can win battles or cut your own leg off. You are correct, though. People say I have a natural way of getting along with others. When someone likes you, it’s easy to sell them things.” The cart rumbled and rocked down the slope, jostling Pon-Pon in his yoke.
Pon-Pon’s hindquarters continued their inexorable, plodding rhythm.
Shirohige continued, “A brief stop in Tanushimaru, then Dazaifu. After that, the road to Hakata. We should be there in a few days. There’s a man in Tanushimaru who owes me money, and it’s time for him to pay up. I would like your help with that. Just a quick stop.”
Ken’ishi nodded. “Did he fail to pay for your goods?”
“Um, yes, that’s it.”
Soon the town lay behind them, and they passed fields thicketed by rice, stalks beginning to sag under the weight of kernels. The road meandered among the terraces and embankments. Irrigation canals channeled water from mountain streams. Hills rose on either side of the fields, shouldering closer, becoming mountains, until they funneled the meandering road into a path between a bamboo-and-pine-covered slope and a gurgling river. The cessation of summer rains had reduced the river to little more than a stream, but it was enough to cool their feet and fill their water gourds.
They reached the village of Tanushimaru in the early evening. Shirohige’s demeanor changed when they entered the town. His eyes darted here and there, and he kept trying—unsuccessfully—to whip Pon-Pon to a brisker pace. A pine-swathed mountain swept toward the sky behind the village. On either side of it, terraced fields stepped up and down the slopes. Farmers toiled, backs and straw hats just visible in fields of rice, millet, and buckwheat.
“Just a quick stop,” Shirohige kept repeating.
The wagon stopped before a modest house. The air smelled of smoke and baked clay, and a wooden shingle was painted with the characters for earthenware.
Shirohige stepped down from the wagon and smoothed his clothing. “Come. You don’t have to do anything. Just look like a rough man.”
Ken’ishi’s beard had a few straggling hairs, and his clothes were of modest quality, if stained a bit by travel and dust. And he had no sword. He took his bokken with him as he followed Shirohige into the potter’s shop. He hardly looked rough by any standards. After a few more weeks on the road, perhaps he might.
Inside the shop, shelves were lined with cups and bowls, platters and pitchers. Different colors glazed the pottery, grays, yellows, blues, and earthen browns. The smells of hot earth and smoke were stronger inside.
Shirohige raised his voice, “Hey, Saburo! Come out!”
An old woman’s head poked through the curtain from the interior of the house. “Welcome, welcome!” Her face was a map of creases and wrinkles and squinting, watery eyes. Lips collapsed inward, unsupported by any teeth. “May I tell my son who’s calling?”
“Good day, madam. Please tell your son that Shirohige is here to see him.”
Her eyes narrowed even more, and her jovial demeanor disappeared. She bowed and disappeared without another word.
Voices filtered out from the back of the house—surprise, frustration.
After several long moments, a middle-aged man came through the curtain. He bowed nervously, his thin arms and apron and face smeared with clay. “Good day, sir.” His glance flicked over Ken’ishi, the bokken. “Would you like some tea? Come in and relax.” Shadows and blood circled his eyes.
Shirohige frowned. “You know why we’re here.”
Ken’ishi glimpsed the old woman’s feet shuffling back and forth on the other side of the curtain.
The potter said, “Let us go for a walk.” He glanced over his shoulder at the curtain. “I need a bit of exercise.” He wiped his callused hands again, trembling, on his apron, his eyes downcast, flicking again toward Ken’ishi’s weapon.
Outside,
they walked down the street. Saburo looked as if a logjam of words were built up in his chest. He coughed, a wet, raspy sound.
Shirohige said, “So let’s have it, Saburo.”
“But I don’t have any money right now.”
“Nonsense! You’re one of the best potters in this province. I’ve seen your work for sale in Hakata.” Shirohige’s voice was calm, but carried an underlying edge that set Ken’ishi’s skin crawling.
“But I can’t tell my mother why I’ve given you so much money! She’s taken over the finances since Yoko died of a fever last winter.”
“Do you know anyone else who sells what I sell?”
“No, but—”
“Do you want more?”
“Yes! I must have it! My pottery!”
“Then quit your mewling and simpering and give me the money you owe me. I have connections in Hakata. Even if you could find someone else who sells it, it would never be as pure.”
“Do you have some with you? Can I buy more today?”
“You’ll not get another momme until I’m paid in full. After that, I might be willing to sell you more.”
“Of course, of course.” The potter licked cracked lips, stretching his already drawn cheeks.
Shirohige gave Saburo a hard stare. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll go back to your house, and you’ll come out with the money you owe me, plus some extra for what you want to buy today. Or else my associate here will smash every bit of pottery on those shelves.”
A gasp as the man’s eyes bulged in horror. “No, no! You’ll have it.” His face turned the color of sea foam.
Shirohige’s attention returned to the surrounding area, as if he were on the lookout for something.
Ken’ishi noticed the attention of several of the villagers nearby, men and women. Scowls darkened their faces as they watched.
Puzzlement fluttered in Ken’ishi’s mind. What was Shirohige selling? Why did the potter want it so badly? What could make a man’s want so palpable? Worse than Ken’ishi’s own want for … a certain woman.
Back at the shop, the potter sneaked back inside.
“Stop looking at me that way,” Shirohige said. He chuckled, but without mirth, then lowered his voice. “Just empty threats. I can’t very well get paid if he has nothing to sell.”
Saburo returned with a string of coins, a sizable sum. Shirohige skeptically counted every coin while Saburo fidgeted and wrung his hands.
Finally Shirohige nodded, “How much more do you want?”
“Six momme.”
“You’ve developed quite an appetite.”
“Things are so hard with Yoko gone. So hard to work with my …”—he struggled with the words, slapped himself above the ear several times—“… mind in such a place.”
Shirohige reached into a large earthenware jar and withdrew a palm-sized bundle wrapped in paper. Saburo took and clutched it in both hands, bowing repeatedly, words of thanks pouring from his lips.
“Hey, you old bastard!” A stone whizzed over Shirohige’s head.
Saburo stared at the source of the voice, eyes widening.
Shirohige spun with a red flare on his cheeks.
A boy of perhaps thirteen stalked toward them, fists and jaw clenched. The boy’s clothes were dirty, face unwashed, hair a greasy thatch.
Shirohige covered his wares with a blanket and gave Ken’ishi a glance of warning. “What do you want?”
The boy stopped ten paces away. “I want you to go back to Hell and stay there. I want a horse to shove his cock up your useless arse, then stomp your hands and feet flat. I want you to choke on your own poison.” The fire of the boy’s hatred permeated the air of the entire street.
“Hasn’t your mother taught you to pay proper respect?”
“She has, to people who deserve some. She excludes you. So you’re carting around your own thug now? Think you’re a big man or something?”
Shirohige scoffed back at him. “Get out of here, you little turd, before my man here has to show you what happens to bastards who don’t respect their elders.”
The boy picked up another stone and threw it toward Shirohige’s head.
Ken’ishi’s bokken arced like a flicker and struck the stone to the ground.
The boy’s eyes widened, and he gulped. Then his jaw tightened, and he stalked forward again. He stopped three paces from Ken’ishi. “So, ronin. What’s it like working for a slimy gangster?”
Shirohige snapped his whip toward the boy’s head.
Ken’ishi caught it in one hand.
The old man swelled like a puffer fish and tugged on the whip, but Ken’ishi held it fast.
Ken’ishi said, “I’ll do the fighting if there’s any to be done. That’s why I’m here. Boy, you should apologize. Your words have wronged my companion.”
The boy spat on the ground. “He should apologize to my mother. She has cursed his name my whole life.”
Shirohige growled. “Run along, boy. We don’t want any more trouble.”
The boy sneered at Ken’ishi. “How much does he pay you? What’s your job? Beating up whores and lotus eaters? Squeezing them for coin?”
Ken’ishi’s jaw tightened like a drawn bowstring, but he did not move or speak. A sense of wonder dawned in him at the boy’s raw vitriol.
The boy took a step closer, his dark angry gaze chipping at Ken’ishi’s composure. “Perhaps I should question your ancestry. Perhaps I should call your mother a whore, as he’s called mine. Perhaps you’re the son of an unclean leatherer, or gravedigger, or shit—”
Ken’ishi’s slap sent him sprawling.
The boy propped himself up on his elbows. Hard, black eyes blinked back tears of pain. A scarlet handprint blossomed on his cheek. “That’s the spirit, big man! Does it make you feel strong?”
“If you don’t stop,” Ken’ishi said, “I’ll gag you and tie you up in the street. Control yourself.”
The boy scrabbled out of the dirt and flung himself up, plowing into Ken’ishi’s belly, fists flailing. Ken’ishi caught him by the arms until sharp teeth buried themselves in Ken’ishi’s hand. Ken’ishi spurned him, but the fists flew again. The boy’s strength surprised him, a bundle of taut limbs and seething rage. Ken’ishi spurned him again.
“Fight me like a man, coward!” the boy screamed.
“Why do you want to fight?”
Thoughts flickered behind the boy’s eyes, a moment of confusion. Then he flung himself forward again.
Ken’ishi’s fist met the boy’s incoming forehead.
The boy’s head snapped back, his legs crumpled, and he doubled backwards into a pile, where he lay senseless for a few moments.
Ken’ishi stood over him, shaking the pain out of his fist.
The boy’s eyes fluttered, glazed, tears running from the corners. He tried to struggle to his feet, but Ken’ishi’s wooden sandal against his chest pressed him down.
“Let me go, you bastard!”
Ken’ishi found the boy’s anger so unnatural, so disturbing that he wished him no further harm. The suffering of life already etched his face for a boy so young. “How old are you?”
“None of your business, shithead!”
“Tell me.”
The boy spat. “I’m twelve.”
“Do you want to die?”
“Some days it’s all I want. Some days I … want to kill every swindler, every drunkard, and every thug I see! Starting with him!”
Shirohige sneered, “That’ll be the day, you cur! Ken’ishi, leave him.”
Ken’ishi kept his foot in place. “You think you’re going to be a rough man yourself? Not if you continue. I don’t want to hurt you anymore, but I’m not going to let you keep this up, and I’m not going to let you try to harm my companion. Now, calm yourself and go away, or I will hurt you.”
Shirohige said, “Get into the wagon. If he tries anything, shoot him for a thief and a beggar.”
Ken’ishi removed his foot, and the boy glared up at him,
simmering, silent. Ken’ishi backed away. “I’ll follow alongside.”
Shirohige snapped the reins, and Pon-Pon lurched the wagon forward.
Ken’ishi kept a close eye on the boy. The boy stood, tears streaming down his face, lips trembling, breaths choking with rage. His eyes burned into Ken’ishi until the wagon finally rounded a corner and the boy disappeared from sight.
Ken’ishi climbed into the wagon. “Explain.”
“You cannot reason with such people. Bastards like him.”
“His hatred for you is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”
Shirohige sighed a little and shook his head. “The boy’s mother says he’s of my seed. I say there’s no way for her to be sure. She was just a tavern girl at the time. He’s just another fatherless cur with too much anger in his heart.”
“What about his mother?”
“She was passing pretty back then, a real squealer. But nowadays,” he shrugged, “she looks like a leathery old sow. Too much anger in her heart as well. That’s where he learned it, I’d wager.”
Ken’ishi watched him for a while.
Shirohige’s eyes glistened, softening, and he swallowed hard. “Stop looking at me that way.”
The mournful calm settled over Ken’ishi’s heart. Had this boy ever been the inquisitive, happy little boy that Little Frog was? Would Little Frog’s life come to look like this boy’s, filled with unfocused rage and pain, flinging himself against the walls of society and screaming to be heard? Ken’ishi sighed.
Moreover, Shirohige was clearly not the sort of man with whom respectable samurai would ever associate themselves. As soon as Ken’ishi felt his destiny would allow, he would leave this old scoundrel’s company.
Shirohige broke his reverie. “It’s getting dark. We’ll camp when we’re farther from the village. Wouldn’t want that little bastard to chase us and cause more trouble. It would be just like him. He and his mother are a vindictive lot. I haven’t heard many tales of bandits in these parts lately, so we shouldn’t have to worry. Not since that oni bandit chieftain was killed.”
Sword of the Ronin (The Ronin Trilogy) Page 14