Hirosuke’s ragged breathing sent shudders through Ken’ishi’s body. Ken’ishi marveled at how the man clung to life. He clutched and tore at the bars, but his weakened bindings were not yet weak enough. “For the mercy of all the gods and Buddhas, kill him!”
Fang Shi and the torturer just laughed. And then the wet, meaty chopping sounds began. The glint of a meat cleaver in the torturer’s hand. A severed piece of a foot splashed into the water. Then harder chopping, splintering of thick bones.
Ken’ishi lost the moment when the weeping stopped forever.
“He dead?” Fang Shi said.
“Not yet, but he seems to have lost consciousness.”
The splash of water and a gasp of breath that wept.
Brine and blood painted the floor of the cavern, and hundreds of tiny pieces of flesh—skin, muscle, bone, entrails—floated on the surface or trailed across the bottom. The water rose.
The torturer said, “It seems our timing is impeccable. Let us go ahead of the tide.”
More slithering of ropes, a little splash, and then Fang Shi collapsed the wooden rack. The torturer rolled up coils of blood-soaked rope. As they turned to retreat, the torturer knelt in front of Ken’ishi’s cell. “And all you must do is say, ‘Master, I will serve you.’“
Ken’ishi spat the words, one by one. “Bastard! I will kill you!”
The torturer and Fang Shi laughed. “That’s the spirit!” Then they disappeared, but they had left one lantern hanging near the ceiling of the cavern.
And then the water rose, along with the black rage in Ken’ishi’s belly. He tore and thrashed at the bars with his ruined fingernails, but the bindings were made of tough sinew and he was weaker than he could ever remember. The few he had managed to cut were not yet enough to break free.
Crimson water lapped into his cell, stinking of blood and viscera. Bits and pieces of Hirosuke washed in with the water. Ken’ishi clamped his teeth against the bile rising in his throat. The incoming tide foamed red, sloshing flesh and blood around the cavern. A triangular fin the size of his hand slashed up through the surface of the water. Gobbets of flesh began to disappear in sudden splashes.
As the water flooded into Ken’ishi’s cell, the lantern’s light diminished and finally disappeared altogether, plunging him once again into the familiar blackness. Again he struggled against the bars and then succumbed, clinging to them for life. Soft fleshy bits bobbed against his cheeks, and when he swallowed seawater, he swallowed blood, too.
With the tide at its full height, Ken’ishi’s face was jammed into the tiny pocket of air between the cell ceiling and the lattice. Something bumped into the bamboo. Something alive. Another bump. A lithe rippling body brushed against his fingers, and he jerked them away. The body had not been scaly like most fish. A pointed nose thrust through the lattice into his cheek. He sucked a lungful of seawater as he flung himself away. His fingers closed around a blunt snout, and the hide felt rough like Silver Crane’s ray-skin hilt. The snout jerked away. He held his breath as long as he could and then sought the tiny niche again for another breath. When he found the niche, he sucked at the air and then pulled himself back into the cell again to hold his breath. Dozens of times he repeated this, scores. Several times he stayed in the niche longer, hoping the fish had gone, but then he would feel a gentle bump against the bamboo and know it was still out there, probing, perhaps snapping up bits of Hirosuke as it found them.
Hours later, when he lay once again on the floor of his cell in the darkness, sodden, shivering, and seawater-logged, he heard a subtle conglomeration of scuttling and clicking against the stone out in the larger cavern. An army of crabs, drawn by the taste of blood in the water, scoured the floor for bits of flesh and tender viscera.
The light returned with Fang Shi’s menace. He stood before the cell and held out his hand. “Bowl.” Ken’ishi passed his bowl through the bars. Fang Shi slung the fresh bowlful of gruel through the bars. It splattered across the stone floor and into Ken’ishi’s hair. “Clever,” he said. This time he took the bowl and the light with him.
Ken’ishi seethed, but his hunger became so sharp, so biting, that he licked the watery gruel from the coarse stone, trying to ignore the taste of saltwater and blood. He had been so hungry for so long, so thirsty for so long. How many times had he envisioned taking long draughts of seawater to quench his thirst?
The blackness around him permeated his skull, driving black tendrils deep into his thoughts. All he must do to be free was serve Green Tiger. He could live. Perhaps he could even have the opportunity to exact revenge. Perhaps he could just pretend. Perhaps he could have Silver Crane in his hands, and then he could flee, and then he could retrieve Kiosé and take her away with him. Perhaps serving Green Tiger would not be so bad. He would have plenty of food, plenty of gold, perhaps enough to secure a sword master to teach him. As Green Tiger had said, Ken’ishi would have power in the Underworld. He would be feared, perhaps like Hakamadare. Would it not be favorable to make lesser men like Yuto fear him? Perhaps one day he would have opportunity to rid the world of Green Tiger and men like him. Perhaps then he could return to Teng Zhou and conclude their duel. Perhaps with Green Tiger dead, Ken’ishi could become a lord of the Underworld himself. Kiosé would want for nothing. Little Frog could learn the ways of the samurai. The boy would not have to be the bastard son of a used-up whore. Little Frog could be the son of a samurai, with a real name, a brave name.
All Ken’ishi had to do was swear to serve Green Tiger, and his suffering would end.
Would Little Frog want to be the son of such a man?
If part of Ken’ishi’s service were to wrangle whores, frighten unruly gamblers, punish thieves, would he be worthy of Kiosé’s affection? Would she want such a man?
As the seawater ate into his wounds and turned his clothing into sodden rags, as hunger gnawed at his belly like a frenzied wharf rat, as his body withered like a dry twig and his tongue became leather, he thought that the next time Fang Shi came with food, he would accede to Green Tiger’s wishes.
And then Fang Shi came, threw the food at him through the bars, and departed, and Ken’ishi held his tongue.
Many times the tide came and went, Fang Shi came and went, and every time, he intended to succumb to Green Tiger’s wishes, but every time, he kept silent. He just slurped up his food as best he could and kept silent.
Sometimes, he dreamed of things that brought him strength. A silver bucket lowered to him as he lay trapped in the bottom of a well, and he drank vibrant, shimmering elixir from the bucket. A crane brought him a silver egg that he took and clutched to his breast until it melted into him. A woman, standing in a shrine to Jizo to avoid the downpour of the world, invited him to take shelter with her and gave him a gleaming rice ball that he devoured. A silver net lowered him into some glimmering lake of cool, soothing water that bubbled with life and kami. After such dreams, the pain of his wounds, the ever-present ache in his back and neck, the maddening thirst and hunger, all diminished for a time.
He lost count of how many times the tide came and went, but as the days passed, the seawater became cooler with the passing season. Every day, his body took longer to stop shivering after the water receded.
Somewhere in the depths of his mind, he knew he would not last much longer. If winter came, he would die of cold.
Fang Shi’s damnable, blessed light speared into Ken’ishi’s eyes. He squeezed them shut, and his voice was a barely audible croak. “Take me to your master. I will speak to him.”
Fang Shi laughed.
On the mountain,
Tiring to the feet,
Lost in the fog, the pheasant
Cries out, seeking her mate.
— The Love Poems of Marichiko
“Stupid whore!” Chiba snorted as he watched Kiosé running after Little Frog. The brat kept glancing over his shoulder to see if she was about to catch him, oblivious to the column of horsemen riding down the village’s central street. It wou
ld certainly be amusing to watch him pummeled into pulp by the oncoming hooves. Kiosé squealed with panic and snatched the boy by the arm, jerking him clear. Chiba felt a twinge of disappointment.
He stepped back between two houses and leaned against the wall, curious about what brought a column of Otomo clan warriors into the village. There had not been a war since his grandfather’s lifetime. Aoka was part of the Otomo clan domain, but too far north along the rim of Hakata Bay to be near any well-traveled road.
Clan banners flapped over the heads of the mounted samurai, all bristling with spears and arrows. The leader of the column’s ten men reined up in the center of the village and called out. “Headman, come out!” Horses stamped and fidgeted, tossing their heads and fighting their bits.
Chiba appraised the lead samurai, who looked to be hardly a leader at all, with the face of a baby and armor that was too big for him, its weavings of metal scales and silk cords too elaborate, and its shoulder guards too broad. The flared cheek plates of the helmet made the leader’s face look even smaller. The armor of the others was less elaborate, simply breastplates with modest helmets.
Kiosé clutched her brat to her chest and hissed scoldings into the boy’s ears. If she had kept her back turned for two heartbeats longer, the world would have had one less bastard brat soiling the land.
The lead samurai’s voice was just a bit too high to warrant real command, especially over the more seasoned, fierce-looking samurai who rode behind him. “I am Otomo no Ishitaka. Headman, come out!”
Norikage finally emerged from his office and bowed to the horsemen. “Greetings, Lord. My name is Norikage. How may I serve?”
“Is not Hojo no Masahige administrator of this village?” the samurai asked. “Where is he?”
Chiba’s eyes narrowed. Hojo no Masahige had been dead three years. Chiba’s father had killed him in a drunken brawl over that useless bitch Kiosé. How had word not reached the government that Hojo no Masahige was dead?
Norikage hesitated an instant. “I am his assistant, and Hojo-sama has gone to Hakozaki on business, but he is due back shortly. Perhaps you would like to come inside and refresh yourselves until he returns.”
The samurai frowned. “We have no time. We have come to deliver a message.”
“I will relay your message,” Norikage said.
Chiba raised an eyebrow. What game was Norikage playing at?
The samurai said, “Barbarians from across the sea have sent threatening messages to our Shogun and the illustrious Son of Heaven. The Shogun’s regent, Hojo no Tokimune, has ordered that all towns and villages across Kyushu be informed of this situation and to prepare for a possible attack.”
Stupid, soft nobles, fearful of shadows. They could all go hang themselves and the world would be the richer for it. On Chiba’s occasional trips to Hakata and Hakozaki, he sometimes heard news that the emperor of China, some barbarian horseman from the steppes, a usurper, had been threatening war for almost a decade. He had subjugated the Koryo over the last few years, and now seemed to have his greedy eye on Kyushu. The Imperial Court in Kyoto had wanted to pay him tribute, but the bakufu in Kamakura had blatantly refused. They had not even allowed the foreign emissaries to land in Hakata. Chiba snorted with derision.
Norikage said, “That is dreadful news, Otomo-sama. Is there anything Aoka village can do? We have no weapons except clubs and pitchforks.”
Ishitaka’s smooth brow furrowed. “If we are attacked, take everything you have and retreat south to Dazaifu. Men and boys will be conscripted as spearmen. Now, bring us water. We have ridden long.”
Naoko came out from the inn, carrying a bucket of water and a wooden ladle. She let each samurai drink his fill. Then she offered them rice balls, which they snatched up and devoured with gusto.
Norikage said, “When might such an attack happen? Tomorrow? Before winter?”
“The barbarians have not informed us of their attack plans,” Ishitaka replied.
Chiba imagined what it must be like to wear armor in the summer heat. Fortunately, the heat had all but faded into autumn coolness in the last few weeks. No more sweltering crotch or dripping brow for every moment the sun was in the sky.
Otomo no Ishitaka thanked Naoko for the refreshment, then said to Norikage, “Please give my regards to your master. We must ride on.”
Norikage bowed deeply. “Of course, Otomo-sama.”
The samurai spurred their horses and galloped with a plume of dust into the forest.
What game was Norikage playing at? The ronin had been gone for more than a month, leaving the village without a constable. Norikage kept telling people that the “constable” would be back soon, that he had gone to Hakata on business, but Chiba was starting to doubt. And now, it seemed, Norikage had not only failed to inform the authorities of Hojo no Masahige’s death, but also intended to keep up the deception that the late village administrator was still among the living.
Across the street, Kiosé’s brat squirmed and fussed until she put him down. As she leaned over, her robe fell open to reveal a soft, supple breast, a tender nipple hanging free.
Like a forgotten ember, lust roared to life in Chiba’s veins, rushing through him like a wildfire. He watched Kiosé tuck a few strands of hair behind her ear, and his eyes followed her, noting the carriage of her backside, the delicate flesh of her neck, until she disappeared inside the inn.
* * *
For the rest of the day, the village buzzed with gossip about the warriors’ visit. Apparently only Chiba had been close enough to hear clearly the exchange between Norikage and Otomo no Ishitaka. Chiba heard no mention among the other villagers of the Otomo asking after Masahige.
As the sun set, Chiba sat alone in the inn with a fresh bottle of saké. The sweet warmth of its kiss suffused his belly and set his mind to scuttling about like a loose crab. He needed the saké tonight, almost as much as his little warrior needed the wet kiss of a woman.
Norikage was hiding something, Chiba was sure of it. The ronin had been gone roughly a month and a half. Was it possible that no one outside of the village knew of the ronin’s presence here? Had the ronin been acting as “constable” all this time without any real authority? What scheme had he and Norikage cooked up?
He smashed his earthen cup down against the table, startling the other patrons with the noise. The blow left a dent in the hardwood surface. He squeezed the rim of the cup, throttling it as if it were the ronin’s neck, but the clay did not yield.
“All this time …” he muttered.
Old Naoko bowed to him as she passed. “Another jar?”
He grunted and shook his head.
Kiosé steadfastly ignored him as she carried a basket of dinner dishes outside to be washed.
Chiba’s gaze fastened on the delicate curves of her ankles, the sway of her buttocks, before they disappeared into the evening’s darkness. He grunted and shifted where he sat, curling his fingers around the edge of the table and squeezing.
He filled his cup and drained it, filled it again, drained it. Boldness burgeoned in his veins. He filled his cup one more time, and the jar was empty. He tossed the last of his saké back and hurried out the front door.
Only the moon-drenched surf broke the night’s silence. Even the frogs and crickets lay strangely silent as he stole around the inn toward the back.
The clatter of dishes reached him even before he saw her there, bathed in the light of a lantern. A chill sea breeze ruffled in from shore, and she shivered against it, rubbing her arms with wet hands. Her hair was pinned up with a chopstick, revealing the sensuous curves of her neck.
His boning knife was in his hand, gleaming with its fresh edge.
He stole up behind her, quickly, shoeless, silent. From behind, he clamped his left hand over her gasping mouth and pressed the cold flat of his knife against her warm throat. Her eyes bulged white, and he jerked her head back against his shoulder.
“If you scream,” he hissed, “I’ll gut you like a yellow
tail. And then I’ll cut your brat’s head off and leave it for the crabs.”
Her body stiffened against him for a moment, and then almost collapsed in his arms.
“Where’s your filthy protector, bitch?” he grunted as he dragged her away from the light toward a small storage shed. “You think he’s going to save you now?”
She looked back at him over her shoulder, her eyes wide, but not just with terror. Confusion as sharp and bright as a look at the sun. “Who are you talk—?”
A quick squeeze choked off her words. “Shut up! He’s never coming back! You’ll spend the rest of your days wondering why he ran away from you!”
He dragged her to the shed, up the steps, kicked the door open, and dragged her inside after him, glancing behind to see if anyone might have seen.
“If you tell anyone of this, I’ll kill you. No one will believe you, and even if they did, you’re just a whore, not even a person. I’ll slit your whelp’s throat first while you watch. And then I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded, choking back sobs.
Lightning charged his veins, bursting through him like the power of ten thousand kami.
If he is able to gain this freedom, he will not be perplexed by anyone on earth. According to this, the martial artist who is able to gain freedom will not be in a quandary about what to do, regardless of who on earth he comes up against.
— Takuan Soho, “The Clear Sound of Jewels”
The interior of the barrel squeezed Ken’ishi’s legs against his chest, constricting his breath, and the air inside was hot and stale with it. The barrel stank of old wood and salt fish. Delicate flickers of light seeped through the small hole in the barrelhead, the only aperture through which fresh air could enter. Otherwise, he lay crunched up in a darkness as black as his thoughts. The quality of the meager light and the relative silence outside told him that the world lay in the depths of night. He did not have strength enough to scream, and if he did, who would hear?
Sword of the Ronin (The Ronin Trilogy) Page 23