by Boris Akunin
And now here, in the police station, he was telling the members of the investigative group the incredible story of what had happened to him.
Asagawa asked:
‘Mr Vice-Consul, are you quite certain that it was the same old man who struck the captain in the Rakuen?’
‘Yes. Masa didn’t see him in the bedroom, but when, with the help of an interpreter, I asked him to describe the man from the Rakuen, the descriptions matched: height, age and even that special, piercing gaze. It’s him, no doubt about it. After having made this interesting g-gentleman’s acquaintance, I am quite prepared to believe that he inflicted a fatal injury on Blagolepov with a single touch. “Dim-mak”, I think it’s called – isn’t that right, Doctor?’
‘But why did he want to kill you?’ asked Twigs.
‘Not me. Masa. The old conjuror had somehow found out that the investigation had a witness who could identify the killer. The plan, obviously, was to put my valet to sleep and set the mamusi on him, so that it would look like an unfortunate accident – especially since the same thing had already happened in the Settlement before. My sudden appearance prevented the plan from being carried through. The visitor was obliged to deal with me, and he did it so deftly that I was unable to offer the slightest resistance. I can’t understand why I’m still alive … there’s a whole host of questions – enough to set my head spinning. But the most important one is: how did the old man know that there was a witness?’
The sergeant, who had not uttered a single word so far, but merely sucked on his cigar, declared:
‘We’re talking too much. In front of outsiders, too. For instance, what’s this Englishman doing here?’
‘Mr Twigs, did you bring it?’ Fandorin asked the doctor instead of answering the sergeant’s question.
The doctor nodded and took some long, flat object, wrapped in a piece of cloth, out of his briefcase.
‘Here, I kept it. And I sacrificed my own starched collar, so the dead man wouldn’t have to lie in the grave with a bare neck,’ said Twigs as he unwrapped a celluloid collar.
‘Can you c-compare the prints?’ asked the titular counsellor, unwrapping a little bundle of his own and taking out a mirror. ‘It was lying on the windowsill. My m-mysterious guest touched the surface with his hand as he turned his somersault.’
‘What kind of nonsense is this?’ muttered Lockston, watching as Twigs examined the impressions through a magnifying glass.
‘The thumb is the same!’ the doctor announced triumphantly. ‘This print is exactly like the one on the celluloid collar. The delta pattern, the whorl, the forks – it all matches!’
‘What’s this? What’s this?’ Asagawa asked quickly, moving closer. ‘Some innovation in police science?’
Twigs was delighted to explain.
‘It’s only a hypothesis as yet, but a well-tested one. My colleague Dr Folds from the Tsukiji Hospital describes it in a learned article. You see, gentlemen, the patterns on the cushions of our fingers and thumbs are absolutely unique. You can meet two people who are as alike as two peas, but it’s impossible to find two perfectly identical fingerprints. They already knew this in medieval China. Instead of signing a contract, workers applied their thumbprint – the impression cannot be forged …’
The sergeant and the inspector listened open-mouthed as the doctor went into greater historical and anatomical detail.
‘What a great thing progress is!’ exclaimed Asagawa, who was normally so restrained. ‘There are no mysteries that it cannot solve!’
Fandorin sighed.
‘Yes there are. How do we explain, from the viewpoint of science, what our sp-sprightly old man can do? Delayed killing, induced lethargy, temporary paralysis, an adder in his sleeve … Mystery upon mystery!’
‘Shinobi,’ said the inspector.
The doctor nodded:
‘I thought of them too, when I heard about the mamusi in his sleeve.’
So much wisdom there,
And so many mysteries –
A mamusi’s heart
SNOW AT THE NEW YEAR
‘That’s a classic trick of theirs. If I remember correctly, it’s called mamusi-gama, “the snake sickle”, isn’t it?’ Twigs asked the Japanese inspector. ‘Tell the vice-consul about it.’
Asagawa replied respectfully.
‘You’d better tell it, Sensei. I’m sure you are far better read on this matter and also, to my shame, know the history of my country better.’
‘Just what are these shinobi?’ Lockston exclaimed impatiently.
‘The “Stealthy Ones”,’ the doctor explained, finally grasping the helm of the conversation firmly. ‘A caste of spies and hired killers – the most skilful in the entire history of the world. The Japanese love to pursue any skill to perfection, so they attain the very highest levels both in what is good and what is bad. These semi-mythical knights of the cloak and dagger are also known as rappa, suppa or ninja.’
‘Ninja?’ the titular counsellor repeated, remembering that he had already heard that word from Doronin. ‘Go on, Doctor, go on!’
‘The things they write about the ninja are miraculous. Supposedly, they could transform themselves into frogs, birds and snakes, fly through the sky, jump from high walls, run across water and so on, and so forth. Of course, most of this is fairy tales, some of them invented by the shinobi themselves, but some things are true. I have taken an interest in their history and read dissertations written by famous masters of ninjutsu, “the secret art”, and I can confirm that they could jump from a sheer wall twenty yards high; with the help of special devices, they could walk through bogs; they crossed moats and rivers by walking across the bottom and did all sorts of other genuinely fantastic things. This caste had its own morality, a quite monstrous one from the viewpoint of the rest of humanity. They elevated cruelty, treachery and deceit to the rank of supreme virtues. There was even a saying: “as cunning as ninja”. They earned their living by taking commissions for murder. It cost an immense amount of money, but the ninja could be relied on. Once they took a commission, they never deviated from it, even if it cost them their lives. And they always achieved their goal. The shinobi code encouraged treachery, but never in relation to the client, and everyone knew that.
‘They lived in isolated communities and they prepared for their future trade from the cradle. I’ll tell you a story that will help you to understand how the young shinobi were raised.
‘A certain famous ninja had powerful enemies, who managed to kill him and cut off his head, but they weren’t absolutely certain that he was the right man. They showed their trophy to the man’s eight-year-old son and asked: “Do you recognise him?” The boy didn’t shed a single tear, because that would have shamed the memory of his father, but the answer was clear from his face in any case. The little ninja buried the head with full honours and then, overcome by his loss, slit his stomach open and died, without a single groan, like a true hero. The enemies went back home, reassured, but the head they had shown the boy actually belonged to a man he did not know, whom they had killed in error.’
‘What self-control! What heroism!’ exclaimed Erast Petrovich, astounded. ‘So much for the Spartan boy and his fox cub!’
The doctor smiled contentedly.
‘You liked the story? Then I’ll tell you another one. It’s also about self-sacrifice, but from a quite different angle. This particular plot could not very well have been used by European novelists like Sir Walter Scott or Monsieur Dumas. Do you know how the great sixteenth-century general Uesugi was killed? Then listen.
‘Uesugi knew they were trying to kill him, and he had taken precautions that prevented any killer from getting anywhere near him, but even so, the ninja accepted the commission. The task was entrusted to a dwarf – dwarf ninja were prized especially highly, they were deliberately raised using special clay jugs. This man was called Jinnai, and he was less than three feet tall. He had been trained since his childhood to act in very narrow and restricted spac
es.
‘The killer entered the castle by way of a crevice that only a cat could have got through, but not even a mouse could have squeezed through into the prince’s chambers, so Jinnai was obliged to wait for a very long time. Do you know what place he chose to wait in? One that the general was bound to visit sooner or later. When the prince was away from the castle and the guards relaxed their vigilance somewhat, Jinnai slipped through to His Excellency’s latrine, jumped down into the cesspit and hid himself up to the throat in the appetising slurry. He stayed there for several days, until his victim returned. Eventually Uesugi went to relieve himself. As always, he was accompanied by his bodyguards, who walked in front of him, behind him and on both sides. They examined the privy and even glanced into the hole, but Jinnai ducked his head down under the surface. And then he screwed some canes of bamboo together to make a spear and thrust it straight into the great man’s anus. Uesugi gave a bloodcurdling howl and died. The samurai who came running in never realised what had happened to him. The most amazing thing is that the dwarf remained alive. While all the commotion was going on above him, he sat there hunched up, breathing through a tube, and the next day made his way out of the castle and informed his jonin that he had completed his task …’
‘Who d-did he inform?’
‘His jonin, that’s the general of the clan, the strategist. He accepted commissions, decided which of his chyunins, or officers, should be charged with planning an operation, while the actual killing and spying were done by the genins, or soldiers. Every genin strove to achieve perfection in some narrow sphere in which he had no equals. For instance, in soundless walking, shinobi-aruki; or in intonjutsu – moving without making a sound or casting a shadow; or in fukumi-bari – poison-spitting.’
‘Eh?’ said Lockston, pricking up his ears. ‘In what?’
‘The ninja put a hollow bamboo pipe in his mouth, with several needles smeared with poison lying in it. A master of fukumi-bari could spit them out in a volley to quite a significant distance, ten or fifteen paces. The art of changing one’s appearance rapidly was particularly prized by the shinobi. They write that when the famous Yaemon Yamada ran through a crowd, eyewitnesses later described six different men, each with his own distinguishing features. A shinobi tried not to show other people his real face in any case – it was reserved for fellow clan-members. They could change their appearance by acquiring wrinkles or losing them, changing their manner of walking, the form of their nose and mouth, even their height. If a ninja was caught in a hopeless situation and was in danger of being captured, he killed himself, but first he always mutilated his face – his enemies must not see it, even after his death. There was a renowned shinobi who was known as Sarutobi, or Monkey Jump, a name he was given because he could leap like a monkey: he slept on the branches of trees, simply leapt over spears that were aimed at him and so forth. One day, when he jumped down off the wall of the Shogun’s castle, where he had been sent to spy, Sarutobi landed in a trap and the guards came rushing towards him, brandishing their swords. Then the ninja cut off his foot, tied a tourniquet round his leg in an instant and started jumping on his other leg. But when he realised he wouldn’t get away, he turned towards his pursuers, reviled them in the foulest possible language and pierced his own throat with his sword: but first, as it says in the chronicle, “he cut off his face”.’
‘What does that mean, “cut off his face”?’ asked Fandorin.
‘It’s not clear exactly. It must be a figurative expression that means “slashed”, “mutilated”, “rendered unrecognisable”.’
‘And what was it you s-said about a snake? Mamusi-gama, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, the “Stealthy Ones” were famous for making very skilful use of animals to achieve their goals: messenger pigeons, hunting hawks, even spiders, frogs and snakes. That is the origin of the legend about them being able to transform themselves into any kind of animal. Shinobi very often used to carry adders about with them, and the snakes never bit them. A snake could come in useful for preparing a potion – the ninja would squeeze a few drops of venom out of it; or for releasing into an enemy’s bed; or even just as a deterrent. A “sickle-snake” was when a mamusi was tied to the handle of a sickle. By waving this exotic weapon about, a ninja could reduce a whole crowd of people to panic and then exploit the stampede to make his escape.’
‘It fits! It all fits!’ Erast Petrovich said excitedly, jumping to his feet. ‘The captain was killed by a ninja using his secret art. And I saw that man yesterday! Now we know who to look for! An old shinobi with links to the Satsuman samurai.’
The doctor and the inspector exchanged glances. Twigs had a slightly confused air, and the Japanese shook his head, as if in gentle reproof.
‘Mr Twigs has given us a very interesting lecture,’ Asagawa said slowly, ‘but he forgot to mention one important detail … There have not been any devious shinobi for three hundred years.’
‘It’s true,’ the doctor confirmed in a guilty voice. ‘I probably should have warned you about that at the very beginning, in order not to lead you astray.’
‘Where did they g-go to?’
There was a note of genuine disappointment in the titular counsellor’s voice.
‘Apparently I shall have to carry my “lecture”, as the inspector called it, right through to the end,’ said the doctor, setting his hands on his chest as if asking for Asagawa’s forgiveness. ‘Three hundred years ago the “Stealthy Ones” lived in two valleys divided off from each other by a mountain range. The major clan occupied the Iga valley, hence their name: iga-ninja. Fifty-three families of hereditary spies ruled this small province, surrounded on all sides by sheer cliffs. The “Stealthy Ones” had something like a republic, governed by an elected jonin. The final ruler was called Momochi Tamba, and legends circulated about him even during his lifetime. The emperor granted him an honorary crest with seven moons and an arrow. The chronicle tells of how a wicked sorceress put a curse on Kyoto in a fit of fury: seven moons lit up in the sky above the emperor’s capital, and all the people in the city trembled in terror at this unprecedented disaster. The emperor called on Tamba to help. He took one look at the sky, raised his bow and unerringly dispatched an arrow into the moon that was the sorceress’s disguise. The villainous woman was killed, and the evil apparition was dispelled. God only knows what actually happened, but the very fact that stories like that circulated about Tamba indicates that his reputation must have been truly legendary. But, to his own cost, the mighty jonin quarrelled with an even more powerful man, the great dictator Nobunaga. And this is no fairy tale, it’s history.
‘Three times Nobunaga sent armies to wage war on the province of Iga. The first two times the small number of ninja defeated the samurai. They attacked the punitive expedition’s camp at night, starting fires and sowing panic; they wiped out the finest commanders; they changed into the enemy’s uniform and provoked bloody clashes between different units of the invading army. Thousands of warriors lay down their lives in the mountain gorges and passes …
‘Eventually Nobunaga’s patience gave out. In the Ninth Year of Celestial Justice, that is, in the year 1581 of the Christian calendar, the dictator came to Iga with an immense army, several times larger than the population of the valley. The samurai exterminated all living creatures along their way: not just women and children, but domestic cattle, wild mountain animals, even lizards, mice and snakes – they were afraid that they were transformed shinobi. Worst of all was the fact that the invaders were assisted by the ninja from the neighbouring province of Koga, the koga-ninja. They it was who ensured Nobunaga’s victory, since they knew all the cunning tricks and stratagems of the “Stealthy Ones”.
‘Momochi Tamba and the remnants of his army made their stand in an old shrine on the mountain of Hijiama. They fought until they were all killed by arrows and fire. The last of the “Stealthy Ones” slit their own throats, after first “cutting off” their faces.
‘The death of Tamba and his me
n basically put an end the history of the shinobi. The koga-ninja were rewarded with the rank of samurai and henceforth served as guards at the Shogun’s palace. Wars came to an end, there was peace in the country for two hundred and fifty years and there was no demand for the skills of the shinobi. In their rich, idle new service, the former magicians of secret skills lost all their abilities in just a few generations. During the final period of the shogunate, before the revolution, the descendants of the “Stealthy Ones” guarded the women’s quarters. They grew fat and lazy. And the most important event in their lives now was a snowfall.’
‘What?’ asked Erast Petrovich, thinking that he must have misheard.
‘That’s right.’ The doctor laughed. ‘A perfectly ordinary snowfall which, by the way, doesn’t happen every year in Tokyo. If snow fell on New Year’s Day, they held a traditional amusement at the palace: the female servants divided up into two armies and pelted each other with snowballs. Two teams squealing in excitement – one in white kimonos, the other in red – went to battle to amuse the Shogun and his courtiers. In the middle, keeping the two armies apart, stood a line of ninja, dressed in black uniforms. Naturally, most of the snowballs hit their faces, now rendered quite obtuse by centuries of idleness, and everyone watching rolled about in laughter. Such was the inglorious end of the sect of appalling assassins.’
One more page turning,
A new chapter in the book.
Snow at the New Year
A WHITE HORSE IN A LATHER
Fandorin, however, was not convinced by this story.
‘I’m used to putting my trust in the facts. And they testify that the shinobi have not disappeared. One of your idle, bloated guards managed to carry the secrets of this terrible trade down through the centuries.’
‘Impossible,’ said Asagawa, shaking his head. ‘When they became palace guards, the shinobi were granted the title of samurai, which means they undertook to live according to the laws of bushido, the knight’s code of honour. They didn’t become stupid, they simply rejected the villainous arsenal of their ancestors – treachery, deceit, underhand murder. None of the Shogun’s vassals would have secretly preserved such shameful skills and passed them on to his children. I respectfully advise you to abandon this theory, Mr Vice-Consul.’