“This stolen shipment you mentioned,” Kasami said, plucking a grain of rice out of her bowl and eyeing it suspiciously.
“Indeed. Someone stole the rice and sold it on to the Lion. The Lion somehow knew this, and attributed the poison to deliberate sabotage.”
“You mean, they think that the Unicorn allowed the rice to be stolen, in order to embarrass the Lion,” Kasami said, frowning in puzzlement. “That seems… unlikely.”
“Unlikely, but not impossible. Especially if the goal was simply to provoke the Lion into some rash action.” Shin set his biwa aside and retrieved his own bowl. “Which it has done.” He took a bite and paused. “On that note, I’ve sent a message to Lady Minami, letting her know of my findings.”
“Are you mad?” Kasami spat. Her exclamation startled the songbirds and sent them into flight. Shin frowned and watched them circle the garden in agitated loops.
“No, and keep your voice down, please. The birds are sensitive.”
“You sent a message accusing her of stealing a shipment of rice!”
“No. I sent a message accusing her of buying a shipment of stolen rice. A different thing entirely. If we are lucky, it will provoke a swift response.”
“Like a length of steel in your gut.”
“No. Like an honest conversation.”
Kasami shook her head. “It’s as if you want to die.”
“Death is the furthest thing from my mind at the moment, I assure you. And I’m sure killing me has not even occurred to Lady Minami.”
“She’s met you, hasn’t she?”
Shin raised an eyebrow. “You can be hurtful at times.”
Kasami took a large mouthful of rice and chewed noisily. Shin took a more sedate bite. Kasami wasn’t wrong. He and Minami had done their best to provoke one another, albeit for different reasons. He’d hoped she’d let something slip; she’d obviously been hoping to goad him into a duel. But Kasami either didn’t see that – or didn’t want to.
“Do you recall my last face to face meeting with my grandfather?” he asked.
She paused and looked at him. She swallowed and said, “Yes.”
Shin reached down beside him, where his wakizashi lay in the grass. “He gave me his blade, as a reward for passing my gempuku. Do you remember what he said to me?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Shin smiled. “He said, ‘always remember the length of your steel’. He wanted me to remember that, often, only a few inches of metal separates one dead man from another. Rest assured that I know the length of my steel, Kasami – just as I know the length of hers.” He took a bite and when he’d finished chewing, he added, “The question now is – where is the boat, and where is the merchant?”
“Shichiro was probably right – the boat is gone, or sunk.”
Shin considered this. “Possible. Still, we must find it.”
“That should be easy enough. How many boats are there in this city?”
“Your sarcasm is noted. But my point stands. And we’ll have to hurry. I doubt we are the only ones to come to this conclusion. Shichiro may not be interested, but the Lion, at least, will be on the hunt – if only to prevent word of their black market dealings from getting out. Another reason for my letter. It will distract Minami from her own hunt for a few hours, while she tries to determine what I know, giving us time to begin our own search.”
“And how do you suggest we do that?”
Shin smiled. “I need you to locate our friend, Kitano.”
She stared at him blankly. “Who?”
“The gambler. Remember him? You killed his friends a few nights ago.”
She frowned. “I remember. Why?”
“I require his services. And he owes me his life, so no doubt he will be only too happy to accommodate us. Find him – but don’t kill him.”
Kasami frowned, but nodded. “I can do that.”
“Of course. I have every confidence in you.”
“And what will you be doing while I’m doing that?”
“I will be at the theater. After a stop off in a certain alleyway.”
Kasami stared at him, her mouthful of rice forgotten. After a moment, she swallowed and said, “You’re not serious?”
“I made a promise, I intend to make good. You should be pleased. You’re the one who reminded me of my responsibilities after all. Besides, how hard can it be to find a missing actress?”
•••
After what felt like hours, Nekoma Okuni opened her eyes. She hurt all over, a litany of aches and pains that dyed the edges of her vision red. The chill of the river still gripped her, though she’d done her best to dry off. The bleeding had stopped, but the wound in her side needed attention. And she needed rest and food.
She looked up and around. It was early afternoon, as far as she could tell. The heat of the day was growing oppressive, driving everyone who didn’t have business on the street back inside. She would have preferred to wait for night, but she didn’t think she’d last that long. The pain in her side was getting worse, and she was flagging from hunger and blood loss. She needed a safe place to rest, and that meant taking a risk.
She got to her feet slowly. She’d been moving from doorway to doorway all night and most of the morning, doing her best to look like a beggar – of no importance and worthy of no attention. It was easy to do, filthy as she was and reeking of the river. She’d used mud on her face and limbs to further mask her appearance. She fancied even her own mother wouldn’t recognize her.
There was no sign of her pursuers. Then, there wouldn’t be. They were professionals, just like her. Perhaps even better than her, though her pride rebelled at the thought. They had dogged her trail, haunting the wharfs and all but stepping on her shadow. That she had managed to finally lose them was something of a miracle.
Unless she hadn’t.
Maybe they were waiting to see where she went to ground. The thought gave her pause. It was what she would do – and had done, on more than one occasion. If so, she was leading them right to Sanemon and the others.
A shiver ran through her, and the street blurred. She leaned against the wall of the alleyway, trying to keep her balance. She would have to risk it. She wasn’t going to last much longer without rest. She detached herself from the shadows and staggered towards the window at the other end of the alleyway.
She’d rented the house when they’d arrived in the city. It was small and close to the theater, but private, which was the important thing. It made it easier to come and go as she pleased. The rear window looked out over the alleyway. She tapped at the shutters, and then again. She hoped someone was listening.
The shutter was jerked upwards almost immediately. Okuni didn’t wait for an invitation. She tumbled through the window and into an untidy heap on the floor. Thankfully, it wasn’t far to fall. “Close the shutter,” she said, her voice a hoarse rasp. “Quickly!”
“You’re back?” Sanemon exclaimed. He stood looking down at her, his florid features twisted into an expression of surprise and disbelief. He looked as if he hadn’t been sleeping well. Then, he always looked like that.
“What does it look like?” she snapped. Blood leaked between her fingers as she awkwardly tried to haul herself up. “Don’t just stand there gawping, fool – help me.”
Sanemon leapt to obey. “What happened?” he demanded. “Where were you?”
“Trying not to die,” she said, as he helped her to a sleeping mat. She collapsed onto it and probed her wound. Pain flared through her. Pain was good. It meant she was still alive. “My kit, Sanemon – quickly!”
Sanemon hurried to obey. The frightened faces of her fellow actors and the stage crew peered through the open doorway. She heard the murmur of questions and twitched her head towards the door. Sanemon slid it shut as he brought her what she’d asked for, as well as a bowl o
f water and bandages.
“How bad is it?” he asked, as he gave her the roll of leather that contained her tools. She undid the thongs and unrolled it, selecting a sharp blade. She cut away her improvised bandages. Blood welled.
“Bad,” she grunted. Sanemon hissed and snatched the knife from her weakening grip.
“Stay still. What am I looking for?”
“A shard of metal. I can feel it lodged near the muscle. You’ll need to – ah! – cut it out.” She convulsed as he pressed her back against the mat and began to operate. Sanemon was a dab hand with a knife, better than anyone might imagine. He’d been an ashigaru in another life – a throat-slitter with pretensions to art.
She’d never asked him why he’d decided to become an actor. At the time, she’d assumed he was an idiot, if a useful one. It was only later that she’d realized that, while he was a poor actor himself, he was an expert at herding them.
He sat back and held up a sliver of steel. “Is this it?”
She probed the wound and let out a groan of relief. “I think so.” She peered at it. It was a dart, likely fired from a blowgun. Not poisoned, thankfully.
Sanemon tossed the offending object into the bowl of water and began to clean the wound. “What happened?” he asked again. “When you didn’t come back, I became worried.”
“I was ambushed.”
Sanemon paused. “The client?”
“Maybe. Or maybe someone else.” She lay back and let him work. It wasn’t the first time she’d been hurt, but it had come close to being the last. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I disagree. We should leave now. I’ll make arrangements once I’m done here.”
“No,” she said, eyes closed.
“What?”
She opened her eyes. “I am owed a fee.”
“I think the chance to collect it has passed,” he said. “We should go now, before whoever injured you comes back to finish the job.” He glanced nervously at the window as he spoke.
“Not without my payment,” Okuni said, stubbornly. “It is a matter of professional pride. And we need it. We have bills to pay, food to buy…”
“And how do you intend to get it?” Sanemon demanded. He shook his head. “I knew this was a bad idea. Nothing good comes of provoking the Great Clans.”
“I do not recall asking your opinion,” Okuni said. She yelped as Sanemon dug a knuckle into the edge of her wound and her eyes flew open. “Watch what you’re doing!”
“Sorry,” he said, unapologetically.
“What is going on in here?” Nao demanded from the doorway. He slid it shut behind him when he saw Okuni. “Oh, look what the cat dragged in.”
“I’m not in the mood, Nao.”
“No, you look dead,” the actor said. He pushed Sanemon aside. “Go get some more water – and boil it. I’ll see to cleaning the wound properly.”
“I know how to do it, Nao,” Sanemon protested.
Nao did not look up. “Yes, but she’s not an ashigaru lying in a ditch. A more tender hand is required. Boiling water, please.” He began to work, probing the wound. “I can stitch it, but you’ll need to be careful or you’ll just start bleeding all over everything again.”
Okuni grunted as he went to work. Nao was more skilled than Sanemon. She’d never asked him where he’d learned such things, though she’d often taken advantage of it. “I’m always careful.”
Nao gave a sharp laugh. “That’s what you said last time.”
She glared at him. Grateful as she was for his expertise, she had little patience for his wit. “Are you implying something?”
“Oh no, mistress. I would never imply that your pride has blinded you to the grim reality of your situation – and by extension, that of this entire troupe.”
“It sounds like you are.” She paused. “You heard, then?”
“Everyone heard. And you are mistaken. I would never show such disrespect for the one who rescued my struggling fortunes from the gutter. All of our fortunes, in fact.”
“Good. See that you don’t.”
“I will, however, say that this is not the wisest course of action you could have undertaken. Then, we both know wisdom is not your forte.”
Okuni grimaced. “If it was, you might still be performing in a rundown theater in a backwater marsh-town. And Sanemon would have drunk himself to death.”
“A strong possibility, yes. You decided that a troupe of actors made for a useful mask. Especially a troupe that you owned.” He wet the rag and began to clean around the wound. She twitched in pain. “You bought out debts and the name of a forgotten troupe, and filled it with the dregs of other troupes. The drunks and troublemakers, the addicts and the mad.”
“That sounds like every actor,” she said through gritted teeth.
Nao ignored her. “A wise shinobi might have abandoned such a mask at the first sign it was becoming burdensome. And yet here you are, worried about our funds – and us. Else you’d have returned at the first opportunity, rather than trying to lose your pursuers first.” He peered at her. “That is what you were doing, isn’t it?”
Sanemon returned before she could formulate a response. Nao finished cleaning the wound, and began to stitch it with brisk efficiency. Okuni bit down on a piece of willow bark as he worked, and almost passed out again. Somehow, the stitching hurt worse than the initial wounding had. As he worked, he said, “Has Sanemon told you yet?”
“About what?” she asked.
“About your secret admirer.”
She looked at Sanemon. “What is he babbling about?”
Sanemon hesitated. “I may have made a mistake…”
Okuni paused. “What did you do?”
“I panicked. You didn’t come back…”
“What did you do?” She grabbed his arm and he winced.
“Someone… someone offered to help. I- I didn’t know what to do, so I… I went to him.” He smiled weakly. “I might have engaged his services.”
“Who?” she demanded.
“A- a nobleman.”
“A Crane,” Nao supplied. “Daidoji Shin.”
Okuni stared at him for a moment, processing this new information. She recalled the name, and wondered at the coincidence. She looked back at Sanemon. “What do you mean ‘his services’?”
“He claims to be an investigator of sorts, though he seemed more like a wastrel to me. Then I found out that he’s been employed by the governor himself to ferret out whoever is behind the poisoned rice that’s got the Lion snapping at the world.” He gave her an apologetic look. “I didn’t realize… if I had, I certainly wouldn’t have put him on your trail.”
Okuni wanted to shout, to rail at him. Instead, she closed her eyes once more. One could only yell at fate so many times. “No matter. Tomorrow night, I will have my payment and we will be gone soon after.”
“Tomorrow night?” Nao shook his head. “You need to rest.”
“And I will. Afterwards.”
“And if he’s not there – or worse, he doesn’t come alone?”
“Then I will come back – or not.” She looked at him. “If I do not return…”
“You will,” Sanemon said, sternly. “You always do.”
She heard him say something else, but moments later, she was asleep.
Chapter Fourteen
Three Duck Street
“Well,” Shin murmured as he looked around. “Perhaps a touch more difficult than I anticipated.” Three Duck Street was a filthy mess, full of rotting fish, torn sacking and other wharf debris. Lanterns were necessary, despite the fact it was only just late afternoon, for the shadows cast by the overhanging roofs were thick and impenetrable. He could hear rats skittering just out of sight. At least, he hoped they were rats.
He turned in place, letting his gaze stray across the alleyway, searching
for any sign as to what might have taken place on the night in question. Thankfully, it hadn’t rained since then. Drawing his wakizashi, he used the blade to clear away debris, revealing footprints in the muck. A man’s sandals and something else – a padded slipper of some sort. Whoever had worn it had left a light tread. A woman, perhaps. Okuni?
“No way to tell,” he said to himself. He turned, following her tracks with his eyes. He followed the trail, careful not to accidentally erase the prints. There was no telling how many people passed through this particular alleyway on a given day, but something about these prints had struck him as noteworthy, besides the fact that they’d survived undisturbed. Whatever sort of footwear they were, it was not the sort of thing worn by a heimin fisherman or merchant. Nor was it the footwear of a noble.
Whatever it proved to be, he followed the trail out of the alleyway and down another, where the tracks became deeper and more frenetic. “Signs of a struggle,” he muttered. He caught sight of something embedded in a nearby doorframe.
He swept his sword out, dislodging the errant bit of metal with the tip of his scabbard. It fell into his waiting palm a moment later. It was a shuriken, or what was left of one. A dried patina of something smeared the edges. A shinobi’s weapon, for times when a death was more important than its manner of occurrence. He paused as the implications sank in.
To the heimin, shinobi were little more than legends. As a nobleman, Shin knew better. They were all too real, but they were taboo – forbidden and forgotten. Every clan employed their services, but to admit such would be almost as great a crime as utilizing them in the first place. If shinobi were involved in this, it meant things were decidedly more complex than he’d first assumed.
He frowned and paced along the narrow alleyway, following the footprints. There were dark stains on the wall – handprints, he realized. He placed his hand over them, noting the size difference. Definitely a woman, and injured.
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