This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cold Blood: Yamabuki vs. the Sword Master (Sword of the Taka Samurai Book One)
Copyright © 2014, 2015 Katherine M. Lawrence
All rights reserved.
Katherine M. Lawrence asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of this book.
Cover and interior design by Laura Scott
Copyright ©2014 Laura Scott and Toot Sweet Ink
All rights reserved.
Toot Sweet Ink
6525 Gunpark Drive Suite 370
Boulder, CO 80301
tootsweet.ink
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014958564
First Edition
ISBN: 978-0-9912667-1-5 (hardback)
ISBN: 978-0-9912667-2-2 (trade paper)
ISBN: 978-0-9912667-3-9 (EPUB ebook)
R. 1.2.1
To LS
Table of Contents
Prologue
One: Blue Rice
Two: Wolves Recognizing Wolves
Three: The One-Eyed Daimyō of Ten-Legged Things
Four: Full Moon Tide
Five: The Boyish Face Behind the Mask
Six: Raw Courage
Seven: In the Battlefield or in Dancing; A Master of Movement
Eight: Someone of the Sex of Her Choosing
Nine: Fat Satchels of Coins
Ten: The Ōuchi Samurai
Eleven: No Reason to Conceal Herself
Twelve: Are My Teeth Black?
Thirteen: We Shall Fight With Sticks
Fourteen: What Lord Do You Serve?
Fifteen: Who Will Say the Sutras?
Sixteen: It’s a Long Road, Lady Taka
Seventeen: To Win, You Have to Kill Us Both
Eighteen: I’ve Never lost a Duel
Nineteen: A Decision You Won’t Live to Regret
Twenty: There Will Be No Second Chance
Characters
Glossary
Japanese Years, Seasons, and Time
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Excerpt from Cold Rain
Excerpt from Cold Saké
About Toot Sweet Ink
Books by Katherine M. Lawrence
Landmarks
Copyright Page
Title Page
Table of Contents
Glossary
Appendix
Acknowledgments
Appendix
Body Matter
Long before it was called Japan,
the island empire was known
to the world as Akitsushima,
the Autumn Creek Land,
and among its samurai,
one of its mightiest warriors was
a woman named Yamabuki.
Spring 1172:
Known as Year of the Water Dragon,
Second Year of Shōan,
eight years prior to the Genpei War
and the ensuing struggle
for the mastery of Japan
that tore the realm apart
and ushered in the era of the warlords.
One:
Blue Rice
4 bell strikes
First quarter, Hour of the Snake
Full Moon of New Life Month
The Kanmon Strait
In pristine battle armor, traveling without her personal guards or handmaids, not wearing any insignia that revealed her exact rank, Yamabuki at last stood in her own right on the promontory that looked north across the Barrier Strait. The rising sun burned so bright that the heavens scarcely looked blue. Shimmering light shone all the way across the vast Windward Sea which flowed off the edge of the world at the eastern horizon.
A moist westerly breeze caressed the warrior’s young face, leaving the slightest taste of brine on her lips and the fresh scent of fish and kelp in her nostrils.
Mochizuki, her jet-black two-year-old colt, snorted his displeasure.
“I know you don’t like the wind,” she whispered, reaching up to stroke his mane with one hand while tightening her grip on his bridle with the other. His hot wet breath blew across her hand. As with all horses, his hearing was keen and he grew fretful when anything impeded it.
She wondered to what extent his disquiet had infected her. Ever since crossing into Chikuzen Province two days before, her mount had grown increasingly temperamental—possibly because the North Road from Mizuki to Kita had teemed with people, horses, carts, wagons, and livestock. Disguised as a common samurai, more or less blending into the throng, Yamabuki trusted that she had escaped notice. However, if someone was shadowing her, it would have been easy enough for them to meld in as well.
This morning she dismissed her earlier apprehensions as mere fancy and instead looked ahead. She strained to make out the opposite shore through the thin, lingering haze, which washed out the details of the Main Isle of Honshu, her destination.
A voice startled her. “‘Better to cross the strait as the sun rises than as she sets.’ At least that’s how the commoners put it.” The voice belonged to a man who not only had the temerity to interject himself into a nonexistent conversation with her, but even had the impertinence to approach her along her horse’s opposite flank, the samurai’s blindside.
Since Mochizuki stood between her and the stranger, at first all she could see was the man’s muddy sandals and loose-fitting cotton trousers, blue-on-white, with the ine rice plant pattern.
She immediately stepped around her mount, her left hand near, but not exactly on, her sword hilt. Her eyes met the stranger’s.
He’s not even armed, let alone warrior class.
He had a ruddy face. Handsome in a rugged way. A bit older than she. Kindly bloodshot eyes which were happy and sad all at the same time.
Odd. A rich man’s sandals, but a commoner’s tunic.
As he grinned, his eyes smiled. He may have noticed her sword hand. “I was just behind you on the road all the way up from Kita. Wasn’t following,” he assured. “Just going to the trailhead.”
He cast his gaze toward Honshu. “Boatmen call this place Dragon’s Throat. It’s the shortest distance between the Great Isles. The two seas somehow know it, too, and so they rush through the channel. In the end, the shortest distance to land has the strongest currents.”
She moved her hand away from her weapon.
He tossed a wrist in a casual gesture toward the north eastern horizon. “Beautiful morning for it though. We are both crossing the barrier, no?”
Resolute, she looked across the turbid expanse. Seemingly lost in the idea of crossing, finally she answered softly, almost to herself, “I haven’t traveled for ten days and nights for just a view.”
“Ha-ha!” he laughed, respectfully looking her up and down. “White crossed arrow-feather insignia on indigo. You are of the Taka clan from Great Bay Province . . . from the southeastern tip, yes?”
“As far from here as it is possible to be, yet still be on the same isle.”
“Hai, but not for long.” His eyes narrowed. “Hear that?” He tilted his head, his ear toward the sea.
She found that for the moment she could hear nothing more than the hum of a steady wind mingling with the soft pulse of the sea and the occasional screeches of wheeling gulls. Since her battle helmet concealed her hair gathered up under its steel crown, if she removed her kabuto to improve her hearing, her long locks would be released and everyone would immediately see that she was a f
emale, and a young one at that. But then, a moment later, shouts drifted up from the water below.
The man beckoned her to the sea cliff’s edge. “My ears aren’t actually that good,” he said, pointing over the side. “I saw the cargo boat enter the cove.”
She peered down the nearly vertical drop-off of gray clay and rock. Far below, a festively decorated shallow-draught kobune, crammed to capacity with about forty warriors, tacked toward shore. Its senchou skillfully guided his craft through the swirling whitish-blue current that streamed out to sea. As he maneuvered the kobune toward the wooden landing, thick rope coils flew from the boat to waiting hands on the shore. In the splendidly open air, the voices of the shore crew’s calling-song carried up from below, echoing off the surrounding crescent cliffs.
Haul, haul. Heave-ho! Heave-ho!
Put your backs in. Dokkoisho!
Though the gulls call us
We cannot tarry
Pretty girls we wait to marry
(Please wait, please wait.)
Steadily the haulers drew the craft out of the tidal basin and toward the calmer waters near the decaying timbers of the makeshift dock. Though weathered by salt spray and the pounding sun, and feasted upon by all manner of marine bores, the pier’s rough-hewn pilings were still sturdy enough for lashing and securing the boat. The lines were hardly tied when the contingent of samurai leapt onto the dock.
“Looks like an invasion,” Yamabuki said drolly.
The man in the white-on-blue kimono laughed, for they both knew it was nothing of the kind. The warriors were merely glad that they had reached their destination and could at last escape the wave-tossed kobune. Doubled over on the rocky beach, three of the passengers joined into the ancient and unwelcome ritual of losing the contents of their stomachs.
“They didn’t drink enough saké,” he breathed.
“For courage?” She looked askance.
“No,” he said seriously, “you drink it because it makes the land move like the sea. If you’ve drunk enough before you board, once you’re out on the water, you can’t tell the difference. You won’t get seasick.”
He reached into his copious sleeve, where he dug around until his face brightened. “This one’s full.” He pulled out an ornate porcelain flask with the ine emblem painted on its side. Raising the saké bottle high, he breathed, “It’s what you’ll need to cross the barrier.”
He hummed, rolling his tongue across his lips.
“Good saké. Strong.” He smiled more broadly as he unstoppered the flask and offered the bottle’s now naked neck to her.
With a subtle gesture of her small finger, she indicated for him to take it away.
He shook the bottle hard enough that she could hear the saké slosh inside. “If we don’t drink together, it will mean you have no friends.”
To most people, at least of her class, a person’s mouth was considered to be unclean. A vile thing. Contact with another’s mouth, or whatever it touched, was unthinkable to all but the most wanton. Even the practice of mouth-sucking was usually confined to the bedchamber, and then only between married people or among lovers.
Yamabuki shook her head.
“I do not have any sickness, if that’s what you think,” he huffed.
“I’m not thirsty,” she replied, her eyes slightly drawn, but expressing a modest smile of politeness.
Far below, the seasick warriors eventually recovered and chased after their fellows, who already were headed up the steep cliff-trail.
“They’re Ōuchi clan.” He gulped down a generous mouthful of saké and continued, “And low-ranking ones at that.”
“And how do you know this?”
“For one, the hanabishi insignia on their banner flags. The diamond-flower is the Ōuchi clan symbol.”
“That doesn’t declare their rank.”
“No.” He nodded, looking pleased with his own perspicacity, which he celebrated with another swig. “It does not, but that boat carries a horse-blind, yet they don’t have a horse amongst them. They even packed some of their number into the kobune’s stable.” He twisted his nose into a sign of a disgusting smell. “As I said, low ranking. Samurai of importance ride horses. The better the horse, the higher their status,” he said, shooting a glance at Mochizuki.
Although he had readily recognized her clan crest, had offered her saké, and had even spoken to her about the “common people,” as if they were the “other,” the two of them had not exchanged names, nor were they likely to. Such niceties were practiced, of course, only by those of the buké warrior class and the kuge aristocratic class—in short, among those who had clan affiliations to begin with and therefore had something to announce. Their honored names were derived from being of high rank while in service of a local ruler, or were handed down to the progeny of the various branches of the imperial households.
Even then, disclosing one’s names and titles was not done without a specific reason. Such reasons could vary, from forming a lifelong friendship all the way to initiating a duel to the death. In the latter case the combatants would, before ever drawing steel, announce not only their clan and personal names, but their titles and, above all, their impressive string of victories, real or embellished.
But when it came to commoners, what good would it be to exchange names? The upper classes called them nanigashi, the thus-and-such people—names such as carpenter, woodcutter, fisherman, kago runner, combined with some mundane personal name: Tree, Mountain, River, First Born, Second Born, Young Cattle, and so forth. Hardly worth taking the time to remember.
The man with the saké bottle did not fit into any immediately identifiable commoner category. Still, she was unwilling to exchange names with him, though she wanted to refer to him in some way, if only to herself.
Yamabuki eyed him. Because of his blue kimono with its rice plant pattern, she gave him a sobriquet: Aoi Ine. Blue Rice.
He lifted his flask and took a drink. “Sure you don’t want any?”
Again Yamabuki politely declined.
With that, Blue Rice turned and moved away from the bluff. “Well then, it shall not be long now. My sister awaits me across the channel. If I don’t miss my guess, the senchou will be shoving off soon enough. They never wait for very long.” He smiled wistfully. “I shall see you down to the dock,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.
Yamabuki looked askance. “Not taking the trail?”
“The road.”
“That’s longer,” she called after him.
“Reminiscence,” he shouted back and disappeared around the downhill bend.
She looked at the empty road, shaking her head. I suppose this is how common people speak. Even if Blue Rice thought I was merely of the buké class, his manners are so forward!
Has he been following me? Not just now—since Mizuki. Maybe even before. Is he aware of the mission I am on?
Whether he was a spy or was not, whether he knew the purpose of her journey or not, there was no turning back.
Yamabuki retightened the binding cords of the straw protecting Mochizuki’s hooves, cinched her own helmet cords, took her mount’s reins, and headed toward the awaiting kobune.
Two:
Wolves Recognizing Wolves
Indeed there were two routes down the cliff. The one Blue Rice took, called Carriage Road, was longer, wider, and more gentle. It consisted of a series of graded switchbacks that could accommodate draft carts, merchant wagons, and the occasional royal carriage. It was the road Yamabuki had always taken before, but unlike Blue Rice, never on foot.
Today, Yamabuki chose the route called Foot Trail. Steeper than Carriage Road, it had the advantage of being more direct and therefore faster. Over the centuries the footfalls of the thousands who had approached the Barrier Strait had carved a steep path into the cliff face. Even so, in too many places the path was still s
carcely horse width.
Yamabuki recalled advice from the previous evening when, in the commoner’s manner of speaking, innkeeper Inu had described the manners, protocol, and nuances she could expect at the channel crossing point, explaining it thus: If the weather was seasonable and the tides right, travelers with means could find boats of assorted sizes, with captains of varying skill, to ferry passengers, livestock, horses, carts, and cargo. For a fair sum, the boatmen would accommodate just about anyone—regardless of rank—traveling in either direction, no questions asked. Even if someone had a price on his head, with enough additional gold to cover the additional risk (and required bribes), under the cover of darkness the senchou would deliver his passenger to one of the numerous (and discreet) alternate landing spots away from the ever-present spears of the shoreline patrols.
This day marked Yamabuki’s fourth crossing to the Main Isle. On the three prior crossings, as a maiden of the Taka House, she had traveled in a grand carriage escorted by a retinue flying Taka clan banners in a stylized journey with its own punctilious practices, including the requirement that each and every commoner who encountered the retinue had to pause, bow down, and pay homage. For as long as there had been written records, this was how the empire’s sixty-six provincial daimyō, the landholding self-styled warlords, were honored when they traveled.
And, over time, the level of required obeisance had evolved. Centuries had passed since any emperors had ventured beyond the immediate outskirts of Heian-kyō, let alone braved the journey to the southern-most of the empire’s four Great Isles. And in the absence of imperial visits, the local daimyō had decided they would afford themselves the same high-level courtesies as the Mikado himself. And, thus, as was the case with the Emperor and His family, commoners were not allowed to see those who rode inside any carriages. The faces of the highborn ladies within the daimyō’s circle, especially females of marriageable years, were never exposed—not even to their betrothed, and then only on their wedding night. At least that was the theory. In reality, sometimes passions needed quenching long before the nuptials, even if it were with someone other than a husband-to-be.
Cold Blood Page 1
