They waded through the torchlight and shadow, up the long ramp back to daylight. The little man leaned, unevenly, along.
“I’ll return it, soon enough, maybe,” the ronin said.
“I’ll say nothing, though my skull is sore. As you say, it could have been worse.”
“I’m looking for the man they say killed her. If you hear anything interesting concerning this business, leave word for me at Haru’s tavern or the Pine and Crane, and you may be rewarded.”
“I know Haru’s.”
Takezo went out into the brightness and heavy heat. The last few days had been hotter than he could remember. Bad time to be an unburied corpse. Salting might be better, he considered. He went to the first front gate, past workers, merchants and samurai. Everybody was drooping a little. Moving slowly, he stopped by the sentry post and asked to see the Lady Issa.
The burly, short guard was unimpressed.
“So this is how to dress, fellow,” the guard inquired, “coming to Lord Hideo’s court?”
“Am I too formal?” he wondered, reaching out the golden tablet.
“Hah.” The guard squinted at it. “What’s this?”
“Can you read? Are your eyes sore?”
The sun was hot pressure on the back of his head. He needed a hat.
“Insolence,” said the guard.
The ronin sighed.
“No one approves of me,” he said. “Saddening.”
“I see it is a pass. Pass then. Take your bad manners, too.”
He entered the castle proper where the next sentry stood, holding a halberd-like weapon. Behind him light poured into the hall from high, narrow windows. The air was much cooler.
This one wanted to know if he had an appointment. He was graceful and friendly-looking.
“Tell her I have something that belonged to her late daughter,” Takezo said.
“Give it to me, then,” said the guard, but Takezo shook his head. “Do you expect money?”
“I expect to see Issa,” Takezo said.
“Lady Issa.”
“So must she be, whether I say so or not. Unless she’s otherwise.”
This man wasn’t irritated. His eyes showed amusement.
“Are you a samurai or did you steal those swords?”
“I won the katana in a duel with a spearman.”
The sentry smiled, faintly.
“I’ll submit your humble request to the Lady,” he said.
A 12-year-old with a short sword at his belt led Takezo to an anteroom. He’d slipped off his tabi at the main door and left them with a row of other footgear. Used a footbowl to wash his feet.
The room had a low, sliding door and a woman knelt-walked in with tea. She kept glancing sidelong at him, as most women did. He sat in a loose lotus position, stretched and looked at her soft delicate feet as she made the graceful serving movements.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” she responded. “Are you… ” Broke off, bowing her head.
He knew what was coming. Was used to it.
“No,” he said. “I am not Seki.”
“Ah. Yet you resemble him. I thought you might be in disguise.”
“Actors are always in disguise.”
He liked her face and was automatically flirting. But that brought back the image of Miou tossing the cursed comb in his face.
I’ll make Yazu swallow it whole, the ronin said to himself, that wretched thief…
As the girl was hunkering back out the low door, he said:
“Bring sake.”
“Yes, sir,” she responded, bowing out and shutting the little panel.
Suppose I live a long life, he pondered. What will I do with it? Strange, how each woman is much the same yet where they are different, in the smallest ways, is a whole new dish to taste… the mystery is, why they endure men at all… there must be something in nature to blind them… He liked that idea. Smiled.
While he was employed staring at the wave and half-moon pattern on the floor matting and asking unanswerable questions, the door opened, again.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll entertain you, sweet beauty.”
“Gracious of you, Sir Jiro,” said a man’s voice, followed by the harsh, bony, handsome face and goatish body of the clan chamberlain, Reiko. “You flatter me.” He chuckled.
“Chamberlain, I’m dazzled.”
The wiry man bowed and sat on his heels across the low table. The girl came in with a tray of cups and three jugs of wine. That was unusual: normally, as you drank one they would go fetch another. Takezo nodded back, stiffly as ever.
Reiko’s droop-lidded, not-quite-impolite stare was on him.
“How generous,” the ronin said, indicating the three jugs.
“Why tire this girl with creeping in and out? We respect your great capacities, Sir Jiro.”
“Ah,” Takezo said, taking one of the jugs before the girl could pour and took a long, long swallow; unseemly, even in a low tavern. Impulse, again. And it was good. Highest quality, cool castle sake.
It annoyed him that Reiko seemed pleased. This chamberlain was known to be as devious as his lord, Hideo, was straightforward. While the master showed temper, the vassal showed very little, of anything.
Supposed to be a good swordsman and master of the spear, Takezo recalled. Hard to read his weaknesses…
“Where is the lady?” he asked, taking another deep swallow, as the girl, delicately, poured a cup for Reiko who ignored it and, instead, took a jug himself and sipped, motioning the girl to withdraw.
“Most unfortunate. You should have sent word ahead for an appointment. She is occupied. I have come in her place, Sir Jiro. You may open your heart to me.”
“You don’t need to call me ‘sir.’ And, don’t you mean open my belly, Chamberlain?” They both laughed, a little. “I’ll open my heart to you after the demons in hell,” Takezo concluded.
Reiko seemed to like that, too. Nodded and smiled.
“You are as rude as they say,” he observed.
Takezo felt pointlessly pleased with himself. He liked irritating authority. Could already feel the alcohol blending with his mind and lifting his spirits into a kind of jocular anger. Very, very good sake. Hint of cherries. He lifted the jug again, as did the other man. They drank for a while.
“Well,” said the chamberlain, “what might you want with the Lady Issa? You say you have something that belonged to her unfortunate child?”
Another swig. Now, there was a slight, bubbling blur in his head. He dimly sensed he was feeling it too fast. His eyes felt softened.
“I want to steal her from her noble husband,” he said. Noted that the other’s eyes weren’t reacting to the insult, itself, but looked he thought, (even through the soothing blurring) sharp and almost worried. “Poor Osan. Such a lovely woman. So gifted.” Reiko didn’t seem to show pain at this – but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Takezo considered he might have disliked her. It was well-known that men often felt threatened by her mind and competence. “I know your sorrow must be deep, chamberlain.”
“Like a hot knife in my heart, Sir Jiro.”
“So your heart has been found.”
The ronin shook the jug. Empty. Didn’t want to but reached for the next.
So easy to drink this, he thought. He always had trouble stopping. Unlike many drinkers, he didn’t hate himself for it. He tried to recall Genghis Khan’s law: Drinking must be restricted for when a man drinks too much his wits avail him little, his arrows miss the mark and he falls from his pony… something like that, I think… so a man must not drink to…
“As the Great Khan said,” he semi-quoted, closing his eyes, “a man must not drink to excess too many times a month. But who can abstain altogether?”
“Certainly not you, Sir Jiro. May I see what you have?”
“Your real question is: can you take it from me? How much blood is it worth, my lord chamber pot?”
That was extreme. The politic
ian’s right hand clenched and stirred, slightly, towards the short sword he’d beside him when he sat. But he smiled, instead.
“Is what worth?” Reiko asked, coldly.
“How much blood for a trinket?”
“We must see, I suppose. Why do you test me, Takezo?”
“Now I’m not Sir Jiro anymore, eh?” Shut his eyes again and the room definitely shifted a little. Blinked hard, trying to concentrate. Took another swallow. His lips felt thicker. “We must see, I suppose, too.” Laughed. It seemed funny.
Reiko took a sip, from his cup, this time, watching, seeming to almost be timing Takezo’s progressing condition.
“We admire your skills,” said the chamberlain.
His skills are lost and he falls, the ronin went back to the quote.
“From my pony,” he said, and laughed, again.
“Eh?”
“That’s very funny.”
He’s tricking me, his mind said. I’d like to kill him… Laughed.
He tucked his sword under his belt and stood up. The room tilted, slightly.
“Where is the lady?” he demanded.
“Occupied.”
“Bring me my pony, then.”
“What use is the ring to you?”
“Hm? What ring?”
“Osan’s ring. Give it to me, now.”
Takezo reeled. Headed for the door. Thought about how he’d have to duck down to get out.
“Who said it was a ring?”
“You did.”
“Where’s my pony, now?”
“Waiting.”
He crouched his way half out the sliding door and then stayed crouched for a few seconds. Shut his eyes but that was no good. Blinked them open.
“Can’t trust this room,” he said, looking out into the corridor. Noticed feet under robes, passing. Somewhere, far away, the chamberlain was saying:
“Best to rest, Sir Jiro.”
So he was Sir Jiro again. That couldn’t be good. The impaired spy shook his head like a wet dog and crawled out into the corridor. He decided not to stand, yet.
The serving girl knelt by him.
“I think the wine was strong, sir,” she said quietly. “May I assist you?”
Some people had stopped to watch. Takezo grunted and clumped forward on hands and knees. He was aware that Reiko was now standing behind him. He was also aware of men’s feet in fine quality tabi hose keeping pace with him. Someone snorted a laugh.
Fool, he told himself. … no restraint… I’m getting older… this kind of life is less interesting…
The chamberlain’s voice, high and far off, was saying:
“We must help this gentleman to a comfortable mat.”
“To a dog’s bed,” someone suggested. Laughter.
The girl knelt along with him, hand on one of his arms.
“If you are a ninja spy,” she whispered, “you are the worst one known.”
“Mn?” he grunted. “What’s this?”
“What humiliation,” a second male voice said.
“Shameless,” said the one who’d laughed. Laughed again.
“Get away from him, girl,” ordered Reiko.
“Trust Miou,” the young woman whispered as she bowed away from him.
“She hates me,” he reacted.
“She does not, Takezo-san,” he thought he heard her say.
How does she know Miou? Strong hands now lifted him to his feet. He felt better, letting himself sag in their arms. A mistake to help me up…
“Keep his sword safe, for him,” chamberlain Reiko recommended.
He was facing the wall where an ancient hanging scroll painting in red, black and gold, depicted an assassination. A lord at formal dinner with his retainers was suddenly being set upon by a samurai in priest’s robes. He thought he vaguely recalled the tale. Reminded him of something he’d once done on stage when he was a boy in the acting troupe…
He sagged lower to pull the two men forward, one on each arm, then arched the other way and broke their hold. The movement made the room take a quarter-turn and triggered nausea. Unless they drew weapons he couldn’t, not in here. A capital offense, generally, to attack while technically a guest.
He tilted and went at a rapid stagger into the main hall where he saw the blur of the two main doors and sentries – shut one eye and saw one of each.
Better, he thought. One eye… better than none… Was that a saying? Should be. Didn’t quite chuckle. Too many people now to attack a guest… even with one eye open… Had to chuckle that time as he reeled, unpredictably (on purpose) in the general direction of out, seeing lots of bright print outfits all around.
“Help that poor man,” cried Reiko from well back.
Someone tried but Takezo spun, half-fell, scrambled up and reeled almost to the big door, a shimmer of bright sun. The serving girl from the room reached for him and managed to get in the way of the next man.
“The lady Issa was occupied,” he called out, amused to be thwarting the chamberlain in a childish way since he was a little hazy on whether he really meant to help him or not. “I will come back another time.”
Paused and wobbled in the doorway. Looked for the girl but she was gone. He found that, again, curious. Had blurry ideas about her. The sentry was watching him, grinning.
“I’d come again more quietly,” he suggested.
Another one worth asking a few questions, his uncertain consciousness duly noted, as he went outside, weaving.
Reiko was closer, now.
“Stop him,” he commanded. “He has stolen something.”
Takezo went out into the shimmering, golden pressure of mid-summer heat. Stood, barefoot and waited, free to fight, now. He’d fought drunk, before. He knew the sake had been spiked, but they’d underestimated him. Ninjas, he knew, would have used a drug to put him under or the sleeping smoke he vaguely remembered being taught how to concoct as a boy. Several samurai stood in the doorway just inside the sunglare.
He squinted at their outlines in the stark shadow. Didn’t make out Reiko but heard him saying:
“Let him go. Not worth it now.”
“Give my regrets to the lady,” he told them.
“Come back sober,” one called out. “That way we’ll never have to see you.”
Lots of laughter. Somebody tossed his sandals to him and he slipped them on. Headed away from the castle.
Miou is right, he thought. I drink like a Mongol… That goat of a chamberlain is playing a game…
Still a little wobbly, he crossed the short bridge to a curving main street lined with Camilla trees. On the far side, he passed through the gate to the next city ward that at night would be shut and guarded by a district policeman (yoriki). The little city was divided into compartments that could be sealed off whenever a local uprising started. There was good reason for that, from the buke (warrior class) point-of-view. Shut one eye and saw a familiar, small, lean, somewhat furtive figure moving between two rows of pushcarts with vegetable and fowl for sale. A dozen goose heads hung over the side. The warrior detective thought he resembled something that lived in a cave and was scurrying back to the safe dimness.
“Yazu!” he called, speeding up after him. Yazu seemed to be limping and Takezo decided someone had probably kicked him. Well, he had another kick or so coming to him as reward for Miou’s bad comb. He was married to a fat, mean-spirited woman who gave him little peace. Takezo had planned to look for him later that night where he might be sleeping in the stable behind the Pine and Crane tavern – favorite of both of them. That way, if Yazu didn’t go home his wife wouldn’t find him drunk in the place, again. Once had been plenty. Takezo had been in a semi-stupor, himself, that night. He remembered the big woman dragging the leathery runt by the hair out the door, amusing and edifying the customers. “Yazu!”
The furtive man twisted around to look, then limped on, more quickly and, before the ronin could close the distance, cut from the street across a short board sidewalk, tabi slappi
ng, into the crowded confusion of the main marketplace.
“Not my fault, master!” he yelled back. “I was deceived by a villain!”
“You’ll soon be beheaded,” promised the pursuer, wincing from the jolts as he ran. A moment later a sleek, fat black bull with decorated horns stepped out from between two carts as Takezo, stopping instantly, skidded in a puddle of water and vegetable refuse and bounced off the massive creature.
He snarled, then touched his pulsing head with both hands.
“May 6 devils eat his heart!” he muttered.
I’ll find him later… take a rest… no more drinking… see the lady Issa soon enough…
He sat down on the sort of boardwalk and watched the bull saunter on, dropping a few soft “dumplings” in his own memory. A barefoot boy went by, a pole across his shoulders with a half-a-dozen Noh stage painted facemasks dangling on strings. The masks took Takezo back to his teenage days working in the theater. The masks always bothered him because you’d smell your own hot breath and see mainly blurs from the narrow eyeslits. To his fancy, the faces seemed to be gazing around as they twisted slightly on their strings. One beautiful-woman mask looked at him, for a moment, vaguely suggesting Miou – except the long, tilted eyes were just empty shadows.
Miou was a high-ranked shirabyoshi – and the joke went that they could wear the obi sash belts tied in back like a respectable woman. Plain prostitutes closed it in front for speed in dressing and undressing.
What next? He wondered. I’m getting nowhere with anything… I’ve got the stupid ring which endangers me from the clan… got the worthless hair-holder which endangers me from my woman… Frowned. If she still is my woman… and what does that mean, anyway? She earns more than I do and I wonder what she wants with me… she should be with a wealthy samurai or generous merchant… I thought that comb was a big deal… ha… she doesn’t want my gifts, as she pointed out herself… doesn’t need them…
Watched the masks swaying across the street, now facing front, now behind as the boy plodded on into and out of the sunlight. Took him back.
How long now since I was on stage? He squinted one eye. I liked it, I admit I liked it… most of the time…
He often used disguises in his work, even when not entirely unnecessary. Maybe, he considered, he wanted to be something else, always.
Dead Blossoms: The Third Geisha Page 4
