The hull rose above his head, patched with gray. The air around the wreck was thick with the smell of sodden wood and the biting tang of pitch. Iwata moved around to the deck. Lying across the half-buried mast was a body. The man lay facedown like a dropped bag of rice. Iwata guessed he was one of the sailors. Iwata’s gaze roved the ship as he darted to the corpse. Without looking down, he crouched and pressed two fingertips to the man’s throat. Cold, as he’d expected, but also ragged. His fingers came away stained with viscous black blood. The man’s throat had been ripped open like the other sailor. Like Kumomo. The damned creature had killed the entire crew, and when it drifted ashore, it left them on the sand like refuse.
How long had it taken for the ship to land there? Could the fox still be inside the hold? Iwata rose. He drew his short sword. Doubly armed, he carefully approached the ship. One of the hatches gaped open like a blackened, toothless mouth. It was higher than Iwata’s head, but a pair of intact barrels lay just below it. The fox wouldn’t need assistance to get in or out of the ship. But a human would.
A quarter hour later, when the man emerged, Iwata was waiting.
The man backed out of the hatch, so he didn’t see Iwata come up behind him. The short sword was at his throat before he could climb down from the barrels. The sack he’d been dragging behind him fell to the sand with a dull thump. Iwata felt him stiffen.
“Turn around, but lift your hands so I can see them.” Iwata’s parched throat lent his voice a growling menace.
“Please don’t…” The man raised his hands slowly. They were dry and cracked. Fisherman’s hands.
“Is anyone alive in there?” Iwata knew the answer already.
“No. Just… bodies. With their throats ripped, like that one there. They were all dead when we found the ship last night,” he added quickly as if Iwata could ever believe this fool was capable of slaughtering an entire ship’s crew.
Iwata lowered his sword and stepped back, but didn’t sheathe his weapons. The man turned warily to face him, and Iwata saw they were around the same age. “When did the ship beach?”
“It was found last night. Some squid fisherman… you have to fish squid at night.”
“And you didn’t bother to give these men a proper cremation? You left them to rot out here instead?” Even enemy soldiers were cremated after a battle.
The fisherman’s expression went from fearful to sullen. “Something evil was on that ship. It killed every man on it. Can you blame us for not wanting anything to do with it?”
“It didn’t frighten you away from looting the cargo.” Iwata jerked his head toward the bag he’d dropped. The fisherman flushed red.
A twinge of pain in his shoulder dimmed his outrage. Iwata sighed. “I know what it is. We were tracking it to this island when our boat capsized. Another man waits beyond that cliff. He’s injured. We’ll retrieve him and go to your village.”
“Yes, of course!” The man nodded, probably eager to make up for the sin of abandoning the corpses. Then his brow furrowed. “Were there others with you?”
“Why?”
“We found another one. Here, near the ship. A young man.”
“Was he dead?”
“No, but he was hurt, delirious. He’s at the village head’s house. We didn’t know if he came from the ship or not, but the village head said she’d take him in.”
“Very noble.” Relief stole some of the sarcasm from Iwata’s words.
The man offered a tentative smile. “There’s a path over the cliff, through the woods. We can go around to collect your companion. Easier than climbing that rock pile again.”
It would take longer to go that way. “I’ll meet you there.”
The man shrugged. His gaze flickered over to the abandoned sack. Iwata rested his hand on the hilt of his katana, frowning, and the fisherman backed toward the trees.
Iwata’s body moaned in protest as he made his way back over the rockfall. When he reached the top, he saw Hiroshi where he’d left him. He looked like a bedraggled bird of prey.
Iwata sank down next to him and took Hiroshi’s hand in both of his. Hiroshi leaned on him, his tangled hair falling over Iwata’s shoulder.
“Daigo is alive,” Iwata told him.
Hiroshi raised his head, his anxious gaze fastening to Iwata’s face. “Did you see him?”
“No.” Iwata explained about the ship and fisherman.
Hiroshi’s grip on his hand tightened. “They’re all dead?”
“Yes, but Daigo’s alive. He didn’t mention Fumihiro or the dog.” He leaned his forehead against Hiroshi’s so their noses nearly touched. Hiroshi’s eyes flickered up to his, weary and worried. Iwata wanted to kiss him, but he felt suddenly shy. And as he hesitated, a rustling in the trees indicated the arrival of the fisherman.
THE VILLAGE was probably a quarter hour from the beach, but it took Iwata and Hiroshi almost twice that to limp along the narrow forest path. The fisherman had gruffly introduced himself as Gohda once he’d gotten past his apparent surprise at finding them in such an intimate position. A glare from Iwata had silenced whatever words had been about to fall from his gaping mouth. He paced ahead of them, stopping every few minutes so they could catch up.
The path opened into a clearing that held a collection of houses, small but neatly kept. This far from the sea, Iwata noticed how badly he stank of fish and salt.
There were a few people about: two women working in a garden, some children playing near the tree line, an old man slowly lifting a bucket from the well in the center of the houses. They all stared curiously at Gohda and the strangers. A dog began to bark.
“Where’s your healer?” Iwata called to Gohda.
“No,” Hiroshi said. “Where’s my nephew?”
Gohda glanced from one to the other as if trying to decide which to obey. “Mistress Noriko’s house is this way. She’s the village head. She’s at the winter fishing grounds, but her daughter is there looking after your kinsman.”
They followed him into the scatter of houses. Iwata hadn’t taken four steps when something small and white raced around the corner of a house. The white dog barreled into his legs, causing his knees to quiver. Its tongue lolled from between its teeth, trying to lick any part of Iwata it could reach.
Hiroshi grinned at the animal. It wagged its tail at him only briefly and then turned adoring eyes back to Iwata. Despite himself, Iwata felt compelled to bend down painfully and scratch the dog’s ears. It wriggled with joy. Its fur felt soft and looked cleaner than before.
The white dog trotted at his heels as he helped Hiroshi along the path to where Gohda fidgeted impatiently by the largest of the houses. “You didn’t say you found a dog.”
“You didn’t ask. The children took care of it. Even gave it a bath.”
Iwata sensed Hiroshi looking at him. Well, he’d grown used to the annoying little beast.
The village head’s house was short and broad with a thatched roof and two steps to a long covered walkway. Strings of drying herbs swayed from a corner of the roof like a fragrant curtain.
Gohda knocked lightly at the door. “Mistress Kyoko?”
The paneled door slid aside, revealing a woman about thirty. Her long braid was pinned around her head. Her eyes slanted sharply, and her hand on the door was thick and rough.
“What is it Master Goh—” She caught sight of Iwata and Hiroshi at the bottom of the steps. “Are you… Master Daigo’s uncle?”
She was looking at Iwata. “No, he is.” He nodded to Hiroshi.
“You’re hurt too! Master Gohda, can you fetch the healer? Please come in. Master Daigo will be so glad to see you.” She stepped back. Iwata noticed that she raised her sleeve to her nose as they shuffled in.
The front room was sparsely furnished with a table, a shelf, and baskets of rice and dried fruit. The fire pit was cold. The white dog pushed past them and rushed into an adjoining room.
Kyoko peered into the doorway. “Master Daigo, are you awake?”
<
br /> There was a faint reply. Kyoko backed out of the doorway. “Please go in.”
Daigo lay on a mat, almost hidden beneath a mound of blankets. A brazier burned in the corner, flooding the room with faint heat. Daigo’s face was a mass of white and purple scrapes, bruises, and cuts. He’d had a worse time of it than either of them.
“Uncle! My lord!” His voice rasped weakly. He tried to sit up but fell back with a gasp of pain.
Hiroshi knelt beside him. Daigo reached out and touched his arm as if he didn’t quite believe he was real. His knuckles were bandaged. “You’re hurt.”
“Broken wrist. Not nearly as bad as you, it seems. Sho’s all right. What happened?”
Daigo shook his head ruefully. “After you jumped into the sea, it was as if some giant beneath the boat stood up. We all went flying. When we hit the water, the corner of the boat must have struck me in the head.” He tried to shrug but winced instead. “Nothing. I woke up on the beach, by the wrecked ship.”
“Would you like tea?” Kyoko appeared in the door, laden with a wooden tray.
Iwata inclined his head as she handed him a cup. Warmth bled through the clay into his bruised hands. The tea smelled bittersweet. He drained the cup in two gulps.
Hiroshi accepted his tea with a grateful smile that raised a flush in Kyoko’s cheeks. Iwata almost laughed. Even battered and filthy, Hiroshi could still charm anyone.
She slipped an arm around Daigo’s shoulders to help him sit up. “We found Master Daigo on the beach by the ship. There are rocks off that beach, just under the surface of the water. The healer thinks he received most of his wounds when the waves swept him into them. The little dog was with him. She seems unhurt.”
“And Fumihiro?”
The light in Daigo’s eyes dimmed. “After the funa-yurei attacked, I didn’t see him again. He didn’t wash up with me.”
“I’ll have to find a way to compensate his family.” Hiroshi gazed into the cloudy green tea. “He was out there because I hired him. But everything I owned is now at the bottom of the ocean.”
The white dog leaped up and trotted out of the room. A moment later the front door opened. A man’s voice called, “Mistress Kyoko?”
She carefully helped Daigo lie down again. “The healer. I’ll bring him in.”
The healer was an old man with a face like a dried peach. His back was hunched, his head almost bald, but the glance he gave them was sharp. “The young man is recovering. You”—he shuffled over to Hiroshi—“are the one who needs me.”
Iwata watched nervously as the man’s thin fingers untied Hiroshi’s makeshift sling. Hiroshi’s arm was still swollen, purple and blackened, but Iwata didn’t think it looked any worse than it had that morning.
“It happened yesterday,” he said. “Is there any chance, after so many hours…?”
“Of the blood being poisoned?” The healer turned to the box he’d brought in with him. “It only happens when the bone tears the skin. But it must be set, young man. You might lose feeling in your hand even so.”
“It’s not my sword hand, at least.”
“A soldier, eh?” The healer sprinkled some crushed herbs into a fresh cup of tea. “Drink this. It will dull the pain a little. Though I suspect you’ve endured worse, with that scar on your face.”
He gripped Hiroshi’s arm with both hands. Hiroshi drank the tea quickly. He closed his eyes. A few minutes later, he nodded. The old man’s placid expression didn’t change as he yanked at Hiroshi’s arm. Hiroshi sucked in a pained breath. Iwata reached for him. Hiroshi clutched his hand, his fingers digging painfully into Iwata’s skin.
The healer sat back and brought out splints and bandages. Hiroshi’s grip eased, but he didn’t let go of Iwata, and Iwata didn’t release him. He glanced up to see Daigo watching them intently.
The healer splinted and bound Hiroshi’s arm. He knotted a clean sling around his neck. “I’ve done what I could. Hopefully it will heal well.”
“Thank you.” Hiroshi smiled wanly.
“Get some sleep, both of you. You look like a pair of ghosts.”
When the man had gone, Kyoko looked uncertainly from one to the other. “You must be tired and hungry. There are extra mats. I could lay them out in here if you’d like to sleep.”
“Mistress,” Daigo interrupted. “If it’s possible, they will probably prefer a different room. The pain keeps me awake, and I snore anyway. They’ll never sleep well in here.”
“Well….” Kyoko hesitated, thinking. “The only other room is the storage closet. There’s space on the floor, I think.”
“Thank you, Mistress. You’re very kind.” Hiroshi rose slowly. “But could we trouble you for some water to wash up with first?”
KYOKO DID better than water. The village head’s house had a proper bathing room, connected to the main house by a covered walkway. Three braziers warmed the little room. They were so effective that sweat beaded Iwata’s face after only a few minutes. There was a single stool, soap, buckets of clean water for rinsing, and a large covered tub. On a table in the corner were two robes and two under-robes, neatly folded.
“They belonged to my father.” Kyoko gestured to the clothes. “I hope they fit. They’re long on Master Daigo, but you’re both taller than him.”
“Thank you.” Iwata was tense with impatience. Would she stand there all afternoon?
As usual Hiroshi was more polite. “You’ve been very kind. And thank you for taking care of my nephew.”
She plucked at her collar, blushing. “We get so few visitors here, especially kin to the Emperor.” She opened the door and glanced back, smiling shyly. “I’m glad you’re here. Master Daigo was distraught to think he’d lost you.” She stepped out, sliding the door shut behind her.
Iwata’s topknot had somehow survived since the day before. Now he reached up to untangle the leather thong that held it fast. But it had been soaked and dried again, and the knot refused to loosen.
“Here’s a razor.” Hiroshi plucked one from between the folded robes. “I suppose it was her father’s too.”
The thong parted at a touch from the razor. Iwata’s chin-length hair fell around his face. It was still damp where it had been gathered up by the tie.
Hiroshi sank down onto the stool, resting his splinted arm across his knees. “Sho?”
“Yes?” Iwata removed his swords from his sash and laid them carefully on the table. He needed to clean them soon.
“Can you help me shave this damned beard?”
“Gladly.” Iwata crouched down in front of Hiroshi, wielding the razor. It gleamed dully in the light that bled through the rice paper windows. “You trust me?”
Hiroshi studied him a moment, his eyes inscrutable. With his good hand, he picked up the cream-colored brick of soap and handed it to Iwata, who worked it into a lather and carefully spread it over the stiff hair on Hiroshi’s face.
“I almost forgot how gentle you can be.” Hiroshi’s jaw moved against his fingers.
Iwata rinsed his hands. “Why did you grow it out?”
“I told you, it’s hard to stay clean-shaven when you travel. Sagawara Hiroshi would never wear a beard, but the Fox Hunter did. I never liked it, though. It itches.”
“Hold still.” Iwata examined Hiroshi’s face, searching for the best place to begin.
Hiroshi didn’t move when the blade touched his skin. His gaze remained fixed on Iwata’s face as if he wanted to memorize him. His warm breath brushed Iwata’s hands as he worked. Iwata’s nerves hummed, but he forced himself to concentrate, working as slowly as he could, maneuvering the razor around the pale scar that marred the right half of Hiroshi’s face.
The face that emerged from under the stubble didn’t exactly match the one in Iwata’s memory. The angles were the same, the skin beneath the beard paler than around his eyes. He looked older than Iwata remembered. But then, Hiroshi was older, and so was Iwata.
The shaving took a long time. Hiroshi never moved except to blink. When
he finished, Iwata wiped the soap from his face and examined him critically. “I did the best I could.”
Hiroshi touched his chin gingerly and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Then he leaned forward and kissed Iwata.
There was nothing hesitant about the kiss, but also no urgency. Before, the formality demanded by their differing ranks had ensured their intimacy occurred only when they were behind the fabric walls of a tent, safely hidden. Their few private hours had been shot through with desperate, fumbling hunger. Now Iwata leaned in, parting his lips. It felt strange, kissing Hiroshi because he wanted to, not because his body demanded it.
Hiroshi was smiling when he broke the kiss. “The herbs the healer gave me are working, an hour late.”
“I’ll help you.” Iwata pulled off Hiroshi’s robe. He worked a handful of soap into Hiroshi’s hair. Lady Kumomo had had beautiful hair, long and shiny as a raven’s wing. Hiroshi’s was every bit as lovely. “You know, I never saw your hair loose until that last day.”
“I hated it when I was younger. Momo never let me cut it. She said the girls would like it when I was older.” He smiled wryly. “I had to cut it for the same reason I grew the beard.”
Iwata twisted a strand of Hiroshi’s hair around his finger. The soap smelled of jasmine, thick and heady. “Did you cut it before or after you met Kaji?” He hadn’t meant to say the words, hadn’t even been thinking of Kaji until he heard his own voice say his name. The thought of Kaji tangling his hands in Hiroshi’s hair, feeling it brush his face when they kissed…. Iwata’s hand tightened into a fist, pulling the strand tight.
Hiroshi tilted his head back, lips pressed into a frown. “I suspected you met him. He told you where I was, didn’t he?” Iwata said nothing. “You weren’t celibate for eight years either, Sho. Kaji understood. We both had our own pain. I didn’t love him. And you weren’t there.”
Late Summer, Early Spring Page 13
