She wondered briefly if his awkwardness would have made him an easier target for seduction… Not by her, of course, by some other woman, never by her. She wouldn’t even know how to go about it — although she would be eighteen next year, until now she hadn’t even thought about boys in that way.
What am I thinking? I must not get distracted from my mission. In a few weeks he’ll be gone, never to return.
The first distant shadows of the mountains appeared menacingly on the southern horizon sooner than Satō had expected. It was raining over the jagged ridge, a heavy, dark, torn veil of clouds descending on the forested mountain tops. The rainwater turned to vapour and rose back to the sky in fast moving billows, giving the mountainside a semblance of being on fire, only to fall back to the ground again in another shower a few miles farther north. The south-easterly wind pushed the clouds towards the coast.
“The rain will be here tomorrow,” she said, “and it looks like it’s going to stay.”
“Surely it’s not the rainy season yet?” asked Nagomi.
“That’s still a few weeks off, but you never know so close to the mountains. The weather here can be dangerous.”
As she had predicted, the clouds descended from the mountains by the next morning, covering the sky with an impenetrable layer of grey. She asked Bran to obtain straw cloaks and bamboo hats for all of them in the nearest village and they trudged slowly on under the first drops of cold rain. Midges and mosquitoes soon rose from the marshes and attacked them with tremendous determination.
“I wish we could ride your dorako now,” she said, waving the insects away and looking at the low-hanging clouds.
Bran nodded, but did not respond, deep in his own thoughts.
“I still can’t believe there are scholars of Western magic here in Yamato,” he said after a while, using the more modern manner of speaking, as Satō had taught him. “I have never met or even heard of anyone like you since leaving Brigstow. The Qin ignore it - they have their own ways and they don’t care for what we do, since they believe themselves superior to any other race. The beast-heads of Bharata are themselves creatures of magic, so they don’t need to study it.”
“Oh, if only you could have met my old man,” sighed Satō sadly. “I remember him conversing with the Overwizards of Dejima like an equal.”
“I’m sure Bran-sama and your father will have a chance to meet and talk with each other once all this is over,” Nagomi said, and Satō was grateful for this attempt at lightening the mood.
“It will be an honour and a pleasure,” said the dragon rider, “but if you have Bataavians teaching you and trading with you, why is there so little Western advancement in your country?”
He waved his hand over the fields.
“You must know, Kiyō is a... special place,” replied Satō, “because of all the foreigners with whom we meet and trade, we’re much more open-minded. Sometimes the attitude of the Yamato people is as distrustful or ignorant as that which you describe in Qin. Believe me, if you started casting spells in the middle of some village in the north, you”d still get pelted with stones — by those who would not run away, that is.”
“I see.”
“The government hates and fears change,” she added with bile. “They only allow a few licensed premises to study the Rangaku, the Western sciences.”
“It’s not just the Taikun though, is it?” said Nagomi. “We all don’t like things to change too much. The old ways were always better, that’s what you’d hear if you asked anyone in these villages.”
“I suppose it’s the same in villages all over the world,” Bran said with a smile, “but the villages don’t set up the national policy.”
“That may be true, but in Yamato change always brings disaster of some sort; a war or a revolt. We haven’t had one for over two centuries. It’s enough to get used to how things are run,” said Satō. “My old man often mentioned the ‘balance of power’ between the great lords, which would collapse if any of them tried to change the existing state of affairs,” she added.
“Sometimes a change is a good thing,” said Bran, looking pensive. “Those poor people in that rotten village, I’ m sure they would welcome any change.”
“And how would you propose to help them?” Satō asked dryly.
He started telling them of the machines used by the farmers in his homeland, of how magic, engineering and science produced new crops that gave a greater harvest with less work. Satō politely nodded and feigned interest. She did not care about peasants and farming, she much preferred it when he talked about dragons and war.
He’s a country boy, she realised, listening to the lecture. He may come from a more advanced civilisation, but he’s been raised in a countryside, among farmers. Somehow she had imagined everyone in the West lived in great cities — but of course, the Westerners had to grow food somewhere too. I wonder if he’s even a noble born? I never asked him about his ancestors...
They walked for a while in silence, interrupted only by the sound of their hands slapping at their necks and faces. The rain changed to a light stinging drizzle. The road became muddy and unstable, barely good enough to walk, and their straw sandals badly needed replacing.
They were halfway through their daily distance, travelling now across a land reclaimed from the sea, mile after mile of perfectly flat polders, divided by a myriad of causeways and dams into neat rectangles of swampy rice paddies, lotus fields and rush ponds.
“So the Bataavians are not helping you with these?” Bran asked.
Satō shook her head, dreading another lecture on agriculture.
“We’ve been doing this for hundreds of years on our own. By ancient law, anyone who reclaims terrain from the sea gets to keep the land.”
“Unbelievable. My house in Gwynedd stands near a dyke like that one.” Bran’s arm arced the horizon. “There are many sluices and dams at Cantre’r Gwaelod, guarding the most fertile land in all Prydain, but it would all have sunk under the sea a long time ago if we had no magic. Bataavians are particularly good at this sort of thing, that’s why I thought — “
“There’s no need for magic when you have hard working people,” she said with pride, which surprised her. She felt the need to defend the Yamato from this Westerner, maybe because of the way she had ranted about their ignorance and backwardness before.
“One day we will learn all the magic we need,” she added firmly, “then we’ll be able to change not only the Yamato, but the world.”
“Or the world will change you,” remarked Bran.
Suddenly he hissed, cursed loudly in his own language and started limping. He crouched and examined his feet. The straps of his left sandal were broken and a wide scratch ran along the side of the foot; he must have stepped on a sharp stone.
“That’s my last pair,” he stated, “now I have to walk barefoot until we can find another shoemaker who can make sandals to fit my feet.”
“That won’t be easy,” said Satō, giggling.
Bran glanced quickly behind then stood up and looked towards the northern horizon with a frown.
“What is it?” she asked.
She looked back too, but the flood plain lay open and empty all around them as far as the eye could see.
“Nothing...” Bran shook his head. “It was just for a moment... I could swear I saw somebody following us, but there’s nobody there.”
“It would be difficult to hide anywhere in this bare flatland,” said Satō, dismissing his concern.
“I must be seeing things in the rain.”
The boy shrugged and moved on, limping slightly.
CHAPTER XII
Hosokawa Narimori, the tenth ruling lord of Kumamoto, was sitting by the reading desk in a study room on the third floor of his formidable black castle. The sliding walls of this small chamber were covered with golden foil and magnificent paintings of green cypresses growing on blue mountaintops, river valleys, waterfalls and cedar tree groves. This was Hosokawa’s favourite
place in the castle, reminding him there was a more peaceful, more beautiful world outside the walls of the busy city below the keep. He had had the straw mats removed from the floor and put a high chair and a reading desk by the window.
The furniture was of Vasconian make, almost three hundred years old. The desk was of solid dark oak, a rectangular top supported by sculpted columns. The chair was of the same set, with a leather seat studded with brass rivets and a back of ebony, carved with scenes of maritime life, fishermen at sea and great trade galleons. The Eagle of Rome spread its wings proudly over the crest.
Lord Hosokawa preferred to sit by this desk and work in a Western manner, rather than at the usual low table with just a flat cushion for a chair. The ancient exotic furniture reminded him of the glory days of his clan, and he found the rigid upright position helped him to focus better — and focus and peace of mind were what he needed the most. After all, he had an entire province to rule, a province vast, populous and rich.
His ancestors had enjoyed the longest period of peace in known history. Ancient armour of the clan’s founder stood, its lacquered scales gleaming white, under the wall of the room, reminding him of the violent past, but it was just a copy ordered by Narimori’s father in times of prosperity. Polished daily by the servants, it was never to be used in combat.
Narimori had hoped this peace would last at least throughout his time. Unfortunately, recent events made it seem increasingly unlikely.
He was now reading a seven-centuries-old excerpt from the chronicles of Karatsu Shrine, for the third time. It was written in an archaic language, with archaic alphabet, and Hosokawa struggled with deciphering every line. He wasn’t even sure if his work would be worth the effort. So far, he couldn’t find anything in the old chronicles to help him solve his conundrum.
Lord Shimazu Nariakira, daimyo of Satsuma and Lord Hosokawa’s closest ally, had asked him personally for this favour.
“I need your books, Narimori.” Nariakira referred to the lord of Kumamoto by his first name, indicating how close they were. “I need your grandfather’s libraries, your learned monks. I have many books on engineering, economy, agriculture, magic, all very modern and very useful, but your clan has always been more interested in the past, ancient histories, myths and legends. Perhaps we can find some answers there.”
How did one deal with a dragon? Sure, the legends gave vivid descriptions of the creature, its dreadful presence and powers of destruction, and told at length of how heroes and warlords fought and defeated them in valiant combat or how priests and monks placated them and persuaded to leave the populace in peace. However, he had found no clue, no hint as to what one should do with a captive sedated beast, like the one Lord Nariakira had shown him a few days earlier.
Killing it was not an option; it was too precious, too important. If tamed, it would have made a formidable weapon against any enemies of the Southern lords. Hosokawa dared not yet think of using the dragon against the Taikun himself. For two hundred and fifty years the daimyos of the Southern provinces had been harbouring their grudges and plotted the demise of the Tokugawa regime. The plans never went any further than annual meetings of the resentful daimyo, on the anniversaries of the fateful Battle of Sekigahara, where their ancestors had been so soundly defeated. They all drank lots of saké and raised many patriotic toasts — and rode back to their residences harmlessly… But the discovery and capture of the dragon on the beach of Satsuma had the potential to change everything.
If only they knew how to use it.
He stood up from the desk and walked to a larger window on the other side of the room. From there he could see beyond the castle walls and moat, all the way to the Shirakawa River in its serpentine coils, the river harbour filled with boats and ships, and a merchant district that had grown on the other side of the river, opposite the old city. His subjects were getting ready to sleep as the sun set beyond the western sea, painting the horizon bright red.
The sky today is the colour of steel and blood, he thought. There’s a poem in that.
“In the first year of the Angen era we got news of the great white Ryū of Kurama Temple in Heian defeated by a young warrior of sixteen years. There was much jubilation, and the Mikado declared a day of gratitude throughout the country.”
A clear, stern voice read out the words from a book that lay on the daimyo’s desk. Startled, Hosokawa turned around, pulling out his tantō dagger from a hidden sheath. A pale-faced man with slightly bulging eyes, Vasconian-style whiskers and a pointed beard stood by the desk, looking at the daimyo, smirking.
“You! You’re back!”
The man bowed.
“That’s a splendid desk, kakka. Not many like it left in the country, I believe.”
“I don’t know of anyone else who would have one of this quality, and with a matching chair,” agreed the daimyo. “Have you returned to discuss furniture? I haven’t seen you since my father’s days.”
“You’re reading of dragons? That’s unusual.”
“I have my reasons.” The daimyo’s voice contained a command and a warning. Do not ask anymore.
“I understand.” The intruder bowed. “You seem unhappy, kakka.”
“Of course I’m unhappy!” Hosokawa hid the blade back into the secret sheath and raised his hands in exasperation. “My best advisor has just disappeared on some random errand. The magistrate of Kiyō pesters me with demands. My soothsayers see only darkness wherever they look. There’s been some kind of massacre at one of the city temples — and now you appear in my castle, uninvited, bearing no good news, I bet.”
The man’s face, twisted in a mocking grin all this time, turned serious.
“Which of your advisors is missing?”
“Yokoi. I wouldn’t have anyone else just wander off like that, but I trust his judgment and wisdom too much to question his decisions. Now your face is as sour as mine,” the daimyo said, laughing wryly.
“I was hoping to discuss something with Yokoi-dono tonight.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint.” Hosokawa scowled. “You will have to settle for me, his less knowledgeable superior.”
The samurai scratched his cheek in thought and frowned.
“Are you familiar with the Society of the Eight-Headed Serpent, kakka?”
The daimyo nodded.
“I understand that they have all been vanquished a long time ago.”
“You understand wrongly. They have never been stronger than now, and if we don’t stop them, they may soon grow even more powerful.”
Lord Hosokawa stared at the intruder for a moment then inhaled loudly.
“Come with me to the Quiet Room. It’s the only place in the castle where I’m sure nobody will spy on us.”
For a moment everything fell silent. Not a bird chirped, not an insect buzzed. Even the air stood still as the wind paused in anxious heavy expectation.
The earth moved.
That it was more than just another harmless tremor, Sozaemon first realised when the bottle of sacrificial saké tumbled and rolled off the altar. One by one, the tiny statues of the Bodhisattvas toppled over. The bamboo frame of the wall creaked and heaved. The slates started breaking, the paper tore. The ground groaned and creaked, cracked into hairline fissures that grew dangerously wide with every second.
As abruptly as it had started, it all stopped.
For half a minute more there was silence. Then a lonely frog croaked in the pond and the forest around the shrine erupted in sounds, as if nature was trying to pretend nothing had happened.
Sozaemon crawled out from the futon cupboard and assessed the damage. It was relatively minor. He picked up the statues and fixed the altar trappings. The paper panels would need more work, and money. He dreaded looking at the roof — there were spare tiles under the veranda, but he hated the idea of climbing all the way up.
He sighed. Was it really worth it? There didn’t seem to be anybody who would appreciate his efforts. Even the villagers rarely visited,
and then only to pay their respects to the local kami enshrined in a vermillion chapel behind the Worship Hall. He couldn’t remember the last time anybody had made a substantial offering for the upkeep of the temple.
He was the last of the line, the sixth of the Sozaemons. There used to be three Guardians of the Unganzenji — Brother Sozaemon, Brother Magonojo and Brother Motomenosuke — but the other two clans eventually had neither the will nor the means to appoint new heirs to the insignificant, impoverished temple. Now he was alone in the big house. Maybe it was time to shut the door and move on. He could become an itinerant beggar-monk or go back to Honmyōji. He had heard the old Abbot had died recently, so maybe there was still a vacancy for the position?
Sozaemon opened the offering box to see if he could afford to buy new paper for the walls. There was the usual handful of small coins and, shining like the sun among the clouds, a single piece of gold. It must have been left by the three travellers who came looking for the Abomination. They were a strange group — the boy spoke rarely and with an accent he had never heard before, the servant boy behaved like a samurai. They reminded Sozaemon of an old play he had once seen, in which the warrior Yoshitsune and his faithful servant, Benkei, traded places to fool the pursuing guards. He chuckled. Whatever the nature of their mission, they had paid real gold. The coin he rolled in his fingers would be more than sufficient to pay for all the repairs.
The discovery put him in a better mood. Maybe Butsu-sama had not abandoned him yet.
Sozaemon climbed up the forest path towards the cave, to see what damage the earthquake had done to the stone statues. He didn’t dream of fixing them, he was simply curious. A few large trees lay across the path, felled by the tremors. Having to bypass them made his journey more arduous and longer than usual. By the time he came out onto the glade, he was panting and sweating, out of breath and cursing the moment he had the idea to make the trip.
Four or five more statues had toppled and sunk into the liquefied ground, but the rest had held up remarkably well. He noted with regret that a large crack had appeared across the head of one of his favourite sculptures — the disciple with a peony flower. It would not survive the next quake. He patted the statue on the head, like an old friend, and headed towards the cave.
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 39
