The Initiate Brother Duology

by Russell, Sean

  * * *

  Lady Nishima leaned against the rail, glad of its support, for she felt a weakness in her will that was disturbing. Despite all of her prayers, war had come. As they cleared the end of the city, she looked off toward the north. Barbarian armies would appear there in only a few days. All of her other concerns seemed petty and trivial now. People would die—and not just from battle.

  She thought about the people of Seh setting out south and toward the sea. Not all of them would escape, nor would they understand their danger. They would try to hide themselves, hoping the storm would pass by without harming them. Her father had left a small force behind, hidden somewhere in Seh’s hills for this very reason. Its only purpose was to be sure nothing would be grown where the barbarians could find it. They would raid upon and quite possibly be forced to kill their own people. Leave nothing for the enemy, her father had ordered. Which meant nothing for the peasants.

  A report like strange thunder echoed across the lake and Nishima turned in time to see the first span of the bridge collapse into a cascade of white. For the briefest instant a rainbow appeared in the spray, but then the waters rushed back together like a healing wound. Rhojo-ma’s tie to the land was gone.

  Around the south end of the city a funeral barge appeared, covered in the white flower of the snow lily. The light breeze picked up the petals, strewing them like a wake on the calm water. Lord Toshaki, Nishima realized. The barge set off with purpose toward the lake’s southwestern end as though its destination had never been in doubt. Nishima raised her hands to cover her face but realized what she did and stopped herself. Instead she made a sign to Botahara and offered a silent prayer.

  The boat suddenly began pitching in the waves created by the falling bridge. Nishima clutched the rail until the water was calm again and then made her way quickly below. In the privacy of her small cabin Nishima took out her writing implements and prepared ink in what was almost a ritual.

  Our boat of gumwood and dark locust

  Her paint scaling like serpent’s skin

  Sets forth into the throng of craft

  On the Grand Canal.

  Uncounted travelers,

  Uncounted desires

  Borne over blue water.

  Only the funeral barge

  Covered in white petals

  Appears to know its destination.

  Twenty-four

  AN ABANDONED STABLE, recently refurbished for the presentation of plays, had been commandeered by Shonto’s recruiting officers. The thatch leaked in places when rain and the west wind joined forces and there was still an unrecognizable odor in one corner, but otherwise it suited well.

  Two officers sat behind a large, low desk upon what had been the stage. On three sides men knelt in more or less straight rows. In the light from hanging lamps they seemed to be of one type, but upon closer inspection it became apparent that they were of all ages, sizes, accents, experience, and temperament.

  Despite this, they had one thing in common. They were warriors without Houses and though some had actually been raised to the way of the sword, many were the sons of merchants or farmers who had broken with their families to take up this life. The men who gathered in the hall had all passed a test of skill with both sword and bow. Those who failed had been sent elsewhere—all men would find a place in the war to come.

  Of the hundred or so who had passed the test of arms, most seemed to be without serious criminal records. The senior recruiting officer, a Shonto sergeant, looked at his list and pointed to a name which his assistant called out. A man of perhaps forty years rose and crossed the room to kneel before him. Like most of the men in the hall, his clothes were rough, though, unlike many, his were clean and bore the marks of expert mending. He was a large man, well formed, his face hidden by a dark beard. What wasn’t hidden had been darkened by time in the sun and lined with deep creases, especially across the forehead and in the corners of the eyes.

  “Shinga Kyoshi?”

  The man nodded, a half bow.

  “Your weapons are in order?” the sergeant asked.

  The man nodded again. “Complete armor and sword. I-I have no bow.” A deep voice.

  The sergeant nodded. There was a note by this man’s name—he was very good with a sword, apparently. “Your sword,” the sergeant said holding out his hand.

  The kneeling man hesitated for a second, as though not sure of the request, but then drew his blade and handed it to the officer, pommel first.

  It was a fine weapon, beautifully balanced and honed to a perfect edge. The sword guard was a small work of art—a lacquered scroll of sea shells over polished bronze. The maker’s name on the blade was Kentoka, undoubtedly a forgery, but it was a well crafted weapon nonetheless—not what you would expect from a wandering soldier. The sergeant fixed the man with his gaze—a gaze that melted strong young men. “It says here that you are from Nitashi.”

  The man nodded.

  “I’m from Nitashi,” the sergeant said. “You don’t have the Nitashi way of speaking.”

  “It has been many years, Sergeant.”

  The officer continued to stare. He would wager that if he looked in the man’s armor chest he would find new lacing in some neutral color.

  He returned the man’s sword. Stared for a few seconds more, then looked back to his lists. He pushed a scroll across the table and held out a brush. “See the quartermaster,” the sergeant said. The man signed his name, bowing low and hurrying off.

  Looking at the man’s signature, the recruiting officer hid his reaction. That was the third man the sergeant had seen in the last two days who he believed had served the Hajiwara—and this one had been an officer! He shook his head. If there were too many more, he would have to consider turning some away. There were the Butto to consider.

  “Ujima Nyatomi!” the officer’s assistant called.

  Another bearded man hurried up and knelt before the sergeant who leaned over his reports.

  “Ujima Nyatomi?”

  The soldier nodded. If the sergeant had looked up, he would have noticed that this one was older than the last, and less powerfully built.

  “Your weapons are in order?”

  The man nodded again.

  “Your sword.”

  The man placed the pommel in the officer’s hand. The sergeant looked up from his list, eyes widening. This was a sword indeed! It came into the hand like a dream. The handle was covered in the skin of the giant ray, then wrapped in blue silk cord, and the sword guard, the sergeant suddenly realized, was formed in the shape of a shinta blossom!

  The sergeant looked up at the man kneeling before him. Before he could begin to react the man spoke. “My armor is of similar quality, Sergeant, and I have bow, lance, and horse as well.” He shook his head almost imperceptibly.

  The sergeant returned the man’s sword then and searched his lists. Pushing the paper and brush across the table he said, “See the quartermaster.”

  The man signed, bowed quickly, and hurried off. Another name was called, but the sergeant did not register it. He had just enrolled Rohku Saicha, the Captain of Shonto’s guard, into the lists of the army of Seh. He wondered how many others had escaped the capital. He smiled in spite of himself.

  * * *

  The flotilla had entered the Grand Canal and immediately slowed to what seemed like a walk. Kamu knew that progress south would not compare with the speed they achieved passing north—there were too many refugees on the canal and the number of boats used by the retreating army was greater. Still, an army of one hundred thousand could hardly make better than seven or eight rih a day over level ground.

  It would take the barbarians over three lunar months to reach the Imperial Capital by land. With fair winds the river craft could often traverse the distance between Seh and the capital in less than thirty days—half that time if they had crew enough to travel both day and night.

  At our present speed, Kamu reminded himself, we’ll travel twice as far in a day as do
the barbarians. Shonto’s fleet had left at least two days, probably three, before the barbarians would reach Rhojo-ma. It was a significant lead.

  Kamu’s cabin was a riot of paper, scrolls stacked in holders like firewood, sheets of paper and letters in carefully laid out piles, none without a paperweight. Folders of paper, rolls of paper, notes written on scraps, rice paper, mulberry paper. There seemed to be no end of this valuable commodity. And every piece of paper bore information Kamu could not lose. He found himself occasionally daydreaming about a small thatch house beside a river in some quiet range of hills.

  A knock on the door was followed by Kamu’s assistant, Toko, entering bearing a folder that seemed to contain more paper. In the months since the attempted assassination in Shonto’s garden this young man had proven to be an invaluable assistant. Oh, he had much to learn, there was no doubt of that, but he learned well and seldom made mistakes twice.

  Kamu raised one eyebrow at his assistant in an unwitting imitation of Lord Shonto.

  “Requests for passage or to join the flotilla, Steward Kamu,” Toko said quietly. He had not lost the ways of those who served. The boy was still almost entirely unobtrusive—silent of movement, and quiet of voice.

  Kamu nodded. He pointed with a brush. “There will do.”

  Toko placed the folder on the appointed pile and then stood quietly. Kamu realized the young man was waiting to be noticed, which almost made the old warrior smile.

  “Toko?”

  “Steward Kamu,” the young man started, his tone revealing a lack of certainty, “several of these requests are from members of the Botahist faith. I was not sure if I should let them wait.”

  “Huh.” Kamu considered the column of numbers in the report he read. “How many, precisely?”

  “Two Sisters and five Botahist monks—one claims to have been a teacher of Brother Shuyun.”

  “Ah, yes—Soto…” Kamu trailed off.

  “Brother Sotura, I believe, Steward.”

  Kamu squinted to make out a figure. “Yes, I have met him. Give them quarters somewhere well out of harm’s way. This is an army at war—not an Imperial Progress.”

  Toko nodded. He quickly opened another ledger, made entries, and then was gone.

  Kamu shook his head. It isn’t an Imperial Progress, the old steward thought, may Botahara protect us.

  * * *

  Dusk and rain. Young Captain Rohku was stiff with cold and lack of movement. He stopped climbing and tried to control a persistent tremor in his left leg. If one of his men had not thought to bring a rope, he realized, he would never have been able to climb up on his own. Five more feet, then stop. Water ran down the corner he climbed, making the rock as slippery as ice.

  He moved again and his feet came off their hold—he fell. For the third time the rope held him. Flailing until he felt the rock under his feet and hands again, Rohku leaned his cheek against the cold stone. Perhaps fifteen feet remain, he told himself. It would be shameful if he had to be pulled up by his men. This thought gave him some strength and propelled him upward.

  There were barbarian patrols close by, so silence met Rohku when he clambered over the cliff edge. He sat on a stone and ate a little cold food. Something warm to drink was what he wanted, but a fire could not be risked even if they could find enough dry wood. Finally, nodding to one of his men, Rohku rose stiffly and went to his horse. It took every bit of strength he could find, but he mounted without assistance. There were men of Seh present, it was important that he keep their respect.

  A long ride awaited them. First a report to Rhojo-ma, then onto the canal. They would catch up with Lord Shonto’s fleet within three days. Rohku had a great deal to tell. A great deal indeed.

  * * *

  Tadamoto found the Emperor walking near the Dragon Pond. A flower viewing had been arranged, for the blossoms of late winter and early spring were pushing up toward a sun that showed signs of warming. Although the Emperor was ostensibly in the company of members of the court, he walked off by himself and none dared interrupt his sullen mood.

  Tadamoto looked over the gathered courtiers and noted with some satisfaction that there were a number of young women of great beauty who had recently come to court. May one of them catch his fancy, Tadamoto thought—it was almost a prayer.

  But then among the pure young faces and elaborate robes Tadamoto saw Osha. She was watching him with a look of such sadness that he almost wept at the sight. Osha, Osha…. To Tadamoto’s eye there was a great depth of spirit reflected in her face, while the faces of the young women around her seemed almost like masks painted with only a single, vague expression.

  Tadamoto’s step almost faltered. Tearing his gaze away before anyone should notice, he continued on toward the Emperor. It was a familiar exercise now, closing off his emotions. Tadamoto often thought of himself as some spiritual hermit who had developed this control through meditation. He could make himself feel nothing almost at will. When he knelt before the Emperor, he was as devoid of feelings as a stone.

  The Emperor nodded and then beckoned to Tadamoto to rise and walk with him. The colonel hesitated, casting a glance toward the gathered courtiers who pretended not to watch. A lowly colonel being invited to walk with the Son of Heaven—that might raise an eyebrow or two.

  They moved slowly away from the others, the Emperor pausing to look at a spray of snow lilies that clung to the shade of a chaku bush. A few more days of sun and they would be gone.

  It was a warm day for the time of year. A breeze so gentle it barely rippled the surface of the Dragon Pond felt as sensuous and delightful as a lover’s secret touch. A sky, bright as a ringing bell, bore a smattering of clouds like echoes and overtones in the midst of clarity.

  “You have something to report, Colonel.” The Emperor continued to look at the snow lilies. Let the courtiers wonder what they discussed, there would be no clue from the Emperor.

  “I do, Emperor. We have finally managed to get officials into Ika Cho Province. Lord Shonto Shokan has disappeared with a force of significant size, perhaps four thousand men.”

  “It is a difficult trick to perform—to disappear with so many. We don’t know how this was done?”

  “It seems that the Shonto son may have taken his force into High Wind Pass, Sire.”

  The Emperor nodded. “It is early in the year to attempt the pass. Is it possible that he could win through?” The sound of women’s laughter pealed across the water.

  “It is thought unlikely, Emperor. The snows in the mountains were substantial this winter.” Tadamoto almost turned his gaze back to the courtiers but caught himself. “I find it strange that he did not go north to Seh by ship. Certainly the storms would be no greater risk than attempting the mountains.”

  The Emperor plucked a snow lily and examined it closely. “The High Wind Pass would bring Shokan to northern Chiba, yeh?”

  Tadamoto nodded.

  “Huh.” The Emperor handed the blossom to Tadamoto. “For your honored wife from the Emperor, Tadamoto-sum.” The Emperor gave him a distracted smile. “Set men to watch the western end of the pass. If he were not Shonto, I would say a prayer for his soul but….” The Emperor shrugged and walked on, leaving Tadamoto scrambling to bow, clutching his snow lily.

  * * *

  The voices of several hundred women raised in a melodic chant seemed to emanate from the floor and the walls. The Prioress reclined in her litter, eyes closed. It was impossible to tell if she slept or simply lay listening in a state of total concentration, for there was only the merest movement of her breathing. Sister Sutso hesitated to approach her.

  From the nave below, the singing soared up into the rafters where a balcony perched like a well hidden nest. The room that opened onto the balcony was one of the Prioress’ favorite retreats and her staff preferred not to disturb her there.

  Sutso decided it would be better to wait and took a step toward the balcony. The Prioress did not move, but her voice sounded almost inaudibly over the chanting.r />
  “Sutso-sum?”

  “Yes, Prioress.”

  The old woman did not open her eyes or move in any way at all. “I believe our singers become more inspired with each year,” she said in a voice that seemed dry and withered.

  The Prioress’ secretary came and knelt at the side of the litter. “I agree, Prioress. I feel closer to Botahara even now.”

  “It is the height, child,” the Prioress said and a beatific smile spread across her wrinkled face. Sutso did not laugh, she dared not, even though she was quite sure the Prioress intended humor. No, this ancient woman was as close to perfection as anyone Sutso had ever met. In the presence of the Prioress one did not act in any way that could be interpreted as disrespectful.

  “You have something weighing on your mind, Sutso-sum.” It was not a question.

  Sutso nodded though her superior’s eyes remained closed. “I wrote to Morima-sum, as you instructed, but I am concerned. There has been no response.”

  Still, the Prioress could lay so utterly still. “Morima-sum will not fail us, Sutso-sum, do not concern yourself. Much goes on in Seh. Writing a letter may not seem as important to her as it does to us. Wait a little yet.”

  Sutso nodded again. She bowed and started to rise when the Prioress spoke again.

  “You are concerned about the coming war.”

  Sutso sank back to her knees. “Everyone is concerned, Prioress. It is not like the Interim War where all concerned were followers of the Way. The barbarians will not treat us with respect. Our Sisters will be in danger.”

  The Prioress’ large dark eyes sprang open and she studied her secretary for a moment. The eyes closed again. “If the men who fought the Interim War had truly been followers of Botahara, there would have been no war, Sutso-sum.” She fell silent for a second. The chanting suddenly became slow and gentle. “The Empire is vast. This war will be like others—parts of Wa will suffer terribly while other regions will be entirely unaffected. It saddens me…. Until the Way is truly followed, there will always be wars. We have made every preparation we can. Let wars be the concern of others. Our concern is the Teachings of Botahara.” She smiled again.