Yasutoki’s heart thumped. “I have my own reasons.” He was loyal to his desire to see the heads of every last member of the Minamoto clan, all nicely cleaned and powdered and mounted on boards placed at his feet. He picked up his bowl and sipped the broth. “So, my fragrant friend, in the three years since my last report to the Great Khan, I have heard only vague rumors from across the sea. I hear that he is now the emperor of all of China, and that the Koryo have been, shall we say … convinced to aid in the Khan’s venture.”
“Beaten into submission, more like, and held in yoke by the crown prince’s marriage to the Khan’s daughter. But yes. The day will come soon. The Koryo are building for us a fleet that will stretch to the horizon. And tell your man in the next room that he farts louder than a horse.” The Mongol tilted his head toward the rice paper door behind Yasutoki.
Yasutoki concealed his annoyance. Best not to underestimate the Mongol’s perceptions. Masoku and Fang Shi occupied the next room as protection. He would have a word with them about discretion. “No doubt his odor exceeds a horse’s as well. Unfortunate that he is only slightly more intelligent.”
The Mongol grunted.
“When will this massive invasion fleet launch? When you say ‘soon’, do you mean this year? Next year?”
The Mongol sneered. “I mean ‘soon’. The Great Khan sent me to this hell-pit to request information from you, and to secure further cooperation. He said nothing about supplying any.”
“I am at the Great Khan’s disposal.”
“You will receive a message here on the eve of the Golden Horde’s coming. The message will come with instructions.”
Yasutoki suppressed his frown. “Your words are meaningless. Of course, the Khan will have instructions for me. Why are you here?”
The Mongol bared his cracked, yellow teeth. “After we have sent your warriors to rout and taken all the women for slaves, we will have need of political aid to mortar the bricks of our empire.”
Yasutoki nodded.
“The Khan knows that your treachery to your own kind flows from your hatred of the Hojo clan and their Minamoto shogun puppet.”
“I have made no secret of that with the Great Khan.”
“Let us say that he believes your ties to more of such people are … extensive. Many more such people.”
Yasutoki froze. What was this unwashed horse-stinking lout implying? To this man, he was only Green Tiger, Lord of the Underworld. No one knew Green Tiger’s identity in the world above. No one. A chill touched his shoulder blades. The idea of someone spying on him set his teeth on edge. How could the Khan know that Yasutoki was descended from the Taira clan, who had fought against the Minamoto in the Great War? His upbringing in one of the “lost” houses of shadow provided him with just such a web of contacts and spies. But how could the Khan have learned of that?
The Mongol smiled faintly, apparently at something in Yasutoki’s face. “The Great Khan expects your influence among such people to be profound. At the proper time, of course.”
Where had this barbarian learned such pregnant speech? He practically sounded like a courtier.
The Mongol grinned smugly, as if to say, Don’t underestimate me. “Are you able to fulfill the Khan’s wishes?”
“I may have connections with such people. My influence is significant, but not without limits. I am merely the Emperor of the Underworld. The world above is another matter.”
“Once we start burning your villages and presenting your women to the Khan for his pleasure dome and house of concubines, your influence may increase.” A sudden scuffle erupted from the room behind Yasutoki. The Mongol ignored it. “Words of supplication from your own countrymen will make our conquest move more smoothly.”
Yasutoki felt a weight thump through the floor, heard a suppressed grunt. He reached out with his awareness. He reached into his sleeves—a dagger in one hand and a shuriken in the other. “You want puppets.”
“We want allies. Loyal allies. In Ningxia, we put an entire city to the sword for their disloyalty. In Nishapur, we laid such waste upon the town that afterward the land could not be plowed upon, not even a cat or a dog left alive. In Kyiv, we made a mountain of skulls that rose near to heaven. In Zhongdu, the earth is still greasy from rendered human fat. But we can be merciful and generous to those who are loyal.”
Yasutoki clenched his teeth. Such boasting was to be expected at times like this, but he wanted to point out that most of those infamous barbaric exploits had been accomplished in the time of Khubilai Khan’s grandfather, the man known as Genghis Khan.
The Mongol either missed Yasutoki’s sudden tension or ignored it, placing a leather bag—made from the jewel sack of a stallion—on the table. The bag tipped onto its side, and the blue gleam of a sapphire peeked past the drawstring. “A token of his faith in you, misplaced though it might be.”
Yasutoki leaned back and nodded. “Tell the Great Khan I accept his generous gift. I will turn my efforts toward gathering support among the scattered shadows of the underworld.”
A board sang a warbling note on the nightingale stairs, warning Yasutoki of a servant’s approach. He remained silent until the serving woman brought a platter laden with pork skewers, mountain potatoes, grilled chicken skin, thin-sliced horse-flesh boiled in broth with noodles and onions. She placed it all before them, arranging each bowl with exquisite care. Yasutoki admired her precision, her delicate hands, and the elegant curve of her neck. Without a word, she departed.
The Mongol grunted again. “I see no need to continue in your presence. The Khan’s message has been delivered.”
Yasutoki stiffened at the insult. He let the anger flare through his eyes.
As the Mongol stood, his cold smile washed over Yasutoki. Leather creaked as his muscles rearranged themselves beneath. “Do not let the Great Khan be disappointed. He lavishes suffering on those who fail him.” The Mongol turned and strode out of the room, leaving Yasutoki to clench his teeth and steam.
Taking a deep breath to calm his burgeoning rage, Yasutoki stood and turned toward the door. He slid the door open to reveal Fang Shi’s scarlet face pressed against the tatami. Masoku knelt with one knee between his shoulder blades and held Fang Shi’s wrist behind his back in a painful joint lock. Yasutoki appreciated the skill of Masoku’s technique. Just a little more pressure on Fang Shi’s hand and the wrist would snap. Fang Shi knew it, too.
Masoku’s white-toothed grin split his scruffy beard as he peered up at his master through tendrils of greasy hair. “The lad nearly barged into your meeting, Lord. I thought it best to restrain him.”
“Our guest is gone. Let him up.”
Masoku released Fang Shi’s wrist and leaped back out of any harm’s way.
Fang Shi collected his dignity and lumbered to his feet, rubbing his wrist. He cast a look of wariness laced with bile toward Masoku.
Yasutoki moved nearer to Fang Shi. “Explain.”
Fang Shi’s smooth brow creased. “My village. Mongols come and take women as slaves, kill everyone else. I hide in shit pit, seven years old. They take my father’s head, shoot my brothers with arrows. I get away, become a beggar in Shanghai, a dock worker, come to Kyushu, work for you. But I twist off Mongol heads.”
Yasutoki stepped up and backhanded him across the face. It felt like slapping a bridge pile. “You work for me. Your life before now matters less to me than a speck of flea shit.”
Fang Shi’s face flared red, and his body tensed to lash out, until he spotted the gleam of the dagger in Yasutoki’s other hand, with its point resting against his crotch. The flare diminished.
Yasutoki purred, “Now, I do appreciate your hatred. It can be useful, and you are certainly justified. But if you ever disrupt my dealings—ever—I will string your guts from here to Hakata Bay. The crows will feast upon your balls.”
Fang Shi swallowed hard. “Yes, Master.”
He gestured to the table. “Now, sit and eat. There is much to do yet tonight.”
> The two ruffians fell with relish upon the meal.
Yasutoki sat silently, his fingers intertwined in contemplation. Throughout the islands of Japan, in forgotten crevices and shadows, the remnants of the once-proud Taira clan waited like shreds of a torn banner. For them to rise amid the ashes of the Mongol conquest, they would need something to rally them, a powerful symbol of a once-great clan. Many of those scattered remnants had found refuge across Kyushu, for centuries a Taira stronghold. Iki Island, which lay northwest of Hakata Bay toward the Koryo peninsula, was governed by Taira no Kagetaka. Only through swearing fealty to the Shogun and the relative difficulty of reaching Kyushu’s remote areas had lords of the Taira clan been allowed to keep any holdings. Small pockets of Taira were scattered around Kyushu, but those existed only at the sufferance of the more powerful Otomo clan in the north and the Shimazu clan in the south. For Yasutoki, the relegation of his clan to a tiny backwater island like Iki was like a slap in the face.
His thoughts turned toward the great symbols of the Taira clan. So much had been destroyed during the Great War. But he knew of one thing that had been recovered. The sword known as Silver Crane. Yes, if Silver Crane were back in the hands of the Taira, he would be able to reignite the fire of his kinsmen’s hearts. Over the last few years, he had allowed his search for the sword to languish in favor of more immediate interests. It was time to refocus his efforts.
The accomplished martial artist uses the sword but does not kill others. He uses the sword and gives others life. When it is necessary to kill, he kills. When it is necessary to give life, he gives life. When killing, he kills in complete concentration; when giving life, he gives life in complete concentration. Without looking at right and wrong, he is able to see right and wrong; without attempting to discriminate, he is able to discriminate well. Treading on water is just like treading on land, and treading on land is just like treading on water. If he is able to gain this freedom, he will not be perplexed by anyone on earth. In all things, he will be beyond companions.
— Takuan Soho, “Annals of the Sword Taia”
Ken’ishi enjoyed eating his evening meal on the inn’s veranda. The sun cast petals of camellia and chrysanthemum across Hakata Bay as the fishermen sculled in their boats with their day’s catch.
As always, there was wrangling for places at the docks among men too weary to be diplomatic. Weathered faces grimaced at the weight of their catch, callused hands slinging silvery shapes into baskets and barrels. Even though they were already weary, their work was only half done; more hours would be required to gut the fish, after which the fish would be hung on racks to dry, or be smoked, or be salted in barrels. Every evening, the stench of offal hung thick in the air, until the sea breezes finally dispersed it. The docks and smokehouses nearby became a flurry of knives and nets and heads bowed with effort. That Chiba was free again irked Ken’ishi, but there was nothing to be done if Miwa would not publicly accuse him.
The setting sun turned the fishing boats and men into silhouettes, the sounds of their effort echoing across the tranquil evening waters.
Naoko, the innkeeper’s mother, cooked the inn’s meals, and she always favored Ken’ishi with an extra rice cake or portion of smoked sweetfish, ayu. Kiosé always served him, and her understated presence and hooded smiles gave him a feeling of contentment—for a while, until it became too much and he found himself wanting to go off and practice sword drills and archery.
Lately, after almost five years without his teacher, he had sensed his technique stagnating. He could practice and practice, always seeking the simultaneous emptiness and wholeness of true perfection, but he missed Kaa, harsh though the old bird might have been. He missed the discipline forced upon him, the relentless push toward perfection. Ken’ishi knew well his own techniques, but he knew there were others out there, so much more to learn. At some point in the last three years of life in Aoka, he had passed through some invisible partition, and suddenly felt as if he were nothing but a rank novice, like the first day that Kaa had ever placed a wooden sword in his hand. Somewhere out there was a world of study of the way of the sword, but he could not touch it. He had seen sword schools during his brief time in the capital, even in Hakata, but not here, in this small village.
A gruff voice and the thump of a sloshing bucket brought him out of his reverie. “Hey, Gonta!”
Through open veranda doors where Ken’ishi sat enjoying the sea breeze, he saw Chiba standing in the foyer, looking around expectantly, letting his eyes slide over Ken’ishi’s presence. A bucket full of water sat at his feet. A lone tentacle snaked out of the water, suckered against the side of the bucket as if holding on to life itself.
Chiba yelled, “Hey, Gonta! Where are you?”
Kiosé came out of the kitchen, and her face stiffened when she saw who it was. She kept her gaze down, clutching a washcloth to her chest. “Please excuse me, but Gonta-sama is not here, sir.”
Chiba’s wind-leathered brow furrowed. “I don’t want to talk to you, whore.” A boning knife was thrust into his waistband. Ken’ishi wondered if it was the same knife that Chiba’s father had used to kill Hojo no Masahige.
Kiosé flinched. “I’m sorry, sir. Gonta-sama has gone to Hakozaki today. He will come back tomorrow.”
“Idiot.” Chiba could have been referring to Kiosé or Gonta, or both.
Ken’ishi tensed.
“Would you like me to fetch mistress Naoko for you? She is upstairs.”
“I caught an octopus today. I thought Gonta might want to buy it. I can’t stand his mother any better than I can stand you. You’re both thieves.”
Kiosé flinched again. “I’m sorry, sir.”
He snorted in disgust, pointing at his bucket. “What am I supposed to do with this? Idiot.”
Ken’ishi put down his teacup and turned his gaze full upon Chiba. “Abuse her with one more word, and you’ll answer to me.”
Kiosé paled. Threat of violence hung in the air like a silent ghost.
Chiba sneered. “Still taking her side, eh? I suppose that’s easy since yours is the only cock she moistens these days.”
Ken’ishi eased his table away from his knees. “Perhaps your father misses you. Would you like to meet him again? He would be proud.”
A vein bulged on Chiba’s reddening forehead. “A dirty bandit and a dirty whore. You make quite a pair.” He picked up his bucket and upended it at Kiosé’s feet. Seawater sloshed across the floor. The octopus landed with a wet plop, its tentacles sprawling like seaweed in an ocean current, then suckering to the floor, its body a limp sack the size of Little Frog’s head, gasping. “Tell Gonta he owes me for the octopus.”
Ken’ishi had closed the distance between them by half before Chiba reached the door.
With the lightest touch on Ken’ishi’s arm, Kiosé stopped him. “Please.”
Chiba disappeared outside.
Ken’ishi ears pounded with Chiba’s insult. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want anyone to die because of me. Because of who I was.”
He threw her arm off. “Why don’t you get angry?”
She flinched again. “They are just words. I am not a whore anymore. I am a mother.”
“Stand up to them! Half of the village doesn’t even see you as a person! You’ll always be a whore to them!”
Her eyes teared, and her lips turned down with a rising sob. She opened her mouth, but no words came out, her gaze flicking right and left as if looking for something.
His anger pushed him closer to her. “And why should I let you stop me? He insulted me. You’re just a woman.”
She collapsed to her knees, looking up at him with a kind of pain, and a strange surprise. He saw something crack inside her, something fragile that he had not recognized before, the shards of something that would cut her inside. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand.
As the runnels of water glistened all around her on the polished floor, as the octopus gasped its last breaths against the
wood, her voice quavered. “I hope that octopus bites your balls off.” She jumped to her feet and dashed into the kitchen, a single sob echoing in her wake.
Stunned, he could only watch her go for a moment, until his anger swelled again, and he ran outside after Chiba. In the evening coolness, Chiba was already gone, but it was just as well. The blind heat of his anger drained away, with something else taking its place, something cold and bitter and confused.
Mountain pheasant,
Is that your wife’s voice
Calling, calling
— Issa
The little boy who would become Ken’ishi walked through the forest, up the rocky mountain path he knew so well. Angry, ancient, harsh-voiced Kaa waited at the top of the mountain for him to return. It would be five more years before he had a name besides Boy. The bucket of water weighed as much as a boulder to his ten-year-old arms, but he did not complain, even though it was half a day’s trek up the mountain. The bucket was a part of his life, as much as the wind and the sky. He had been carrying it for as long as he could remember.
Birds sang out of sight, calling to their mates, or trumpeting the discovery of excellent nest-makings, or quarreling with their neighbors, or warning their friends of hawks or foxes.
He had been listening to those songs for as long as he could remember, too. Every day Kaa would smooth his feathers, close his beady black eyes, and sit with the boy, and they would listen to the birds together. Speaking to the birds was as natural to the boy as carrying the bucket. Sometimes his teacher spoke to him in the language of the birds, sometimes in the speech of men when the bird-words were too limited. Sometimes they spoke in both, saying things easier to express in one language, then shifting to the other. The boy marveled at how his teacher was so much like birds, with his pretty gray feathers, but so much more, almost like a man sometimes.
The boy happened to be passing through an area where the slope was less steep than the upper reaches of the mountain where the cave lay hidden. The grass had grown long over the summer, and its long flat blades waved at the same height as his head. He knew this meadow like he knew his own hands.
Sword of the Ronin (The Ronin Trilogy) Page 5
