Sword of the Ronin (The Ronin Trilogy)

by Travis Heermann

  A cool, moist breeze wafted in from the night-shrouded garden, curling through the ribbons of smoke rising from the burner of mosquito incense.

  Yasutoki cast a long look at the naked girl kneeling beside him, the lamplight glowing on fine, smooth skin. A spattering of small moles lay among ripples of chicken skin in the center of the gentle swoop of her back. Whether from cold or fear, he did not care. Her gaze lay demurely on the floor. So lovely with a tear-streak on her cheek, and at fourteen the perfect age for initiation into the ways of pleasure; so soft, so ripe, so innocent.

  “This had better be important,” he called into the air, never taking his eyes from her flesh.

  “It is one of your ‘special circumstances,’ Master.”

  To the girl he said, “Do not move, or you will regret it.”

  She pressed her forehead to the floor. “Yes, Master.”

  Yasutoki extracted himself from the bed of silken pillows, tying his robe as he crossed to the door. Masoku’s bushy-headed silhouette rose against the rice paper door.

  Yasutoki joined him in the hallway, sliding the door shut before the warrior could catch a glimpse of tonight’s beauty. “Tell me.”

  Masoku knew better than to keep him waiting. “Constable Hiromichi and I were just having a drink at The Pink Orchid, and he mentioned in passing that a man had asked after you today. One does not simply bandy such a name as Green Tiger about lightly. So of course, his interest was stoked, as was mine.”

  Despite his interest in the story, Yasutoki’s body tingled to return to the girl. “Cut to the bone.”

  Masoku cleared his throat. “He described a man of early years, perhaps twenty, who spoke with a strange accent, and carried a wooden sword.”

  “Yuto and his gang were laid low by a man with a wooden sword.”

  “I thought he said there were five of them.”

  “His tale does not match the tale of others.” Yasutoki’s mouth hardened.

  “I told you Yuto was not to be trusted! A liar, through and through.”

  “An interesting condemnation coming from you.”

  “I know that you admire my truthful nature, Master.” Masoku gave Yasutoki a wry smile, then cleared his throat and continued. “It’s always better to talk to other witnesses, did I not say that? But listen to this, Master. This ‘wooden-sword samurai’ told our constable that his sword had been stolen from him by men who work for Green Tiger.” He paused to let Yasutoki absorb the words.

  “This certainly sounds like the man.”

  “But how could he know that?”

  “He cannot.” Yasutoki fixed Masoku with a cold scrutiny. “Unless he has found a leak in my organization.”

  Masoku’s words spilled out. “I came here to tell you immediately. And I told the good constable that if he encounters this man again, there would be a substantial reward if he was taken into custody.”

  Yasutoki nodded. Almost half the constables in Hakata fell under Green Tiger’s influence. That ronin had been a fool to think he could simply ask questions and imagine that Green Tiger might not hear of it. He rubbed his chin. How could he have followed the sword to Hakata? Kage would have left no evidence. No one except Kage, Masoku, Fang Shi, and Yasutoki himself knew that Silver Crane was in his possession. Practically no one knew of the sword’s significance.

  The possibilities turned his lips into a sneer. A spy within his organization who had seen the sword and knew its significance? One of his three trusted men had divulged this to someone? The ronin had powers that went beyond mortal perceptions? Shadow magic, perhaps? Had the ronin employed an augurer to divine the sword’s location? But no, such a man would not be able to afford an onmyouji.

  Yasutoki blinked as Masoku interrupted his reverie. “What shall I do, Master?”

  Yasutoki worked the idea around behind his lips for another moment. “Instruct Constable Hiromichi and the rest to be watching for the man with the wooden sword. There cannot be many of those wandering around Hakata. I should have a word with this ronin before I kill him.”

  Masoku bowed and departed.

  Yasutoki rejoined his trembling plaything. He sat beside her and stroked her hair. “You are very beautiful. A pleasure it is to look at you, to see your naked flesh. It is your destiny to give men pleasure, my dear. You will be famous in Hakata for the sweetness of your smile and the sweetness of your loins.”

  A few more weeks of hard work during the day and hard pleasure during the night, restricted to only one small bowl of millet and water to eat, and she would surrender to her new life, grow to relish it, in fact. She would all but forget her former life as a leatherer’s daughter. The girl was too beautiful for life among the unclean in any case.

  By all the gods and Buddhas, this delectable flower was a welcome relief from Hatsumi’s jealous madness and her awful rigidity in life and lovemaking. Bedding her may have proven to be a mistake. Here in Hakata, Yasutoki felt as if he could breathe the air as his real self. Green Tiger was the real man; Yasutoki, merely a mask to hide from the eyes of the mortal world.

  Yes, this lovely little flower would be well-used by morning, and the fear she felt would soon become pleasure. Not yet, but soon, and he would teach her. Besides, fear mixed with pleasure was a powerful combination.

  The man with the wooden sword would soon kneel before him for some pointed questions. If the man was resourceful enough to come this far, he might make a powerful ally indeed. If he were properly tamed first, of course.

  The mind is like the moon on the water

  Form is like the reflection in a mirror

  — Yagyu Munenori, “The Life-Giving Sword”

  The cacophony of languages dizzied Ken’ishi as much as walking through a forest filled with unintelligible birdsong. Hakata’s docks were overrun by Chinese and Koryo sailors and laborers, not to mention locals who spoke a smattering of related tongues. He even spotted one man with strange, brown skin; ugly, hawkish features; and a peculiar wrap of cloth around his head. His clothes were bizarre, but richly adorned with gold thread and colored stones, and he was flanked by two large men with features that were not quite Chinese, not quite as foreign as the brown man.

  “Quit gawking,” Shirohige said. “Act as if you are at home here as a fish in water, or else some pickpocket will likely sniff you out. The thieves around here can steal the jewels from between your legs.”

  Looking around at the hard eyes and grim features, Ken’ishi said, “There are sea monsters in this water.”

  “Indeed, and they’re hungry for small fish. Best not to behave as a small fish. We’re going to meet some sharks. Best to transact your business and then leave as quickly as we can.” Shirohige cleared his throat. “Now, the leader is called Teng Zhou.”

  Ken’ishi tried to reproduce the name and found the syllables so strange on his tongue that he could not reproduce them.

  “Keep practicing. And they’re going to ask a price; I don’t know what price. You might see only two or three of them at a time, but you can bet there are twice as many watching.” Shirohige squinted and shaded his eyes at the sun, which was falling to the horizon. “At this time of day, the lotus eaters among them will not yet have indulged. They’ll be alert, but perhaps a bit—don’t look, but we’re already being followed.”

  “Where?”

  “There’s a man wearing a white headband with a red stripe perhaps twenty paces behind us. The headband is their badge.”

  Ken’ishi tried to quiet his mind through the bustling activity all around him. Scores of ships, dozens of makes, a forest of masts and rigging, the incessant wash and gurgle of the sea at the feet of the piers, the thump of feet and the creak of wood, the stench of sweat and refuse, fish and brine.

  A slash through his imagination.

  A shining silver path into darkness, a black abyss without boundary. A path he was already walking.

  He blinked at the power of the image, and his gait faltered at the tremor of pain behind one eye.

/>   Shirohige paused. “What is it?”

  Ken’ishi paused to steady himself. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  “You look like someone just slapped you.”

  Ken’ishi composed himself. “What about the man following us?”

  “He’s just watching. The warehouse is near the last pier. And let me do all the talking until you’re addressed directly.”

  The crowds thinned as Ken’ishi and Shirohige approached the warehouse. Its location kept it out of the way of the high-traffic central docks, on a rocky spit of land reaching out into Hakata Bay. Two Chinese junks were moored at the nearby docks, surrounded by stacks of cargo, coils of rope, and piles of netting. The warehouse was a weathered structure of wood and bamboo, stained by years at seaside as only such buildings can be. Two small wiry men, bare-chested and wearing pantaloons—and white headbands with a single red stripe—lounged on crates near the entrance. Their eyes were flint-hard and as sharp as the large, wickedly curved knives thrust into their belts.

  One of them eyed Shirohige. “Back so soon, old man? Business good?” The peculiar lilt and accent of his speech was unlike anything Ken’ishi had ever heard before.

  Shirohige bowed and said, “I must speak with Teng Zhou.”

  “Who this? Bodyguard?”

  “A friend with a problem.”

  “We no fix problem. We live harmony.” The two men in the doorway grinned at each other over some hidden joke.

  Shirohige said, “I would be in your debt if you took us to Teng Zhou.”

  “Why he got stick?” The man grinned like an eel at Ken’ishi’s bokken.

  “He is just learning. His master forces him to carry it around all day.”

  The two men exchanged gusts of gibberish and shot predatory grins at Ken’ishi.

  Whispers of the kami crept over Ken’ishi’s shoulders.

  One of the men stood up and gestured for them to follow. His back was sun-bronzed and scarred by dozens of little white cuts. Some of the scars were still pink. The other man fell in behind as they stepped into the shade of the warehouse’s interior. On each wall, crates and barrels were stacked almost to the ceiling. Moments later, a third man followed them through the entrance as well, dressed the same, carrying the same style of broad-bladed knife, as long as Ken’ishi’s forearm.

  From the shadows in the back of the warehouse strode a tall, broad-shouldered man, younger than Ken’ishi expected, with a cheek scarred by an old slash that bared half his teeth and distorted his words. “You come soon, old man. He your friend?” He carried not only the same style of knife, but also a long, straight sword on the other hip. The other three White Lotus thugs formed a loose circle around Shirohige and Ken’ishi.

  Shirohige puffed out his chest and straightened his back. “Call him ‘Mr. Bokken.’“ He turned to Ken’ishi. “Mr. Bokken, may I present Mr. Teng Zhou. Teng Zhou, perhaps you can help him with his problem. Perhaps he can make it worth your while.”

  Ken’ishi bowed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Teng Zhou sniffed and licked moisture from the jagged lips of the scar that bared his teeth. “What you do with stick?”

  “My sword was stolen,” Ken’ishi said. “Do you know Green Tiger?”

  Teng Zhou laughed, “Everybody know Green Tiger. And nobody. He take your sword?”

  “Perhaps. I must find out.”

  Teng Zhou’s chuckle almost reached genuine mirth behind the slices of his eyes. “You think he give back to you?”

  “First, I must know if he stole it.”

  “Green Tiger want something, he take something. He give nothing.”

  “I must talk to him.”

  “You maybe talk his men. Nobody talk Green Tiger. Just like nobody talk my boss.”

  “Perhaps his men will see differently.”

  “Why want sword back? Find another.”

  “It was my father’s sword. It belongs to my ancestors, not to a … criminal.”

  Teng Zhou smiled at the last word. “You say we know such criminals?” He gestured to his compatriots. “We all honest men!”

  The White Lotus laughed.

  Teng Zhou’s scrutiny bored into Ken’ishi. “He not give back, what you do?”

  “I will kill him.”

  Fresh laughter exploded all around him.

  After a while, when the mirth subsided, Teng Zhou said, “You kill him with stick, Mr. Wooden Sword?”

  “Perhaps, if I can. Or with my hands, or with my teeth, if need be. You share territory with Green Tiger?”

  Teng Zhou spat. “We share nothing. He no cross us, or there is war.”

  “What would happen to your territory with Green Tiger dead?”

  “We take more.” Teng Zhou licked through his teeth again and crossed his arms, pacing. “I like you, Mr. Wooden Sword. Maybe hear stories of you die. Make me sad. I know place. Meet Green Tiger’s man there. But you pay.”

  “What if I kill him for you? Would that be enough?”

  Teng Zhou chuckled again. “You brave or you fool. Sure bet, Green Tiger cut out your guts. No, you want place, you give me something.”

  “I have money.”

  “You maybe need money, buy back your head.”

  “Perhaps I’ll give you the lives of your men. I could take two or three.” Ken’ishi kept his voice steady, but his bokken was in his hand.

  The smiles among the White Lotus evaporated like smoke.

  Shirohige seized Ken’ishi arm and hissed. “What are you doing? Trying to get us both killed?”

  Ken’ishi stepped forward. “I am Ken’ishi the Oni Slayer. I slew the bandit chieftain Hakamadare. I slew Nishimuta no Takenaga in a fair duel. I took the head of his foul deputy Taro and left it on a spear. Not four days ago, I single-handedly defeated three of Green Tiger’s men in Oita town, with this very wooden sword. And I challenge you, Teng Zhou of the White Lotus.”

  A cold solemnity settled over Teng Zhou. “You think you challenge me like samurai!” He spat. “I not samurai!”

  “You understand a challenge.”

  “Maybe friends here kill you!”

  “If you kill me, you have saved yourself the trouble of a gang war. You can still have things as they are. I have gold and silver in my purse. It is yours, if you win. If I defeat you, you tell me what I want to know.”

  Suddenly there were not four White Lotus men, but seven, and their knives were in their hands.

  Shirohige snarled. “Idiot!”

  Teng Zhou drew his sword, a long, straight double-edged blade. He spat a long string of incomprehensible vitriol at Ken’ishi, and then he assumed a strange stance that Ken’ishi had never seen before.

  No matter. The Void was still the Void, a blade was still a blade, and a strike was still a strike. He took a deep breath and settled himself, forgetting thoughts and techniques and his opponent’s strange stance. He raised his bokken to the middle guard position, the point of the sword aimed at Teng Zhou’s throat.

  Ken’ishi eased forward, slowly closing the distance between them.

  Shirohige began to back out of the circle of White Lotus thugs, until one of them seized the scruff of his neck and held him in place. He released a gasping bleat and froze.

  Without seeking to scrutinize, Ken’ishi took in his opponent. Teng Zhou’s disfigured face was a reef, impervious to the thunder of the sea. He knew the closeness of death’s door even more intimately than Ken’ishi, had opened it almost as many times for himself as for others. His thews rippled with movement and his sword was rock-steady. The blade was notched and stained, but its edge would cut. No sweat betrayed any fear. Arm extended, body sideways, one-handing the sword above his head, feet wide apart.

  Their eyes met over the point of Ken’ishi’s bokken. The eternity of the Void lay upon the world, infinite time stretching between eyes, souls in conflict. The steady poise of Teng Zhou’s gaze bespoke a familiarity with the flow of intention, the inevitability of death. In every fight Ken’ishi h
ad ever undertaken, his opponents had been coarse fools, flailing at life with their arms and weapons as if bluster, cruelty, and a sharp edge would always conquer. Ken’ishi’s teacher had taught him well to seek the No-Thought, No-Time of the Void, because only in those spaces were extraordinary things possible. Everything else was only ordinary.

  Not so with Teng Zhou. He was a rough, strong-armed gangster to be sure, but he had not risen to leadership by flailing at anything. Teng Zhou knew the Void as well as Ken’ishi. He might call it something different, have discovered it on some other path in some far-off land, but he knew it. A flicker of recognition.

  In that infinitesimal instant, Ken’ishi envisioned Teng Zhou’s strike and his own counter attack, or else his own attack and Teng Zhou’s counter. In both possibilities, death for both men was inevitable.

  The good side of Teng Zhou’s mouth curled into a faint smile. As he lowered his blade, his eyes remained on Ken’ishi. “You find Green Tiger’s men gambling house. Alley behind Pink Orchid Dream, whorehouse in Nakasu district. Find ronin, name Masoku.”

  Ken’ishi lowered his weapon, but allowed his awareness to encompass the room, Teng Zhou, and the other men.

  Shirohige’s mouth fell open. “That’s all? You’re giving him something for free.”

  Teng Zhou’s contempt turned upon Shirohige. “No, old fool. You not understand, never. Now silent!” He turned back to Ken’ishi. “Green Tiger is sorcerer. He control shadow. He invisible sometimes. His face never see. And he always have weapon. Always.”

  Ken’ishi bowed. “Thank you, Teng Zhou. Perhaps someday we’ll meet again.”

  Teng Zhou nodded. “Next time, you bring real sword.”

  The man who would be a warrior considers it his most basic intention to keep death always in mind, day and night, from the time he picks up his chopsticks in celebrating his morning meal on New Year’s Day to the evening of the last day of the year. When one constantly keeps death in mind, both loyalty and filial piety are realized, myriad evils and disasters are avoided, one is without illness and mishap, and lives out a long life.… Being resolved that a man may be alive today but not tomorrow, one will be aware that today may be his last chance to serve his lord and attend his parents.