Sword of the Ronin (The Ronin Trilogy)

by Travis Heermann

  — Daidoji Yuzan, Budoshoshinshu

  “I’m not going with you,” Shirohige said, kicking off his zori and stepping up onto the tatami. He fixed Ken’ishi with a stern gaze.

  Ken’ishi practically vibrated with the urge to be off to the Pink Orchid Dream. Even now, he could feel the silken silver thread tugging at the fringe of his mind. “This is not your fight. You have already put yourself in enough danger for me.”

  “So, already you think there will be a fight.”

  “A fight is most likely.”

  Junko’s voice echoed from the depths of the house. “Did you say ‘fight’?”

  Shirohige called back, exasperation emerging in his voice, “Yes, my little nightingale. Our young friend here was successful with the White Lotus. I still cannot believe what I saw, boy. I’ve never seen anything like that. And I don’t even know what it was. He just gave in like that. It’s unheard of!”

  “There are things more valuable than money and favors.”

  “Such as? Bah! Some silly warrior drivel. Eh, you might as well come in for your last meal. I’m starving. Sweet sister, where is dinner?”

  Her sing-song reply floated out to them. “In your arse, dear brother.”

  “Must I do everything?” he snarled. “I’ll put you in the street, witch!”

  A crow’s cackling reply reddened Shirohige’s face, and he wrapped his fingers around his beard and tugged, muttering, “Filthy useless old whore!”

  “I’m old,” she called back, “but I’m neither blind nor deaf. For that, you can go suck Pon-Pon’s arsehole for your dinner.”

  Shirohige turned to Ken’ishi. “Come inside so you can stop me from killing her and think about what you’re doing. No sense in doing anything more rash than you already have planned. Green Tiger will still be there in two hours. That part of Hakata goes to sleep with the rising sun.”

  Ken’ishi followed him into the house.

  Junko sat with a bundle of cloth and metal scales in her lap, working at it with a needle and thread.

  Shirohige noticed her work. “What is that you’re darning there? Armor? Where in the hell did you get that?”

  “I’ve had this for years.” She held it up by the shoulder straps, a ragged, dusty shirt of black-lacquered steel scales woven together with black silken cords. The interlocking scales wrapped the back, chest, and lower torso. “It’s light, flexible.” She hefted it. “Made for wearing under your clothes. It won’t turn a real weapon aside for long, but it saved my old doorman more than once from a dagger in the back.” She looked at Ken’ishi. “I thought perhaps you could use this. You must bring it back to me of course, and I’ll be sure to peel it off you myself.”

  Shirohige said, “Give that up, woman. You’re making me ill.”

  “No one knows better than I that men have needs. Besides, he’s not getting out of here without giving old Junko a little, stiff warrior.”

  Ken’ishi clamped down on his tongue.

  She continued, “So where are you off to? Where is Green Tiger’s current den of iniquity?”

  Shirohige said, “A gambling house behind Pink Orchid. I’ve heard of the whorehouse, but you probably know better than I, my sweet, innocent dumpling.”

  “Pink Orchid, eh? I know the place well. And you’re a bald-faced liar. I happen to know that you frequented that place when mother was still alive. I had a lovely brawl with the madam there once.”

  Shirohige chuckled and shrugged. “‘Lovely’, she says. Show him.”

  Junko opened her robe and exposed a pale, withered breast with a livid, white scar as long as a hand puckering the skin above a shapeless, brownish-gray nipple. “That pustule-ridden bitch tried cut off my teat! Well, she got the harder bargain, I daresay.” She met Ken’ishi’s gaze, then cupped the sagging end of the breast in her fingers and fluttered it for him with a lascivious grin.

  He did his best to remain unperturbed.

  She slipped it back inside her robe. “Anyway, the gambling house and the whorehouse are connected somehow. The Nakasu district is a maze of passages above and below ground. There is always at least one man, at night probably two, in a hidden alcove near the door, watching patrons come and go, making sure no one gets out of line. If there’s any trouble, they’ll be on you like flies around my brother’s head.”

  Ken’ishi bowed. “Thank you, madam. You are most kind.”

  She grinned. “Such a silver-tongued young man! What else can you do with that tongue?”

  “Hachiman’s Balls, woman, give it a rest!”

  “Oh, shut up and let me have a little fun, you old coot!” She sighed. “Well, I’ll have this stitched up in no time, if you’ll leave me the hell alone. Make your own supper. I’m not going to be around forever.”

  Shirohige grumbled and set to rummaging through cupboards for rice, putting fresh wood on the fire, fanning it to a larger flame, setting water to boil. He sporadically shouted questions at Junko about the hidden location of the pot, and the rice, and the ladle, and derided her for letting the wood supply diminish. She shouted back harsh retorts, and finally threw down the armor and went to prepare the meal herself.

  Shirohige eventually sat back down beside Ken’ishi, concealing a smug grin.

  Throughout all this activity, Ken’ishi sat quietly, thinking about what he would do if he found the ronin, Masoku. Shirohige did manage to make some tea without complaint, and they shared a pot while Junko finished preparing the meal. A pall of solemnity fell over Ken’ishi, and the tea tasted better than any he had ever drunk. During the meal, every kernel of rice burst with flavor and texture in his mouth, along with the sourness of the pickled plums, the crunch of the vegetables in the savory soup broth.

  This could be the last meal he ever ate.

  But could not the same be said of every meal? Fortunes could shift and crack and let loose like the ice melt of northern mountain streams. On any given day, he could encounter another oni ready to flay him and feast on his flesh. Tonight was a night like any other. The danger of the situation should lend itself to caution, but not worry.

  Shirohige said, “You’re very quiet tonight.”

  Junko said, “He’s always quiet.”

  “I know that better than you do, hag!”

  Ken’ishi washed down the last of his meal with a sip of tea. “I shall return by morning, or I’ll likely not return at all.”

  Shirohige nodded.

  Junko sighed. “Just make sure you come back. Your shoulders make me all juicy and tingly. And you owe me a tumble for the armor.”

  “Of course, madam.”

  * * *

  Junko’s directions to and around the Nakasu district proved accurate. Ken’ishi navigated the warrens of narrow streets and alleys filled with drunken men of all walks of life. The smells of saké and food, gusts of laughter, cries of surprise and pain echoing from dark niches, the hard-packed earth under his wooden sandals, the faint strains of a flute or a biwa. Sweat soaked the interior padding of the armor under his robe, plastering it to his body.

  He stood under the large red lantern painted with the characters “Pink Orchid Dream” and he thought of Kiosé. Old Tetta the innkeeper had purchased her from a whorehouse in Hakozaki when she was very young. How would her life have been different if she had remained there? Paths of human lives intersected, woven together for a time before they unraveled and parted. Had she awakened from the dream Hage had given her? Would she ever?

  Sounds of pleasure emanated from a window above. How different they were from Kiosé’s little gasps and contented sighs. Louder, more energetic, but less sincere, hollow.

  He let his awareness encompass the street, listening for the voices of kami or the silver tug. Two men lounged in a doorway a few dozen paces distant, muttering to one another, torn clothes sweat-stained and unkempt, swords in battered scabbards thrust haphazardly in their sashes—ronin. Down the street, under a different red lantern, sat a beautifully lacquered palanquin with two porters an
d two samurai bodyguards who were paying close attention to the ronin. A trio of drunken tradesmen singing a bawdy tune staggered past, lost in their own camaraderie.

  Ken’ishi found the narrow alley that Junko had described and headed down it. The shadows lay deep between the shacks and walls, the light of a half-risen moon still insufficient to do naught but skim the thatched rooftops. The alley stank of refuse and dog shit, littered with debris that crackled and shifted underfoot. The soft-grunting bulk of a pig lay tied in a pen little bigger than its body.

  Another red light appeared beyond the shifting curves ahead, and he soon found himself at a dead end, standing under another red lantern. Sounds of conversation sifted through the closed door. He opened the door and stepped into the lamplit hallway. The kami tingled over him as he heard the shift of a doorman’s bulk in a curtained alcove beside the door.

  Beyond another curtain lay a room filled with tables and men. Dealers brimmed with false joviality, shuffling cards or wooden placards carved with dots and slashes and other markings. Men groaned and cheered and hoisted cups. Greed and desperation thickened the closeness of the humid night air. Near a rear door stood a grim-faced ronin, arms crossed, beard unshaven. He chewed on a fingernail, his face slack with boredom.

  A round-faced woman with the eyes of a fish approached him, brushing at strands of unruly hair. “Can I show you to a table, sir? What is your game tonight?”

  “I have business with Masoku.”

  She sucked in a little breath and scrutinized Ken’ishi in a flash. “I’m sorry, sir. He is not here tonight. Perhaps you would like to try a round of Ya Pei. Fortunes are with the players tonight—”

  “Where can I find him?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “As I said, he is not here.”

  “As I asked, where can I find him?”

  She bowed. “I’m very sorry, sir. Please wait here.” She disappeared through another door. He watched her go.

  When his attention returned to the ronin, the man’s bored demeanor was gone. His gaze lay full upon Ken’ishi, his expression unreadable. Ken’ishi held his gaze, feeling the kami hum to life behind his mind.

  A short, thin man came out and approached Ken’ishi, his bald head fringed by wisps of hair, his eyes dark and hard as lava rocks. He carried no visible weapon. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

  His abrupt rudeness grated over Ken’ishi’s nerves. “You are Masoku?”

  “Yes, now what is your business?”

  “I have business only with the real Masoku.”

  The man’s narrow face soured, and his eyes flashed. He glanced at the wooden sword in Ken’ishi’s sash.

  Ken’ishi said, “I am not here to cause trouble. I don’t even have a real weapon. I simply require a brief word with Masoku. It is an urgent matter. In private.”

  The man turned away. “Come with me.”

  Ken’ishi followed him back through the same door, down a hallway into a dim storeroom lit by only a single shaft of moonlight through a high, narrow window. The air smelled of the dust that lay heavy on the floor, decaying wood, and moldy tatami. Another narrow door stood closed on the opposite side of the room.

  The man said, “Wait here,” and left Ken’ishi alone.

  Ken’ishi positioned himself with his back to the wall, both entrances in full view. He stilled himself into the Void, where the kami sang choruses of warning. His bokken could be in his hand in less than a heartbeat. An image flashed into his mind of standing in the mouth of a tiger.

  The ronin entered from the opposite door, his face a block of unreadable stone. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, a façade of nonchalance. “I am Masoku.”

  “So the last man said.”

  “Best to be cautious. Things are never what they seem, eh? What’s this business you say you have with me?”

  “I want to speak with Green Tiger.”

  The man’s dark eyes narrowed. “You must have a death wish. Go home, kid.”

  Ken’ishi bowed, “I respectfully request an audience.”

  The man laughed, “This is not a noble’s court! Take your pleasantries and plug them in a horse’s arse!”

  “There is no need to be discourteous. We are both warriors.”

  Masoku nodded toward Ken’ishi’s weapon. “Do you think this is a training hall?”

  “All the world is my training hall.”

  Masoku snorted, and his gaze bored into Ken’ishi for several long moments, only to be turned away. Then he scoffed. “How can you call yourself a warrior with only a wooden sword?”

  Ken’ishi said, “I have come here respectfully to request to speak to Green Tiger. You can, of course, deny that he is here. Across northern Kyushu, his name could be among the Bodhisattvas for the power people associate with him. He is clearly a busy man, but my business is urgent. Either take me to him now, or arrange a meeting.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I suspect that if I kill you, he’ll find me himself.”

  Masoku burst into a harsh laugh. “And if I kill you?” He thrust out his sword hilt.

  “Then I’m not worthy to present my message to him.”

  “Tell me your business.”

  “My business is between me and your master. Take me to him, agree to arrange a meeting, or draw.”

  Masoku’s sword sprang into his hand, a curved ribbon of tarnished moonlight. “You’ve a dangerous overestimation of yourself, kid.” He edged forward.

  Ken’ishi’s awareness encompassed the room, areas that might cramp his movement or hinder his weapon, floorboards that might give way under his foot, the exact distance between him and his opponent.

  Masoku’s free hand slipped out of sight for a moment, then blurred with motion. Something hissed through the air, flashing slivers of steel. Three small knives thudded into Ken’ishi’s chest and belly, embedding themselves. One of the points found its way between the scales under his shirt and lightly pierced his flesh, but the armor held true. Ken’ishi swept the knives free and held his ground.

  Masoku’s eyes widened.

  Ken’ishi said, “Take me to Green Tiger, or die.”

  Masoku’s blade slashed through the dimness, glinting. Ken’ishi allowed it to pass him by, but he was out of position to counterattack, constrained by the size of the room. Another slash, and he slid aside. Another slash, and Ken’ishi attempted to redirect the blow with his bokken, but too late he realized that the attack was not meant to harm him; it had been aimed at his sword. The steel edge sheared neatly through the hardwood, and two hand-spans of bokken tumbled through the air.

  A heavy foot creaked in the hallway behind him. A hulking shadow loomed over him, bare-chested. Heavy blunt features snarled. He spun. Great, thick arms wielded two clubs. He caught one attack on the clipped length of bokken, but the blow was so powerful that it sent jarring shivers up both arms. A splintering sound crashed through the room. The other club slammed into his shoulder, driving him sideways with a sudden flare of agony. His arm went numb.

  Masoku’s blade slashed toward his face, and he ducked, just in time to meet the second man’s meaty leg sweeping upward. The kick plowed into his belly with shocking pain, lifting him off the floor. If not for the armor, his ribs might have been shattered.

  He collapsed onto his knees, gasping for breath. There was a sound of club against skull, and Ken’ishi fell to the floor, his vision going white.

  Another kick to his belly, and a thick voice rumbled, “Armor.”

  “Well, isn’t he the resourceful one? Perhaps he’s less willing to die than he let on.”

  “Master say no kill, yes?” A strange lilt and accent similar to Teng Zhou.

  “That’s right. He’ll get his audience with the master, but I don’t expect he’ll survive it. Truss him up.”

  Existence and Non-Existence, Good and Evil, are sicknesses of the mind. If you do not expel these sicknesses from the mind, nothing you do will turn out well.

  �
� Yagyu Munenori, The Life-Giving Sword

  Pain brought Ken’ishi out of his stupor, starbursts of pain that tore through his belly and knotted his shoulders and numbed his arms. A strange, silver worm wriggled through his mind, inching through the parched earth of agony, delving, probing. Coarse ropes constricted his arms and wrists, lashing them to a timber crossed under his shoulder blades. A foul-tasting wad of linen filled his mouth; a gag pulled tight across held it in place like a horse’s bit. He lay on his back, his own weight crushing his elbows under the timber. He tried to shift his weight to relieve the pressure, but white-hot pain gouged into his torso and the weight of the timber held him in place. His belly felt like an enormous, aching bruise. Each heartbeat brought a throb of agony through his arms, and his awkwardly hanging head pounded in perfect rhythm.

  The silver worm shifted its form, growing wings, a regal, curving neck, a long beak. It spread its wings and took flight, but its eyes were upon him, and he felt its judgment. It felt so close, but out of reach.

  An enormous mountain of a man sat on a barrel, watching him with massive arms crossed over his naked chest. Shaven head, lumpen, bestial features, beady black eyes. He gave Ken’ishi a wry grin. “You get wish. Master come.”

  Ken’ishi heard the words, but pain so disrupted his mind that he could not formulate a thought. He bit down hard on his gag, clamping back the pain as he heaved his back off the floor into a sitting position, fighting the weight of a timber as thick and heavy as his leg. He waited for the pain to subside, fought to resist gagging on the foul wad of linen, simply focused on breathing, but each inhalation opened a burning gash of agony under his ribs. His arms were immobile, lashed so tightly to the timber that they felt like so much dead flesh.

  The square of moonlight crept like an inchworm across the dusty floor.

  Ken’ishi caught himself bobbing forward, losing consciousness or falling asleep, but some interminable time passed before a globe of yellow light bobbed into the room, a lantern in Masoku’s hand.

  A third man entered, a man in a basket hat, with a cloth wrapping the lower half of his face and a bamboo sword case across his back. The man moved with the surety and grace of a serpent or a spider, and he stood before Ken’ishi with a gaze so intense that its pressure touched him like the point of a spear. Everything about the man’s face was invisible, except those powerful eyes. Otherwise, he was a man of smaller stature, thin, but with a cultivated power in his movements, even swathed as they were in black silk and linen, as if he invited the night to swallow him into its embrace.