Sword of the Ronin (The Ronin Trilogy)

by Travis Heermann

  Hage snorted, “Humans and their greediness. Monsters of pride and avarice. Thievery should be kept to a small but amusing pastime. Any self-respecting creature can only hope to amuse himself among all this nonsense.”

  “What do these barbarians want?” Ken’ishi said.

  “Wealth. Expansion of their empire. Vengeance for a slight. It is said their empire stretches to the lands of the setting sun, so far to the west that the ri are beyond counting.”

  Hage raised a bushy eyebrow at Ken’ishi. “What happens to your plans if an invasion fleet arrives tomorrow?”

  Ken’ishi had no answer. But when he quieted his mind, the tug of some invisible thread turned his attention toward the northwest, outside of Hakata.

  * * *

  For the next several days, Ken’ishi practiced, driving his body back toward the strength he had once possessed. Every shooting pain, every failure, every moment of aching exhaustion was tinged with the taste of desperation. Something told him he did not have much time.

  He practiced the bow until his supply of arrows dwindled to only three. The rest splintered or lost their fletching from incessant use, and he had no money to buy more. However, as he centered his mind, turning it away from thoughts of constant hunger, aching want, and crippling despair, he found delight in listening to the conversations sprinkled around him in tongues that other humans could not understand. He learned the birds who made their nests nearby, discovered more of Pon-Pon’s gentle wisdom, and then acquainted himself with neighborhood dogs; unfortunately, none of them were as wise, agreeable, or humorous as his old friend Akao.

  Shirohige’s demeanor grew ever more desperate, and the meals Junko cooked became ever smaller. One day he came home and announced that, until his shipment of trade goods came in, any further food he bought would put them into debt.

  * * *

  THE TIME IS NOW.

  Ken’ishi’s body sat bolt upright in bed. Cold sweat beaded his forehead. His heart thumped audibly against his rib cage. He cast around the dark room for the source of the shout. The air was cold in the depths of night, and silence lay heavy over the house, broken only by twin snores from Junko and Shirohige in another room.

  The voice had been clear, powerful, direct.

  He shook away the confusion, and the shout still echoed in his mind. His heart fluttered from the force of the echoes.

  Then he knew.

  No more scheming. No more practice. No more waiting for his strength to return. He was still weakened, but he could wait no longer.

  He dressed himself, took up his bow and arrows, put on Shirohige’s straw hat—he must conceal his features—and ventured into the night.

  Hage caught up with him in the next district. Ken’ishi, having learned what to listen for, detected the tanuki snuffling up behind him, following his scent. “Where are you off to, old sot? A bit late for a stroll.”

  “It’s time. Help me.”

  Hage sighed. “I suppose tonight is as good a time as any. I was growing bored waiting for you. But first let me make you a little less conspicuous.”

  The bow on Ken’ishi’s back became a monk’s walking staff and the quiver of arrows a light traveling pack.

  “Now the next constable you meet is less likely to arrest you. Your weapons will resume their forms in the morning as the earth and air in them greet the Sun Goddess. What’s the plan then? Some brilliant warrior stratagem? Charge in and kill them all? Die a resplendent death?”

  “I’ll tell you.”

  After Ken’ishi did, Hage said, “I like it.”

  * * *

  The docks were deserted at this tiny hour, quiet save for the lapping of the waves against the pilings, the creak and thump of ships’ rigging. Ken’ishi passed a drunkard snoring loudly against a stack of barrels. He hefted his staff, once a bow, swung it about him to test the feel and the weight. It would serve as a passable weapon even in this form.

  A faint light burned within the warehouse. Unintelligible voices filtered into the night from deep in the warehouse. A White Lotus gangster stood against the door jamb, arms crossed, head bowed drowsily.

  The tanuki disappeared into the darkness.

  Ken’ishi clung to the shadows as he approached, and took a position around the corner behind the gangster. Gripping his staff, he stole up behind the drowsing guard. The gangster blinked himself into groggy wakefulness just in time to see the shadow of the staff descending toward his head. A heavy thud, and the gangster dropped without another sound. Ken’ishi knelt and tugged off the man’s headband, thrust it into his robe, and picked up the long knife. He pulled out the jade bauble, carved in the likeness of a tiger, and placed it on the gangster’s chest.

  Creeping around the warehouse toward the back, he picked his way among rubbish, debris, and discarded crates until he reached the rear wall. The building was fashioned of wood and bamboo, weathered by decades, and dry as a pile of fallen leaves.

  Hage stole up to him in human form, bearing a lantern and an impish grin. With the flame he lit a handful of straw, then opened the lantern reservoir and splattered the oil across the warehouse. With the look of a young boy about some mischief, he set the flame to the oil. A sheet of flame bloomed across the wall.

  As Ken’ishi and Hage stole off into the shroud of night, they heard the shouts of consternation and surprise rising behind them. Teng Zhou’s voice shouted orders.

  * * *

  “We’ve kicked the hornet’s nest now!” Hage, a dark, loping hump now, hooted.

  Ken’ishi ducked into an alley, a safe distance away, the tanuki close on his heels, and thrust the White Lotus knife into his sash. He peeked around the corner for signs of pursuit. His heart thundered against his breast from the exertion, and his breath burned with every gasp, his limbs shuddering from weakness. He was still weaker than he thought.

  Hage said, “They won’t be long. Once they put the fire out and gather their wits, they’ll pay Green Tiger’s place a visit.”

  * * *

  As Ken’ishi and Hage moved through the night, Ken’ishi tried to familiarize himself with the knife’s heft and balance, a chopping, stabbing weapon, a cleaver with a point.

  “Are you going to wait for them?” Hage said as they stood at the mouth of a certain alley. At the far end of the alley lay a familiar red lantern at the entrance to the gambling den.

  Ken’ishi secreted his staff and traveling pack near the mouth of the alley. He would come back for them. “You said yourself they’ll be coming soon.”

  “I said they’ll be going after one of Green Tiger’s haunts. It might not be this one. I’m sure they know of several, any one of which could be a target. What if you have to do this alone?”

  “No matter. It will be done. But you said they would most likely come here.”

  “I think they’ll come here.”

  “Why?”

  “I steal because I am lazy. Criminals are lazy. They steal because they are lazy. They would rather someone else do all the hard work. They will come here, because this place is the closest of Green Tiger’s haunts to their own. They want a fight now. Come, I’ll show you the quiet way in. My weeks of snooping were not without reward.”

  The tanuki kept to the shadows under the floors and porches of shops and houses as they made their way around the block to another innocuous doorway, marked only with a wooden plaque written in a script too scrawled for Ken’ishi to read.

  “Can you read this, Hage?”

  “I’ve known chickens who can scratch a better character, but it says ‘Dreams of the Pink Orchid’ or some such nonsense. Why must humans ascribe such poetical drivel to the opening the younglings pop out of?”

  Ken’ishi chuckled. “Perhaps because it’s rude to speak of it directly. Nonsense? Sometimes it seems men spend their entire lives in search of it.” How many nights had he spent yearning for one in particular when another lay so close to him? How many nights under the full moon had his thoughts waxed just so poetic? Yes, non
sense indeed.

  “We can’t have you tramping through a house of delicate ladies with your pig-poker in hand. You’ll cause too much of a stir.” The tanuki stepped out of the shadows and rose to his hind legs. Hage’s furry jewel sack pulsed and swelled. “Grab onto these.”

  Ken’ishi hesitated.

  “Oh, come now, old sot. You’ve already fondled them more thoroughly than any woman’s ever fondled yours. You’ve even been wrapped in them like a blanket.”

  Ken’ishi could not help but nod, so he knelt and cradled them in one hand.

  “Squeeze.”

  Ken’ishi squeezed, and tingles shot through his fingers. Suddenly Hage seemed taller, of equal size. The buildings around them reared skyward, towering above like mountainous parapets. But Hage had not grown. Ken’ishi stood now on all fours, one hairy paw cradling Hage’s jewel sack, and the other three resting under the furred barrel of his own body. He wondered where his weapons had gone, but he did not have time to wonder long.

  Hage said, “If you let go, the magic goes away. Let go while we’re crawling through a crack, and you might find yourself stuck in a dreadfully unpleasant place. Best grab them with your teeth—but not too hard!—and follow me.”

  Ken’ishi did.

  If the mind congeals in one place and remains with one thing, it is like frozen water and unable to be used freely: ice that can wash neither hands nor feet. When the mind is melted and is used like water, extending throughout the body, it can be used wherever one wants to send it. This the Right Mind.

  — Takuan Soho, “The Mysterious Record of Immovable Wisdom”

  Ken’ishi’s tanuki eyes saw clearly in the narrow crawlspace under the brothel, even though his field of vision was filled with little else besides Hage’s undulating rump. The darkness around him seethed with insects, worms, rats, even a tomcat on the hunt. Sounds of human revelry, both in groups and in private, filtered down from above. The folds of furry skin in Ken’ishi’s teeth sent tingling waves through his tongue and lips. His sharp tanuki teeth ached as if he was eating too much snow. The two tanuki wriggled between wooden pillars and floor joists and slogged through slimy bogs, tearing holes through curtains of cobweb. Onward to a narrow, ragged hole in the wooden floor above, barely big enough for a tanuki’s bulk.

  “Ouch! Not so tight!” Hage snapped to make Ken’ishi loosen his grip.

  Upward through the hole into a tiny, musty storeroom where brooms and washcloths were kept.

  “Here,” Hage whispered.

  Ken’ishi spat out Hage’s jewel sack, felt the tingles draining out of him like a punctured bag of sand. He began to grow and shift, and his head swam with sudden dizziness. The ceiling of the closet came down to press against his head, cocking his neck at an uncomfortable angle. His shoulders were squeezed against the handles of the brooms and the wall. Hage’s bulk was crammed between his feet. Ken’ishi’s Chinese knife was in his hand.

  Hage whispered, “A bit of a tussle to extract yourself from the closet, but you’re inside. To the right is the house of ladies. To the left is a passage leading to the gambling house.”

  “I’ll lead the way.”

  “And I’ll guard your back.”

  Ken’ishi eased the door latch aside and swung the door open. The hallway was dim, but the sounds of pleasure grew louder. He shrugged himself out of the closet and gripped the long knife. “Can you hide us until we find the enemy?”

  “My powers have been taxed, but I can manage this much.” Hage wiggled his head, and the air whispered with glimmering motes that coalesced around Ken’ishi. He was now dressed in a woman’s kimono, and his hair hung long in the style of a young woman.

  Ken’ishi stiffened and tried to restrain an outburst. “What are you doing? A woman!”

  “Hide in plain sight, fool. You’re in a brothel, and you’re pretty enough. Pretend to be the new girl.”

  “There is no honor in this!”

  “You’re right, not in any of this. Now shut up before someone hears us!”

  “No, change the appearance of only my weapons. I can pose as a patron.”

  “Oh, very well. But my way would have been much more fun. What a waste of my powers!” Hage clucked his tongue, and Ken’ishi’s appearance was restored. The knife became a folded fan. Strangely, he still felt like he had a knife in his fist.

  “Only the air of your appearance has changed,” Hage said, “what others see. The earth of your weapons has not. I cannot manage another transformation of your substance just now. You will have to leave by a door.”

  Ken’ishi stole down the hallway, passed an open door wherein a young woman was straightening a futon and rumpled bedclothes. She gave him a bow and smile that was pretty but wearied. The hour was late. She looked no more than fifteen. He bowed in return and continued down the hallway.

  Behind him, Hage assumed human form and gave the girl a smile and a bow himself. “Pardon me, little sister, but my young companion here is looking for a friend of his, an enormous Chinaman. Is he here?”

  Her eyes widened with fear, as if surprised that Fang Shi had any friends at all. “He is usually at the front door. I saw him there earlier. Shall I take you to him, Uncle?”

  “No need, you have plenty to do. Much obliged.”

  She bowed again, and Hage took Ken’ishi’s shoulder. “Come.”

  Down the narrow hallway, Ken’ishi said, “Clever.”

  “Attitude, boy. Behave as if this is exactly where you belong, and there is no need to sneak. Why make this harder than it is? You’ll have your hands full enough if you find him.”

  Another young girl, only slightly older than the last, dragged a drunken samurai behind her by the hand. Her robe was half open, a tender breast just visible. They were both laughing, but hers was forced, too enthusiastic. The warrior groped for her buttocks. Ken’ishi and Hage made way for them in the narrow hallway. They lurched past, leaving a miasma of saké fumes and lust in their wake. She had had a mole on her cheek similar to Kiosé’s, and she looked so much younger. A sudden spasm shot through him. He could walk out of here right now, and go back to Aoka village, take Kiosé away from there, Silver Crane or no Silver Crane—perhaps he could even find a new sword—and he could make his way in the world. Kiosé would never have to even think about her old life in a place such as this.

  A strain of biwa music and singing echoed from somewhere.

  Ken’ishi and Hage stepped into a large room furnished with a multitude of brightly embroidered cushions, where cloying incense filled the air and patrons awaited their pleasure. Shadowed hallways and doors went off in several directions.

  A middle-aged woman wearing resplendent robes of multicolored silk, the beauty of her features sharpened by predatory greed and cold, glittering eyes, her hair immaculately coiffed, face and hands powdered almost white, entertained a fat, nervous-looking merchant.

  The madam glanced at Ken’ishi for a moment, then again. Her eyes blackened instantly from affable and merry to brittle suspicion. “Who are you?”

  Ken’ishi said, “The Master sent us to find Fang Shi.” He gripped his “fan,” and wondered for how many more heartbeats it would look like a fan. He took a deep breath, felt for the Void, and settled himself into it, each moment becoming a discrete eternity of spaces between moments.

  She nodded toward a rice paper door. A moment later, the door slid open, and Fang Shi loomed through the opening. His beady gaze swept over Ken’ishi, and his face twisted with a tumult of surprised recognition and then rage. He drew a curved, single-edged broadsword from the scabbard at his hip.

  Ken’ishi charged.

  Fang Shi’s sword rose.

  The merchant squealed like a child and scrambled away.

  The madam hissed and slid back like a serpent, a dagger appearing in her hand.

  Hage clucked his tongue, and her dagger became a writhing serpent. She screamed and cast it away.

  Ken’ishi grabbed Fang Shi’s sword wrist with his left hand.
It felt like grasping a thick tree bough. He stabbed with his right. The “fan” plunged into Fang Shi’s belly. Ken’ishi twisted, thrusting deeper. Fang Shi’s eyes bulged. Ken’ishi jerked the fan out with a gush of gore and entrails.

  But Fang Shi still stood, and his fist came down on top of Ken’ishi’s head like a hammer, driving him facedown onto the floor. Fang Shi’s blood poured into Ken’ishi’s hair, over the back of his neck. He heard the whoosh of a massive blade coming down, rolled through hot viscera and raised the blood-smeared knife to block Fang Shi’s blow. A sharp clang amid the flashes of white in his vision nearly drove the hilt from his grip, but he held on.

  The madam screamed again.

  Fang Shi’s sword swept around for another blow, a continuous movement, advancing, stumbling legs bumping his entrails. Crimson sheets spurted over the glistening ropes.

  Ken’ishi scrambled back. Fang Shi was a dead man, but he had not yet accepted this as a fact.

  Two samurai yojimbo burst through the front door with a gust of cool night air, blades at the ready. The merchant squealed, “Save me!”

  Their eyes immediately took in the ensanguined combatants. They leaped to interpose themselves between the fight and the merchant, but they did not attack, unsure to whose side they should lend aid.

  Fang Shi swung again, and the tip of his blade tore a deep gash in the tatami floor. Ken’ishi lunged forward, thrusting up under Fang Shi’s ribcage, into his heart. Ken’ishi felt the rest of Fang Shi’s life spill out in another hot gush over his hand. The giant sank to his knees.

  Hage roared and cast an oil lamp at the feet of the two samurai. The lamp exploded into fire and sparks, which swirled through the smoke like fireflies of every color. Both samurai fell back, coughing and cursing.

  Ken’ishi kicked Fang Shi onto his back, and a last breath wheezed free. Ken’ishi left the White Lotus knife embedded in Fang Shi’s torso. Oily fire licked over the giant’s twitching legs.

  “Come!” Hage cried.