Child of Vengeance

by David Kirk

  Munisai felt the fingers of the world enclosing him once more in every hostile, suspicious checkpoint of their ally they passed through. Miyamoto had lulled him into peaceful concentration, isolated and thinking only of the boy. Now here he was, back in the realm of politics and intrigue. He tried to focus; what mattered was Ukita alone. Let the lord have any scheme of nation or armies of thousands—all Munisai wanted was his ruling on a single youth.

  But the lord’s designs were overwhelming; the city of Okayama swarmed with samurai. Munisai lost count of the number of shaven pates and top knots he saw among the crowd, and he found himself marveling at the sheer frantic number of them all. The sounds of anvils being struck seemed to ring constantly from every corner—constructing, sharpening, preparing. Before them on the streets, bodies wormed among one another. Their escort, a captain who had been assigned them a checkpoint back, was unimpressed.

  “I apologize for all this delay,” he said to Munisai, eyes glittering with anger as they waited for a merchant to move his cart to one side.

  “Is it always this bad?” Munisai asked.

  “Only recently. It’s turning into a human swamp,” said the man. “My Lord Ukita provided ten thousand samurai for the invasion. Apparently, we didn’t get very far.”

  More politics, more distractions. That Toyotomi could not become the shogun because of his low birth haunted him, and so now the old man sat in his bed, thirsting over maps of Korea and China, seeing himself as the heavenly emperor of both. Even the lowest Japanese was more worthy of a throne than those the mainlanders called divine, after all.

  The first invasion five years ago failed ignobly, unable to overcome the millions of Chinese and Korean warriors who opposed them. A second had been launched earlier this year, and already it had faltered. Should it fail too, it might break Toyotomi’s spirit, and some already saw carrion birds circling the regent.

  “It’s a nightmare to catalog them,” continued the captain. “Coming back by the boatload, their papers lost or burned. We have to write up new ones on the docks. Most of them need to send riders off to their homes, asking for identification by their families, waiting cramped on their ships. A clean-shaven man is fully bearded by the time the gates open for him.

  “That’s just the half of it too. Once they get in, ten thousand shamed warriors here, all looking to prove their honor again? That’s trouble. Fights every night, crucifixions the next day, but no matter how many they nail up as an example they still keep getting into it. I don’t understand it. It’s like they got infected with barbarity from the chinks. I’ll be glad when the War starts, to be honest.” He sighed.

  The War. When had they started calling it that, differentiating it from the kind of war that had existed in Japan for centuries, the kind that Shinmen and Munisai had waged upon the Kanno earlier that year? The War they all knew was coming. A straight fight for all or nothing in the void Toyotomi would leave.

  “Won’t be long now,” grunted Munisai from behind his mask.

  “It’ll be good to get it out of the way,” said the captain. “I’m sick of the waiting. I don’t even care if we win or not.”

  “We won’t lose,” said Munisai.

  “ ‘We’?” said the captain with a wry smile. “There’s no guarantee we’ll be on the same side by then, though, is there?”

  There was no malice in his voice. Knives at each other’s throats impassively. The world of samurai. Ukita’s castle appeared, still under construction but beautiful and imposing nonetheless. Someone was hastily stringing up Shinmen’s blue standard upon the walls, but Munisai barely noticed.

  His eyes were locked solely on the ten feet of burgundy silk alongside it.

  MUNISAI FOUND HIMSELF looking at Ukita’s wife during their audience. She sat behind and to the side of the lord, silent and demure, her long hair parted in the middle pooling on the floor behind her. Her real eyebrows had been shaven off; in their place the two smudges of charcoal up near her hairline painted her eternally serene. Once or twice, her eyes caught Munisai’s, and they reminded him of Yoshiko. The two women looked nothing alike, but the memory of his wife seemed to dance around him constantly now.

  Did a similar hatred or misery lurk behind those eyes? Did Ukita’s wife despise Ukita and scheme for his downfall? Or was she his confidante, the classical, traditional rock of a wife who tempered the male fire with reason and compassion? The woman’s face was unreadable, perfectly noble and samurai. She could be Yoshiko or she could be an angel—but Munisai could see only the former. That was good, in a way. This was her son’s fate; Yoshiko should be here.

  He wanted her to be here.

  For her part, Ukita’s wife was here solely as part of a masquerade. Normally women would not be permitted to witness the affairs of men. Yet Ukita had no wish to air such a bitter quarrel within his faction before the gossips and visiting emissaries of his court—they all already spoke of the attack, of course, but lacked the proof that a public hearing would give them—and so the lord and his guests had come to a private, minor hall hidden within the bowels of the castle to ostensibly share a private evening as friends and allies.

  It was not surprising that the Nakata had also come to entreat Ukita. Munisai was not overly concerned, either. A confrontation was inevitable, and today was as good a day as any other. They had arrived a day or two before, but Ukita had been too busy to receive them until now; they had not had a chance to spread their poison yet, and that was good.

  There were no guards present—they had been ordered outside and told to keep their ears closed to anything but cries of alarm. Each of the three groups were sitting a precisely measured, polite, safe distance away from one another; Shinmen and Munisai on one side, Nakata and Hayato opposite, and between them on a raised dais Ukita and his wife.

  Though the Lord Ukita was a young man, there was a coldness in him that added years. His face was hard, and his eyes were unsettling in their relentless calculation. They scanned and tabulated, as though the world were an abacus that could be read and understood with the simplest of logic, before a few beads were shifted to best benefit Ukita.

  “The understanding that is to be gleaned,” said the lord, using the elaborate courtly tongue in a voice like a river slowly freezing in winter, “is that the son of the most honorable Munisai Shinmen has mutilated the body of the son of the most noble Lord Nakata. If such a comprehension proves to have an element of veracity to it, then this is a most troubling and unwelcome development within the ranks of the allies of the clan Ukita.”

  “Such a comprehension is truthful, Lord,” said Lord Nakata, taking the initiative. “Were any eyes to gaze upon the ruination of the son of Nakata, they should surely weep.”

  Slowly Ukita turned to look at Hayato. The young lord seemed barely there, in truth. A pall of sickness hung over him; he was gaunt and sweat sheened, his sunken eyes distant save for the occasional spark of lucidity. The stump of his right arm was hidden, though it was clear to see it pained him still.

  “The eyes of the clan Ukita remain dry as of this moment,” pronounced the lord. He turned his head away, resumed a neutral gaze favoring neither party.

  “It is begged that the most noble clan Ukita considers the suffering the son of the Lord Nakata is enduring,” pressed Nakata, as delicately as he could.

  “The son suffers physical pain now,” said Ukita. “But with time it shall pass and the fact remains that many men before the son of the most noble Lord Nakata have lived full lives with missing limbs.”

  “Life is not the sole concern—an incomplete body is marred in the eyes of that which passes judgment in the worlds beyond. Whenever death finds the son of Nakata, may it be decades away, the son is damned because of this mutilation,” said Nakata.

  “Glory be to the fate, then, that decreed that the son of Nakata was born into a position of prestige that allows the son to have either grievous sin or righteous virtue rendered by his hand even if he lacks one,” said Ukita. “Eternal soul
s and karma are not the concern of the clan Ukita; the restoration of amicability upon this mortal plane is.”

  The walls of the hall behind the lord were painted with a great mural of a natural landscape. The land and the sky were painted in two tones of gold leaf, while the twisting branches and vines of trees were done in black, rendering them an odd void in the shimmering background. Ukita’s kimono was the exact same shade of black as the trees, and he seemed absorbed and magnified by the mural. Munisai wondered if it was coincidence, or a subtle trick to unsettle visitors.

  Nakata removed a fan and opened it with a definite snap. He began to shake it back and forth in a vague impression of fanning himself, and tried to look Shinmen pointedly in the eye. Lord Shinmen was rigid with unease, his spine locked straight, but he did not meet Nakata’s squinting gaze.

  Munisai felt the hope within his chest grow slightly.

  “It is begged that the clan Ukita considers not the consequences of the incident, then,” said Nakata, giving up on Shinmen, “but the very act itself. A lowborn samurai—with no disrespect to the most honorable Munisai Shinmen—attacked a lord. This is a treason against the simple laws of nature. To deny this is to deny the walls of the castle in which this esteemed audience sits, the walls that enshrine and enthrone.”

  “If an interjection may be permitted, the blood of Munisai Shinmen runs with nobility,” said Munisai, keeping his head low and humble as he spoke. “It must be noted that although such a one has no castle or standing army and is honored to serve another, the family line flows unbroken to the most noble Fujiwara clan. Thus the boy is no mere lowly samurai.”

  Munisai was speaking truthfully. He had documented proof of his family tree that traced back centuries to one of the three noble clans of antiquity. Naturally all the lords and great lords could do so, but anyone else who could prove their lineage was considered highborn. Day to day it affected little other than a slight sense of prestige, but now it was an important bargaining point.

  That Bennosuke happened to be more peasant than he was Fujiwara was a fact known only to Munisai.

  “If the blood of the most honorable Munisai Shinmen runs with that of Fujiwara, then the most honorable Munisai Shinmen is as noble as this clan Ukita,” said Ukita simply. “What intrigues the clan Ukita, what therefore becomes pertinent, is why such an incident should occur. To the party of the most honorable Lord Shinmen and Munisai Shinmen, it should be asked pertinently whether the charge of the assault being unprovoked is agreed upon?”

  “Such a charge is vehemently contested, Lord,” said Munisai.

  “As this clan Ukita thought it would be. Indeed, the preceding reputation of the most honorable Munisai Shinmen—awarded the title Nation’s Finest before the eyes of this lord—seems to preclude such a notion of berserk savagery being inherent in the soul of his heir,” said Ukita.

  Munisai was surprised to hear a trace of admiration in the lord’s voice. The hope became a dull throbbing. The only objective law in the world was that which the world gave to men when it sent earthquakes or tsunamis or plagues or famine. Men unto themselves were prostrated before the altar of the whim and fancy of their superior, and if that superior happened to smile in your direction for whatever reason, then that was that.

  Nakata knew this too.

  “Might the clan Ukita be reminded,” the lord said, the first hints of open irritation in his voice, “of the time when the most honorable Munisai Shinmen was named Munisai Hirata, of even the first rounds of the tournament the clan Ukita witnessed when the most honorable Hirata appeared as a vagabond bone-snapper? Or,” he continued, and the flapping of the fan grew a bit stronger, “perhaps if that is insufficiently savage enough for the most noble clan Ukita, then perhaps the arson and eradication of a village and the murder of Yoshiko Hirata are?”

  “Might the Lord Nakata be reminded not to deal in accusations and rumor,” said Ukita sharply.

  The lord turned to look at Munisai, seeking a denial, but Munisai remained silent. He was shocked that Nakata had brought that up. It was a definite gamble, as no formal charges had ever been laid against Munisai, and such a slandering of character was a bold move to make in the extreme politeness of the setting. Men had been put to death for lesser insults.

  Lord Ukita waited, but Munisai could not bring himself to offer any rebuttal. He felt the eyes of Ukita’s wife upon him, and another pair of eyes that watched from within his haunted soul.

  “Indeed.” Ukita nodded eventually, and Munisai thought he could sense disappointment. “In this case, then, the clan Ukita shall rely upon the testimony of the law. It is to be asked of the most noble Lord Shinmen what conclusion his brave men reached as to the origin of the incident?”

  “Inconclusive, my lord,” said Shinmen.

  “Inconclusive,” echoed Ukita. He pondered that for a moment, his body rocking ever so slightly. Nakata raised the fan to his face, trying to draw Shinmen’s attention. Munisai’s lord kept his eyes on the floor.

  “Disquiet,” sighed Ukita. “Disquiet in the soul of the clan Ukita. Long have the clans Shinmen and Nakata been as one with this clan. Men who were the clan Ukita before this current clan have trusted the strength and canniness in war of the most honorable Shinmen, and relied upon the generosity and consideration of the most honorable Nakata. Times darken. Unity is needed.

  “As a matter of honor, it is to be taken that the clan Nakata will accept no other form of compensation other than death?” asked Ukita, and Nakata nodded vehemently.

  “The most honorable Munisai Shinmen is already in debt to this clan monetarily. There is little point in merely accruing more,” said the lord. “Nothing else could be offered that could replace one drop of the blood of Nakata.”

  “Very well. It is understood that the most honorable Munisai Shinmen opposes the request for death. But the opinion of Lord Shinmen, who should happen to call Munisai Shinmen vassal, has yet to be heard,” said Ukita, and turned to the lord. Munisai noticed Nakata was staring intently—expectantly—at the man.

  “Impartiality is impossible for this clan,” said Shinmen. “Thus it secedes from the deliberation. Bloodless amicability is wished for, but this clan shall abide by whatever decision the most noble clan Ukita should deign to give.”

  “So be it,” said Lord Ukita.

  Munisai had not expected his lord to plead for him, and neither would he want it. As he had five years ago, Shinmen had given him a chance alone by using his rank to bring this before Ukita, and that was more than enough. Lord Nakata beseeched Shinmen with his eyes. Perhaps they had brokered some deal that only now Shinmen was reneging upon.

  Yet whatever further hope had leapt in his heart at that instantly faltered when he looked at Ukita. The subjective whim of earlier had faded into impassive calculation, weighing a skilled sword against the value of gold. The man had countless samurai already, and what fed them? What armed them?

  “Bennosuke Shinmen is just a boy,” Munisai said, speaking before he realized it. “It is begged that the clan Ukita consider the mistakes of childhood as it passes judgment.”

  “Boys do not wield longswords,” said Nakata, and Ukita nodded again in agreement. Munisai clenched his jaw.

  “He’s just a boy,” he said, throat tight.

  “Nevertheless,” said Ukita, and he said it in such a way that Munisai knew Bennosuke was doomed before the words had left the lord’s mouth. “Regrettable as it is, for the crime of the mutilation of the son of the most noble Lord Nakata, Bennosuke Shinmen is ordered to commit seppuku at the earliest convenience.”

  For the first time, Hayato’s face changed from the expression of listless fatigue it had been wearing. A grim happiness spread across him. Lord Nakata had a glint in his small, squinting eyes. Lord Shinmen merely looked down, and Ukita at the gold on the walls once more.

  But Ukita’s wife and her brown eyes gazed straight at Munisai, and it was as though he was no longer in the castle of Okayama far from home; he was back in his bed
in Miyamoto on that first drunken night of betrayal and the sheets were tugging on his soul as Yoshiko sobbed.

  He sighed sadly. So be it. He had known deep down it was always going to have to come to this, no matter how much he had deluded himself on the journey that Ukita might pardon the boy. He thought back to Dorinbo’s words on the night after Bennosuke killed Arima, the monk telling him that he had a mind filled only with death. His brother was right. That was all he knew. There would have to be more death; the last resort he knew had been his only true option since the boy had returned to the village barefoot and covered in blood.

  “Why?” Yoshiko asked simply, tears in her eyes.

  “Because I can,” said Munisai, standing over her.

  He bowed his head in resignation, and then Munisai slowly reached for the shortsword that was always by his side and drew it from the scabbard in his good right hand. The blade twinkled like the gold leaf on the walls as he held it out horizontally before him. His hand was strong and steady. Lord Nakata and Hayato tensed, and he could feel Shinmen do likewise. There was a frightened pause as they weighed up Munisai’s intentions. His actions were slow, deliberately measured, but everyone knew Munisai’s skill. If they tried calling the guards, or fleeing, he could easily dash their lives away before aid could arrive. His gaze was locked on the Nakata.

  “Munisai,” said Ukita slowly, “I would advise you to reconsider this. Sheathe your sword, or you will surely die.”

  Munisai could have laughed. The great lord didn’t know how right he was. He summoned his strength and his courage, and then he committed himself entirely to his fate. He struck a devastating blow to which Hayato and his father had no riposte.

  But for the first time in his life, Munisai did it without using a sword.