Clockwork Samurai

by Jeannie Lin

  As I gathered water from a nearby stream for the evening rice, I took a moment to look over the land. I was in a strange land with different customs and laws. Yet here, among the tall grass with the sunset painting the sky, I could have been back in our village, at the end of a long day bringing remedies to the farmers who lived out in the fields. There wasn’t a quiet place like this in Peking. There was always noise from the street, from the city drums, from the temple gong signaling the hours.

  I finished filling the iron pot with water and returned to camp to start the rice. At the edge of camp, Satomi sat with her bodyguard. He was turned away from me, but for once he had his helmet off. His head remained bent as she knelt beside him with her hand against his chest.

  The tenderness of the moment made me uncomfortable. It was a private exchange, not meant for prying eyes. I forced my gaze away and saw Makoto, who’d come to stand beside me.

  “Lady Sagara’s bodyguard is rōnin,” Makoto said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “He’s been cast adrift. When Lord Sagara was killed, his retainers immediately became masterless, prohibited from swearing loyalty to a new lord. The others likely drifted away to find work as hired swords, but this one stayed.”

  “She treats him as more than a servant.” I glanced back to see Satomi placing Yoshiro’s helmet back on while he remained on one knee before her.

  “They’re both outcasts.” There was no condemnation in his tone.

  “Are you rōnin as well?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Plenty of us no-good drifters about.”

  I started to ask him about the favor he wanted from us, but Makoto was already gone, moving to get supplies from the wagon. I returned my attention to the rice.

  Chang-wei knelt to start the cooking fire, and I positioned the rice pot over it. Together we sat back.

  “Did you ever imagine we would travel the world together?” Chang-wei was looking in the distance. I followed his gaze to the orange glow that surrounded the hills. My breath caught at the flood of color. At the beauty of this particular moment in time, knowing it would soon be gone.

  “We haven’t traveled so far,” I remarked. “The island empire and ours are close neighbors.”

  He smiled faintly. “Perhaps we’ll journey farther next time.”

  It was rare to find Chang-wei in such a whimsical mood. He was always so serious.

  “All the way to Bangkok,” I suggested, drawing from the first name that came to mind.

  “I would like to show you London one day.”

  “London?” I stiffened. “Why would I ever want to go there?”

  “It’s a great city, Soling. Grandiose in its own way.”

  I grew quiet. “We’re at war with the Yingguoren.”

  “That doesn’t mean I hate everything British.”

  “Don’t you remember how they imprisoned you? They forced you to serve on their ships.”

  “But I learned so many things,” he countered. “Saw a place and people and wonders I never knew existed. We want to be rid of them, but the world has changed. The steamships won’t disappear. The Yingguoren won’t go away.”

  He seemed so earnest. Chang-wei really did believe he could embrace Western ideas while fighting against the invasion.

  “You know there are those in the imperial court who hear the way you speak and doubt your loyalty, Chang-wei.”

  “But you don’t doubt it, do you?”

  I met his gaze, my heart aching. No one was more loyal to the empire than Chang-wei, but I knew the most loyal and dedicated of men could still be executed for treason. Imperial loyalty required a degree of forced blindness. Or at least silence.

  “I suspect Headman Aguda may have had a motive for putting me on this mission,” I confessed.

  Chang-wei’s expression became blank. “To report on me.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. We’re friends.”

  “We’re more than friends.”

  The quiet certainty in his reply made my pulse skip. This was more than we typically admitted to each other. I could feel my skin warming under his gaze.

  If he meant to say anything more, he didn’t have the chance. Makoto had returned from the wagon with a jug in hand. Chang-wei moved to the cooking fire to check the rice, and I was left to wonder and fret.

  I should have said something back to him. Something clever or heartfelt, instead of sitting there with my tongue frozen.

  By the time Makoto seated himself, Satomi had come to join us as well. Yoshiro remained at the perimeter to keep watch. He was always vigilant.

  “We’ll be in Saga domain the day after next,” she said, unslinging the rifle from her shoulder to set it beside her in the grass. “Takeda Hideyori will be surprised to see representatives from the Shina imperial court at his gate.”

  “Is Lord Takeda sympathetic to foreigners?” Chang-wei asked.

  “Takeda-sama is a man of science,” Satomi replied. “I am confident he’ll welcome your arrival. He also has a special interest in foreign studies. After my father left us, Takeda-sama became my guardian.”

  Yet now she was out in Nagasaki alone with only one bodyguard, haunting her father’s domain like a ghost. Sometimes I felt that way in Peking, traveling down the corridors of the Forbidden City as my father had done.

  “Why is Lord Takeda known as Karakuri Giemon?” I asked.

  It was the same word the proprietor had used at the teahouse with the puppets.

  “Karakuri is mechanical trickery,” Satomi explained. “Takeda-sama’s automatons are known throughout Edo.”

  We ate our rice mixed with dried fish and pickled radishes. Simple fare, but filling enough. Makoto poured the contents of his jug into several cups.

  “Shōchū,” he told me as I sniffed at the clear liquid.

  I imagined it was from the same distillery we had tunneled into to sneak out of the Chinese quarter. Makoto raised his cup to make a toast.

  “Kanpai!”

  We echoed the sentiment, which happened to be one of the phrases that translated easily between the two languages.

  I took a tentative sip and found the fermented taste sharper than wine but not unpleasant. Chang-wei had already drained his cup in proper fashion. A glance to the edge of the camp revealed Yoshiro in silhouette as he leaned against a tree, peering vigilantly out into the darkness. I considered extending an invitation for him to join us, but the former samurai appeared to follow a strict code of conduct. On top of that, he intimidated me with his plated armor and face shield. His eyes constantly watched us from behind the mask.

  Makoto, however, cast off all sense of formality. “Everyone is still alive,” he concluded, refilling his cup and raising it for another toast. “This is a good day.”

  * * *

  That night, Satomi and I retired to the back of the wagon while the men made their beds on the ground beside it. For propriety’s sake.

  “I should tell you something, Soling-san,” Satomi said, the moment I found a comfortable spot among the supplies. I had one of the sacks of grain as a pillow.

  I couldn’t see her on the other side of the wagon, since we’d extinguished the fire to avoid alerting any wandering patrols.

  “What is it?”

  “When we reach Takeda-sama’s house, it may be an uncomfortable situation, one I must apologize for.”

  “There’s no need to apologize for anything.”

  “There is. I ran away from Takeda-sama’s household three years ago. I didn’t want to owe him any more than I did. You shouldn’t be dragged into such personal matters.”

  I understood completely. “You didn’t want to be a burden.”

  “I also left because it was assumed he would one day take me as his wife.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “Not tha
t there was any sort of scandal, though all of Takeda-sama’s acquaintances assumed I was his mistress already. I was too old to be a foster daughter, and, though he was old enough to be my father, Takeda-sama was unmarried. After a year under his roof, he did ask me to be his wife. I don’t know if it was out of obligation or because of the rumors, but I left the next morning.”

  “Just left?”

  “Without a word of farewell.”

  And without remorse as well, it seemed.

  “Was he cruel to you?”

  “No, Takeda-sama was always kind.”

  “Then why?”

  “So I wouldn’t have to suffer the awkwardness of having to reply.”

  I bit back a laugh and heard Satomi chuckling softly in the darkness.

  “He had the look of one hunted when he came to ask for me,” she protested. “I couldn’t subject him to such torture.” Her tone became more serious. “I think being alone suits me. Or at least it suited me at the time. Yoshiro is my constant companion, but he’s unable to speak.”

  So her bodyguard was mute. I wasn’t surprised to hear of it, considering how he’d said nothing from the moment he joined our party.

  “I haven’t spoken with Takeda-sama since,” she told me. “But I don’t believe he holds a grudge. He sends people once in a while to see that I’m still alive and well. They always come and go quietly, leaving me to my life in the hills.”

  I had to admire her independent spirit. Satomi was so comfortable in her skin.

  “How did you begin selling the firearms?” I asked her.

  “My father was known for them but only sold them to wealthy collectors. He would gift them to the shogun and high-ranking lords. It gained him a buffer for a long time. Members of the bakufu argued that with his level of craftsmanship, his creations were more art than weaponry.”

  “But then he fell out of favor,” I said. Satomi’s story felt so achingly familiar.

  “Father realized the collectors never intended for the firearms to be used. No matter how much they admired his workmanship, the bakufu would never support developing guns. It went against the samurai code of honor that had only strengthened over three hundred years in isolation. So Father started selling them to merchants and sailors who were not warriors. Who needed the weapons for protection.”

  “Your father wanted his work to have purpose.”

  “He wasn’t an artist. He was an engineer. I first learned his trade by observing him. Bringing tea to his workshop. Lingering to watch. When it seemed like he would have no more sons, my father started to train me.”

  No more sons. I didn’t miss that nuance. Had Lord Sagara’s sons died?

  “Then one day, the choice came to me—an honorable marriage to Takeda Hideyori or a life of freedom, owing no one anything, using skills passed down by my ancestors. The answer was clear.”

  “Chang-wei and I were also once intended to be married,” I confessed. I’m not sure why I revealed it then—perhaps I felt I owed her something for being so direct with me.

  “Ah, that explains it.”

  “Explains what?” I asked.

  I could hear her shifting in the darkness, trying to find a more comfortable position. “All the long glances,” she said with a laugh. “And the brooding looks.”

  I wanted to demand whose long glances and whose brooding looks she spoke of, but I decided, very wisely, to remain quiet. Chang-wei and I were no longer held together by any promises or agreements. There were times I thought and wondered whether it was possible. Whether we were possible. Sometimes late at night when I was alone in bed. Or when we were together, talking of anything and nothing.

  After returning to Peking, Chang-wei never mentioned anything between us. He never spoke of how we’d faced death together in Changsha or the kiss. Our kiss.

  Our duties had pulled us further and further apart. At times, I would almost convince myself to stop dreaming, that there really wasn’t anything more than those few long looks between us.

  But then there were moments. Just small moments, but enough to make me wonder. It was infuriating and it was wonderful. I reached out now, trying to listen for the sound of him down below in the grass, but all I could hear were the sounds of the night buzzing all around.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “This lever reloads the chamber.”

  Satomi explained the parts of her rifle to Chang-wei while he hovered over her like a hummingbird over a flower.

  But I wasn’t jealous.

  We were all seated in the wagon. The day had rolled along without incident. It was perfectly acceptable for the two of them to pass the time in conversation.

  “It seems like the catch here would be prone to getting jammed.”

  “Chen-san, you underestimate my craftsmanship.”

  “I wouldn’t dare, Sagara-san.”

  Yet. I wasn’t jealous . . . yet. Even though their heads were bent close and they seemed to finish each other’s sentences as if they were of one mind. Like Chang-wei, Satomi had an affinity for moving parts, while I couldn’t understand half of what they were saying.

  “And the flintlock mechanism,” Chang-wei went on. “It ignites very smoothly.”

  “My own design.” Sagara Satomi was not a humble and timid young lady. “My father originally adapted it from the Portuguese. I’ve tested it extensively. Less than one misfire per hundred.”

  “That one time could still get you killed,” Chang-wei pointed out.

  He spared a glance at me then. Something he saw made him pause, and he shot me a curious look. I quickly looked down at the book I’d been skimming.

  Satomi was certainly pretty. She was also clever and skilled, and the two of them could speak of latches and springs and mechanisms until the stars came out. Turning the page, I studied an anatomical diagram of internal organs. I’d come back to this illustration again and again. Though I couldn’t read the Japanese inscriptions, the book appeared to be detailing paths of electrical stimulation. There was another illustration of a parlor where a man appeared to be receiving treatment with an elekiteru device.

  As I lifted the book to ask a question, an arrow embedded itself into the pages. I dropped the volume, startled.

  “Get down!” Makoto shouted from the driver’s seat.

  I looked up as another arrow struck Yoshiro. Heart pounding, I ducked down in the wagon, crouching low and covering my head. It was a futile gesture. Arrows rained down upon us, one of them thudding into the board between Chang-wei and me.

  Yoshiro jumped down from the driver’s seat to shield Satomi with his body while I dragged myself over the side of the wagon, landing hard onto the dirt below. A heartbeat later, Chang-wei landed beside me. Together we huddled by the wheel, using the wagon as cover.

  A chorus of snorts and grunts came from the mules, who started tugging at their harnesses. The wagon lurched about in jerking motions.

  The shower of arrows ceased a moment later, but I remained frozen in place. Chang-wei looked at me. We were both breathing hard, and I could see the pulse throbbing in his neck. His eyes were sharp and alert. My heartbeat thudded against my rib cage, as if it would punch a hole through.

  Makoto was on his feet, trying to calm the team as they paced and bucked in agitation. Arrows stood straight up in the surrounding field like a deadly harvest, and wooden shafts protruded from the wagon.

  “Someone’s coming,” Makoto reported in a low growl. I heard the whisper of steel as he drew his sword.

  Straightening, I could see figures approaching in the distance. Yoshiro drew his weapon and leapt onto the ground, squaring his shoulders for battle.

  “Chen-san!” Satomi called.

  She threw a rifle to Chang-wei and positioned herself to take aim with hers. I drew my pistol from my belt. I’d never fired a firearm before. It took both hands to cock it. Satomi
had told me the weapon’s range was short, but with the way things were headed, I had better be prepared.

  “Your hand,” Chang-wei remarked.

  I frowned at him, not comprehending.

  “It’s not shaking.” He moved to the rear of the wagon to take aim around the side.

  My hands were indeed steady. The elegantly crafted pistol fit perfectly in my palm, and I was ready to use it if I had to. Though I was scared, my body seemed to remember. This wasn’t the first time I’d been in an ambush. This wasn’t the first time my life had been put in danger.

  Hooking my arms onto the wagon, I pulled myself back up to it, using the spoke of the wheel as a foothold. Satomi was crouched at the opposite end, with her rifle steadied against the edge of the wagon. Yoshiro stood on the ground before her. An arrow protruded from his shoulder, but the pain didn’t seem to bother him.

  I’d seen men endure unimaginable injuries and still fight on when the fever of battle was upon them. The bodyguard appeared stone cold as his black eyes focused on the threat.

  Staying low, I crawled over beside Satomi. “There are only three people approaching.”

  “There might be more in hiding,” Satomi warned, staring down her barrel.

  I put on the telescopic eyeglass and sighted in on the approaching men. “They appear unarmed,” I reported.

  Not a sword or rifle, as one might expect, or any other weapon in sight. One of them pointed out the wagon, and the three started waving their arms at us, shouting.

  “One of them is turning around. He’s running back out of the clearing.”

  “Getting reinforcements,” Makoto said grimly.

  The other two continued to advance, albeit cautiously.

  “I think they wish to speak to us.” I waved at them, returning their earlier signal. “Don’t fire.”

  The lead man came forward, speaking rapidly. He sounded cross, or perhaps that was how all Japanese sounded to me.

  “What is he saying?” I asked beneath my breath.

  Makoto was already replying to the man while Satomi translated for Chang-wei and me. “He is declaring that this is the property of Lord Nabeshima of Saga domain. Didn’t we see the notices about the testing?”