Raven's Sword

by Raven's Sword (retail) (epub)

  ‘Fetch me some water, would you?’ asked the Monk. ‘I’m thirsty.’

  * * *

  Kotau walked down to the riverbank to collect water for the evening’s rice. He found a lad dressed in black filling a pail.

  ‘Looks like there are plenty of fish in this stretch of river,’ said Tengu, trying to make conversation.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kotau. ‘We’re miles from any town. There is a constant supply of fish. We live well.’ He looked Tengu up and down. ‘You’re the Monk’s boy, aren’t you? The man looks sick. He can barely stand upright. Will he be able to fight?’

  ‘He’s well enough to hold a blade,’ said Tengu. ‘You organized this tournament, neh?’

  ‘This is my father’s tavern.’

  ‘But this contest is your idea, am I right? You have restless eyes. You radiate ambition.’

  ‘You would be wise to keep such observations to yourself.’

  ‘There is a rumour your family have come into possession of the iron sword.’

  ‘We inherited the weapon from the local lord. He was killed by bandits. He used his final breath to bequeath it to our care.’

  ‘Why stage this tournament?’ asked Tengu. ‘What do you get out of it? Some kind of local status, I presume. You’re trying to catch the eye of a dignitary, is that right? Not a bad scheme. If I were in your position I might do the same.’

  Kotau stared at Tengu and radiated cold antipathy.

  ‘Countless people have visited this tavern. Travellers come and go. Some of them are pleasant and polite, some of them are rude and abrupt. It’s all the same to us. We cook them food and offer them a mat for the night, and in the morning they are gone. If someone is ill-mannered then it is their shame, not ours. But I must admit, you folk irritate me like a splinter dug in my skin. That constant air of superiority, as if your skill with a blade makes you a breed apart. You build nothing and feed no one. You are all parasites. You rely on peasants to keep you clothed and fed, yet you treat them like dirt. It will be a pleasure to watch you die your pointless deaths.’

  He turned, climbed the bank and returned to the tavern.

  Makoto’s body was disinterred, loaded on a cart and returned to his home. Kotau was commanded to accompany the corpse. He walked alongside the cart as it made the journey. The estate was on the side of a hill, a plantation of rolling tea fields surrounded by a high plank fence. Guards pulled back the log barrier which served as the main gate and let the cart inside. It was the first time Kotau had visited the plantation. He, and everyone in the village, knew their lord lived in a mansion high on the hill, but few had actually seen it. Those who had visited the house – carpenters ordered to make repairs to the roof or labourers ordered to restore the road after a mudslide – brought back tales of a fabulous palace with many rooms and a magnificent garden. The cart rounded a bend in the track and Kotau saw the house for the first time. He had never seen such a structure. A white-walled mansion, two storeys high with a wide, low roof. The gardens had an exquisite geometry. He was astounded by the beauty of the residence. He knew Makoto had possessed a large house, but never imagined such opulence.

  The cart was led to a yard behind the kitchen and a tall priest emerged from the building. The cartman bowed low and Kotau copied the gesture, realising he was in the presence of someone of high status within the estate hierarchy. The Priest ignored the peasants, walked to the back of the cart and lifted the edge of the tarpaulin which covered Makoto’s body. He studied the dirt-smeared face and wiped crumbs of soil from the dead man’s mouth.

  ‘Where is his Lordship’s ring?’ he demanded. Kotau shifted uneasily, but remained silent. ‘I suppose the bandits took it,’ said the Priest, answering his own question. ‘Take his Lordship inside.’ Two labourers pulled the body from the cart and used a plank as a litter to carry it through the kitchen doorway. Kotau moved to follow but the Priest blocked his path.

  ‘Stay here,’ he commanded. ‘We will talk presently.’

  * * *

  The Priest made his way to Makoto’s private quarters. He pulled back a paper screen and bowed to Nana, the dead man’s wife, as she knelt in prayer before the family shrine.

  ‘His Lordship’s body has been returned. He is lying in the main hall. His tomb is prepared. We will hold the interment ceremony this afternoon, if that is your ladyship’s pleasure.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘One of the peasants from the valley witnessed his Lordship’s death. He confirms the story we have already heard. His Lordship was ambushed by bandits. We have one of the criminals under guard but we believe two others are still at large. I have men searching the woods but the bandits have almost certainly fled by now. It seems unlikely they will be captured. Please forgive this failure.’

  Nana got to her feet.

  ‘There is nothing to forgive.’

  ‘His Lordship’s body has been washed,’ said the Priest. ‘He is currently lying in the main hall. Do you wish to view him one last time?’

  ‘No, I don’t care to see him. Walk with me in the garden.’

  Nana and the Priest paced the gravel path beneath an arcade of cherry trees. The Priest kept silent and waited for Nana to share her thoughts.

  ‘His Lordship rarely discussed the running of the estate,’ she said. ‘He felt it would be improper to involve his wife in such mundane affairs. However, given the circumstances, I feel I must enquire into these matters.’

  The Priest nodded agreement. The estate no longer had a master, a loss which left Nana in a vulnerable position. She was a young widow, nominally in charge of nearly a hundred agricultural labourers, guards and domestic staff, and would need to assert control.

  ‘Perhaps your ladyship might find it useful to visit the warehouse and see the work of the estate first hand.’

  The Priest ordered the warehouse cleared of staff. The women who spent their days drying and bundling leaves were hustled through a side door so Nana could view the work space unobserved.

  They walked through the silent warehouse and examined trays of leaves drying on benches. Nana covered her mouth and nose with her sleeve to mask the smell.

  ‘How many bales do we have in store?’ she asked.

  ‘Nearly fifty. We ship eight bales each month, as much as the river boat will carry.’

  ‘Surely we could ship more?’

  ‘The buyers in Kyoto have certainly encouraged his Lordship to send more tea. There is an insatiable appetite for high-grade leaf. They say the nobles, men and women of exquisitely honed sensibilities, spend every waking moment in the fashionable tea salons, composing poetry and admiring flowers. The salons compete to serve the finest tea. His Lordship could have shipped twice, maybe three times the amount of bales he usually sent to the capital, but he felt it prudent to keep his trade small. The authorities in Kyoto are pragmatic. They expect a little contraband to elude the tax collectors each month. But if sufficient illicit tea reaches the city each month, it will undercut the profits of the merchant guilds, and they will force the authorities to act. For all his faults, his Lordship was a prudent man. He understood that it was in his long-term interests not to succumb to greed.’

  ‘You advise we continue to ship eight bales?’

  ‘His Lordship’s death presents certain challenges. This could be a difficult time. Your retainers are ambitious men and we can no longer take old loyalties for granted. If I may be so bold, your ladyship, it might be advisable to keep business on a stable footing for now.’

  She nodded agreement.

  ‘What of the peasant from the valley?’ asked the Priest. ‘The witness to his Lordship’s death. Would you like to hear his story? I could interview him in one of the reception chambers and your ladyship could listen from behind a screen.’

  ‘No. Send him on his way. His Lordship is dead. We will grieve then look to the future.’

  * * *

  The Priest walked Kotau back to the gate. Kotau looked over his shoulder as they walked the gravel t
rack and glimpsed a beautiful woman walking in the garden. The woman stared down at her feet, lost in thought.

  ‘Is that Makoto’s wife?’ he asked.

  ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘She’s pretty. It must have been awful for her to be married to that tub of grease. His death must be a liberation. Where’s she from?’

  ‘Turn away. She’s not for your eyes.’

  ‘She’s much younger than Makoto. Did a family owe him money? Was she payment for a debt?’

  The Priest showed Kotau to the gate. He signalled the guard to haul the barrier aside.

  ‘You’re a young peasant, a mud grub, little more than a child,’ said the Priest. ‘I enjoy your wide-eyed naiveté. It is endearing. But you need to understand that the words that come from your mouth, even the direction of your gaze, can put you in deep trouble. You are leering at her ladyship and discussing matters which do not concern you. On a different estate, with a less merciful overseer, your indiscretion would earn you a slit throat. Next time you visit this place keep your eyes averted and your thoughts to yourself.’

  Kotau stepped through the gateway and the guards dragged the log barrier back in place. He took a last look back at the wide roof of the mansion visible above the treetops, distant like an unobtainable dream. The Priest still stood on the other side of the barrier and waited for him to depart. Kotau gave the man a courtly bow then headed down the road.

  He turned a corner and, once he was screened by trees, gave voice to the desire so strong it almost robbed him of breath.

  ‘I want it all,’ he whispered. He sank to his knees and declared it boldly and loudly to the stones, grass and sky. ‘I want every last thing.’

  * * *

  Kotau returned to the tavern and helped his father prepare for the tournament.

  ‘So how was your visit to the estate?’ asked Chikaaki, anxious for news.

  ‘I spoke to a priest. I get the impression he, not Makoto, has been the true lord of the valley.’

  ‘What did he say about us? The tournament? Our claim to the title of lord?’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t think word has reached the mansion yet but it can’t be long before they find out. They’ll send men but we have a stronghold. Our own army of champion swordsmen.’

  ‘You think they’d fight for us?’

  ‘I think they’d relish the sport,’ said Kotau.

  ‘You seem changed, somehow,’ said his father. ‘You seem more serious.’

  ‘I’m quite well. Let’s get to work.’

  They positioned the sign board at the edge of the flagstone quadrangle which would serve as the killing ground.

  ‘I’ll strike off each name as the contest progresses,’ said Chikaaki.

  ‘We need something easier for the villagers to understand,’ said Kotau. ‘None of them can read.’ He mulled the problem. ‘We have some rags in the house, neh? We’ll have each man wear a coloured headband. That’s how they will be identified.’

  Kotau brought a sack of fabric scraps from the tavern and tore them into strips. He hung a strip over each of the outbuildings that would serve as accommodation for the swordsmen. Black, white, red, blue, yellow, green and purple. He laid a matching headband inside each hut. The colours were matched by a row of coloured flags staked around the perimeter of the quadrangle. Kotau surveyed his work.

  ‘This is good. We’ll remove the pennant of each defeated combatant until only one remains. It will add to the ceremony.’

  ‘You gave the crippled monk yellow,’ said Chikaaki. ‘He will be pleased. Yellow is the colour of the sun. A good augury.’

  ‘Don’t get attached to these men, Father. There’s no point picking favourites. Food for worms, that’s all they are.’

  * * *

  Two of the Priest’s men crept through the woods, hid in the underbrush and observed the tavern a while. The building was shuttered and the courtyard was quiet and still. One of the men belly-crawled across the flagstones to the tavern, hugged the wall and craned to see through gaps in the window shutters. He prowled a full circuit of the building then returned to his companion.

  ‘There’s a woman asleep inside. No sign of the old man or the boy.’

  ‘Keep watch while I look around. Whistle if the woman wakes, or if you see someone coming down the road.’

  The Priest’s man prowled the exterior of the tavern. He examined the shrine and the surrounding undergrowth.

  ‘Quickly,’ he hissed, beckoning his companion. ‘Over here.’

  He examined the soil bordering the flagstones. He crouched, pulled back some grass and exposed a hoof print.

  ‘These tavern folk are dirt poor. They don’t have a horse or an ass, and no travellers have passed through the valley since the last rains. Not on horseback, anyway.’

  ‘Look at this.’

  One of the men parted some bracken and stood over earth mounded beneath a tree.

  ‘Graves. Two of them.’

  ‘Let’s be gone before anyone sees us.’

  * * *

  The men returned to the mansion. The Priest received them in one of the lesser gardens.

  ‘Speak,’ ordered the Priest.

  ‘There was a village meeting earlier today. The old man that lives at the river shrine has declared himself lord. He has his Lordship’s ring, and there are rumours he has come into possession of the iron sword.’

  ‘I’ll rope his neck to a saddle and spur a horse,’ said the Priest. ‘I’ll have his head wrenched clean off.’

  ‘The usurper is consolidating his position. He has posted notices in the surrounding villages naming himself as lord. He has announced a tournament, a contest of swordsmanship, and claims an emissary of the Shōgun will attend. And it seems the villagers have captured one of the bandits who killed Makoto-domo. They intended to bring the prisoner here and present him to her ladyship for punishment, but the old man has decreed the brigand will take part in the contest instead.’

  ‘How did the old man come by the ring?’ asked the Priest.

  ‘We searched the land surrounding the tavern. We found two graves. We didn’t have time to dig but there were hoof prints nearby and now the tavern keeper possesses his Lordship’s ring and the iron sword. These things tell their own story. His Lordship was killed by bandits, two of the bandits made their way to the tavern and subsequently died. Maybe Makoto-domo wounded them as he fought for his life and they later succumbed to their injuries. Or maybe the criminals fought over the ring and murdered each other. Either way, that tavern keeper has come into possession of the ring and declared himself lord. A ridiculous claim. But the villagers are simple folk with limited understanding. The longer that old man is allowed to walk around with that ring round his neck, the more accustomed they will become to treating him as their new master.’

  ‘Surely they can’t be so easily fooled?’

  ‘They are little more than sheep. He ordered the villagers to help convert some of the tavern outbuildings into accommodation fit for the newly arrived swordsmen and they obeyed. And if the Shōgun’s man arrives and gives the old hermit his endorsement, his grip on the title will be unshakeable. What is to be done, master?’

  ‘This tavern keeper has lived by the river his entire life and hasn’t shown a glimmer of ambition until now. Strange.’

  ‘He has a wife and son.’

  ‘Tell me about his wife,’ said the Priest.

  ‘A plain woman, devoted to her husband from what I hear. I know nothing of his son. Shall I assemble a team of men, master? Burn the tavern? Put the family to the sword?’

  ‘No. We need a more permanent solution. I met the hermit’s son earlier today. A quiet, watchful lad. Clearly he, and not his imbecile parents, has thought up this audacious scheme. We must make an example of him. His fate must be a warning. Travel to town and ask among the alleys and gambling dens. Find a veteran, someone prepared to kill for money, and bring him to me. We will resolve this matter in a way that will ensure no one will challen
ge our authority again.’

  ‘And the tournament? Swordsmen have already arrived. The emissary is already on his way.’

  ‘Let the competition take place. I want witnesses. We will leave the emissary in no doubt who controls this territory.’

  Iezane, the regimental Champion, left the camp as evening fell and walked down the road towards the shrine. He was accompanied by a young soldier nicknamed Mouse by his comrades because of his slight frame and nervous manner. Mouse had been ordered to squire Iezane for the duration of the contest. The Champion strode down the road and tried to summon the posture and mindset of an invincible warrior. He felt tired and old. Mouse hurried to keep up.

  They reached the shrine, walked through the ruined arch that served as a ghost entrance and looked around. Iezane contemplated the flagstones and surrounding underbrush.

  ‘So this is where we will dance.’

  Chikaaki bustled from the inn, bowed deep and showed the soldiers to an outbuilding. It was a stone hut with a bark roof and a curtained doorway. The old man pulled back the curtain.

  ‘I hope, honoured guests, you can forgive the indignity of such inadequate quarters.’ He bowed over and over.

  ‘We are soldiers,’ said the Champion, ‘not courtesans.’

  The old man backed out of the cell.

  ‘Shall I fetch a mat?’ asked Mouse, looking down at the bare earth floor. Iezane patted his sword.

  ‘I have everything I need.’

  He took off his armour and sat cross-legged. He took a whetstone from his shoulder bag and began to sharpen his sword while Mouse sat on the other side of the cell and watched.

  ‘Why are you staring at me?’ asked the Champion.

  ‘One day I will tell my children I knew a great warrior.’

  ‘I’m not a great warrior. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be here.’