Curzius tapped his fingers on the table.
“Can you describe him to me?”
“Seventeen, black hair, green eyes, about your height…”
“Aren’t you forgetting something in this description?” Curzius chuckled. “A certain green dragon? But, I’m afraid you have been misinformed. The boy is no longer in Yamato.”
“That’s not what Nariakira told me.”
There was a pause in the conversation as Curzius pondered his reply. Dylan chipped at the edge of the table with his fingernails. Outside, a black kite screeched a warning.
“I’m not sure where Nariakira-dono got that information. According to my sources, your son was seen flying towards Qin a little over a month ago. I’m sorry, Commodore, but it looks like your little endeavour, however costly to us all, was unnecessary.”
Dylan frowned. So that’s it? All that effort for nothing?
The Overwizard leaned forward, pressing his fingers firmly against the table.
“What does Nariakira-dono get from you for his assistance?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Ha!” Curzius laughed. “That sly fox wouldn’t serve you a cup of saké if you hadn’t promised him a barrel in exchange.”
“Whatever it was, it doesn’t matter now.” Dylan stood up. The chair screeched from underneath him. “Well done, Overwizard,” he said, looking at the scratches he had left on the walnut wood. “You’re just as good as I’ve heard you were.”
He was playing cool, but in reality, he was exhausted. All through the conversation the two men had been using their magic to play a deadly game of power, using tiny charms to imbue the table with energy. It was the kind of Gornestau Dylan preferred to the showy, theatrical magic duels other wizards were fond of, and, just as he had guessed, Curzius did too.
It was a hard-fought stalemate, leaving both of them on the verge of collapse. The Overwizard waved a hand over the table, grim in silence, clearing it from all charges.
“If you’ll excuse me,” said Dylan, “I must make preparations for my departure.”
“Departure?” Curzius raised his greying eyebrows. “How? You have no ship and no mount. I hope you’re not planning to hijack Soembing again.”
A sizzling, glinting golden spark flew past the window with a loud whoosh and crackle. Dylan smiled.
“I think my ride’s just arrived.”
CHAPTER XVII
Prince Mutsuhito stood smiling in the door of his father’s Bamboo Room. The Mikado was not only sober, but beaming with energy and good humour. He was discussing agitatedly with a stocky, balding nobleman wearing a simple black kimono with a single Satsuma crest on the back. The Prince watched his father laugh and then get serious, wave his hands about and then scratch his head in thought; he hadn’t seen His Highness behave in this way in a long time.
The Mikado and the nobleman finally noticed Mutsuhito leaning against a pillar. The aristocrat bowed and excused himself out of the room. The Prince took his place at his father’s side.
“Who was he, Father-sama?” he asked, scratching his thigh. The shimmering green scales had by now spread to both his legs, and he had to go to increasingly elaborate ways to hide the disfigurement from prying eyes — not least those of his father.
“That was Maki Izumi, recently arrived from Satsuma. A priest and a philosopher. Great mind. He has some very interesting ideas regarding the future of this country. What brings you here, son?”
“I just passed the courier bearing gifts and messages from the new Taikun. I wanted to see what he brought.”
“Ah, yes. The old fox finally met his end.” The Mikado grinned. Ever since he had received news of the Taikun’s untimely demise, his mood had been steadily improving. “And there’s a new Chief Councillor in. Hopefully that will put all that barbarian nonsense to rest. I tell you, son, I expect things to only get better from here.”
They moved to the audience chamber just as the palace Chamberlain announced the courier’s arrival, and soon the delegation consisting of three men in Tokugawa garb entered the room. One of them stepped forward, handing the Chamberlain a sealed scroll, while two others put black lacquer boxes on the floor before the dais upon which the Mikado sat behind the gauze curtain.
Prince Mutsuhito watched the Chamberlain open the two boxes with care before presenting their contents to his father.
“Silk handkerchiefs with seasonal motif,” the Mikado grunted approvingly. “Reasonable enough. What’s in the other one?”
The Chamberlain took out a bottle of thick glass containing some orange liquid. It had a paper label attached, with Western runes written all over. The Mikado’s face turned sour.
“And what is this…?”
“Bu-Ran-Ji,” the Chamberlain deciphered a translation scribbled at the bottom of the label.
“It is a Western spirit, denka,” explained the courier. “The Chief Councillor grew fond of it. You drink it with…”
“Enough.”
The Mikado waved for the bottle to be put away.
“How dare they suggest I would drink this barbarian swill!”
“I’m sure they meant well, Father-sama,” Mutsuhito interjected. “It is quite a novelty. The court ladies might enjoy it.”
“Hrm.” The Mikado breathed in and out, calming down. “Well. Let’s see what the letter says.”
The Chamberlain unrolled the scroll and read: “His Illustrious Highness, Taikun Tokugawa Iesada, to His Exalted and Divine Majesty, Mikado Kōmei…”
“Give me that,” the Mikado tore the letter from the courtier’s hand and read it himself.
“Greetings… mmhmm… the new Chief Councillor — some man named Hotta Naosuke — never heard of him… riots in Mito — I don’t care about that… Ah! A mention of the Shimazu girl. That will cheer Izumi-sama up…wait, what’s this…?”
Mutsuhito observed his father’s face change expression from neutral through vaguely contented, to irritated, to furious. Purple and with veins nearly bursting, he crushed the letter in his fist.
“Bastards.”
The faces of those gathered in the audience paled, hearing the sacred lips utter such profanity.
“Father-sama… calm down. Remember what your physician said…”
“They signed the damn treaty!” the Mikado shouted to the Prince. “They. Signed. The. Treaty.”
He breathed heavily, looking around with maddened eyes, as if for a target. His gaze fell on the box of handkerchiefs. He grabbed a handful and blew his nose noisily, then threw them at the courier.
“This is my answer. Take it to your Taikun. Now out! All of you!” he cried, his jowls shaking, spittle spraying on the gauze curtain. The Chamberlain and the messengers bolted out the door.
“What treaty?” asked Mutsuhito. “What’s this all about?”
“The Barbarians,” his father wheezed, gasping for breath, “the ones who landed near Edo.”
“I thought they were driven away?”
“It was just a trick… The Council bowed to all their demands. They gave them the right to land, to trade, to build an embassy.”
He slumped on the pillow. “It’s over. Yamato is lost.”
He searched around again and noticed the bottle of Western alcohol. “I need a drink. This will do.” He struggled with the opening and then took a full swig of the orange liquid. He coughed and spluttered, but his eyes lit up.
“No! Not yet. Go, son. Bring me Izumi. I have a letter to write.”
“Another missive, Father-sama? Don’t you think the Taikun…”
“Not to him. I will not be writing to those traitors any longer.”
Satō moved in a numb half-trance down the wide avenue bound by two walls of curved granite, and into the lush garden surrounding the governor’s villa. Her wounds were now healed but her body still hadn’t recovered from the strain and loss of blood. Shōin shuffled beside her in silence, pale and broody, and also tired from last night’s battle.
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She stopped and breathed in the scent of flowers and pine needles, soothing and calming; it felt good to be back to the peace of civilization. She even found enough strength to admire the villa’s architecture. It was light and neat, built in a style she wasn’t familiar with, more modern than she was used to. The impeccable grid of straight black lines and broad swathes of white rice paper made it look more like an ink painting than a building.
No commoner could build something like this, she thought. Only the samurai know how to appreciate such refinement.
She’d had enough of the company of farmers, merchants, and craftsmen for a while. They were noisy, uncouth, and they smelled of fermented rice and saké. She cared little for Shōin’s lofty ideals. She had only helped him out of spite; but she could certainly see the samurai commander’s point of view. Once the imbued spears had lost their charges, the commoner “army” was good for nothing, despite Shōin and Takasugi’s boasts. In the end, it was down to the swordsmen and wizards to deal with the enemy — as expected.
And couldn’t they see how dangerous it was, giving the peasants such radical ideas? Arming them with Rangaku weapons… She scoffed at the thought. Could anyone guarantee their loyalty? What did a peasant know about honour? They would rebel again in no time. With the weapons, they would surely overrun this striking villa, turn the gardens into rice fields and tea houses into manure barns. They would not care for the precise proportion of the dividing walls, nor the arrangement of flowers and scrolls placed in the tokonoma alcove.
No, a commoner’s place was not in the army. She could make an exception for those with magic talent and a drive to study, but that was all.
With these unhappy thoughts, she entered the glorious building. A servant led them down the equally refined black-and-white corridors to the dining hall; a perfectly simple room, with one wall facing the finest part of the lush green garden, opened wide to let in the scent of summer flowers and the shimmer of a small waterfall.
When she and Shōin entered, they were welcomed by subdued cheers and applause. They were the last to arrive to the feast prepared by the governor to celebrate the victory.
The samurai commanders sat at one low, square table, together with the governor and his retinue; the wizards at another, smaller, on the side, like younglings. None of them seemed to mind the slight. Satō hesitated for a moment. She belonged to the Meirinkan, but in battle she fought alongside the Mori retainers… Yet today, the samurai ignored her; today she was a mere woman again. In a badly concealed huff, she sat down next to her husband.
The Iwakuni governor rose with the saké cup in his hand. The conversation at the two tables fell silent.
“I want to toast our brave defenders and rescuers, Commander Kunishi and his samurai! Kanpai!”
“Kanpai!”
They all drank their saké in one gulp and slammed the cups against the tables.
That’s it? thought Satō, as the governor sat down. What about us? She looked around, bewildered. The wizards were pouring themselves more alcohol.
Lord Kunishi was the next to stand. He bowed to the governor and then turned towards the wizards’ table.
“And I would like to toast the onmyōji of the Meirinkan Academy, who helped us achieve our victory. Kanpai!”
“Kanpai!”
Satō raised the cup again. “We’re not onmyōji,” she mumbled, but she knew the commander meant well. Finally, it seemed, he was learning to appreciate the value of Rangaku on the battlefield. Satisfied with the toasts, she reached for the plate of sliced lotus roots, when, unexpectedly, Shōin stood up with his cup. The diners murmured in surprise; the boy waited until they filled their drinking vessels for the third time.
“Lastly, I would like this toast to thank those without whom we would not be able to celebrate this victory, and who were not invited to dine here with us.”
Oh, no. Shōin, what are you doing…
Satō did not join the toast. She wanted no part in this farce. Takasugi and a few others nodded in agreement; the remaining samurai seemed confused, unsure yet whom the boy could mean.
“The brave common men of the Kiheitai militia! Kanpai!”
Only the wizards raised their cups. The men at the governor’s table remained silent, stony-faced. Kunishi’s face turned purple; the never-healing pinpricks on his cheek made it look like he was sweating blood.
“I have never…” he blurted; his hand wandered towards the short sword at his waist. It took the governor’s gentle, but stern gesture and gaze to calm him down.
Shōin’s face was now as red as the silk pillow he sat down upon heavily. The silence in the room was palpable. Takasugi nudged him with an encouraging smile, but Shōin searched for approval in Satō’s face. He found none.
“You idiot,” she whispered, looking into her rice bowl. She felt her ears burn with embarrassment. “What were you thinking?”
“Those men were ready to die for our cause, just as much as those samurai,” Shōin whispered back. “They deserve a mention.”
“You might as well have toasted the bamboo spears they carried!”
“That’s unfair, and you know it.”
“Honestly, sometimes I think Bran understood Yamato better than you do.” She shook her head. “Maybe that’s why Mori-dono sent him on a secret mission, instead of you,” she added quietly. Shōin winced, but said nothing.
The feast was coming to an end. A few flasks of saké later, the moods mellowed, and everyone seemed to have forgotten about Shōin’s gaffe. At some point, Takasugi asked a servant to bring him the battered shamisen. The room quietened.
“It is a song I heard sung in our camp before the battle,” he said, tuning the three strings. He cleared his throat and began to sing in a surprisingly clear and strong voice:
Kiite osoroshi
Mite iyarashii
Soute ureshii
Kiheitai!
To hear them is dreadful
To see them is obscene
To be with them is joyful
Kiheitai!
The song made everyone laugh, even the haughty samurai — it was just the kind of bawdy humour everyone in the army liked. Takasugi sang a few more songs before putting the instrument away. At that cue, a few young girls entered the room and joined the samurai table to entertain them further. There were none for the wizards.
It didn’t matter. The conversation at the Meirinkan’s table turned to the details of last night’s battle. Who was the tattooed man? Where had he come from? What kind of power was he using? Satō took no part in this exchange. The pain from her fresh wounds was making her cranky and ready to snap for no reason, so she just dabbed at her meal of pressed rice and thinly sliced vegetables in silence. Besides, she knew the answer to all those questions, and it wasn’t something she wanted to talk about with anyone.
The more she had been learning about blood magic, the less she understood it. It seemed to throw all the rules of magic out of the window; there were no spell words, no set rites… it was as if by using the blood runes, wizards could write whatever magic they wanted. It went so far beyond simply enhancing one’s spells, beyond raw power… Healing wounds, throwing people around, building exploding traps — was there no limit to what blood magic could do?
She kept mulling the tattooed man’s words in her head over and over.
Join us.
The Serpent knew about her. Were they searching her out, or was it only a coincidence that she found herself on the same battlefield…? If they were actively looking for her… she shivered at the thought.
There was more else at stake, too. The short-lived rebellion the monk had led — what was that all about? She raised her head. Oddly enough, the conversation at the table had just come to the same topic.
“What did they really want?” the wizards wondered. “Why were they besieging Iwakuni, anyway?”
“Oh, that’s right,” she said, turning on her pillow to face the governor. He looked up in surprise, trying to
focus his eyes on her. Most of the samurai had by now managed to drink themselves into a stupor.
“Would you mind showing us your treasury, governor?” she asked.
“Tre— treasury?” he blurted, his eyes wide open and wandering.
“That’s right. We’d like to see what the rebels thought they could find here. They fought hard to get through that bridge, was there anything they could have been looking for?”
“Chests of tax gold,” the governor shrugged, “debt documents…nothing out of the ordinary, really.”
She elbowed Shōin. Make yourself useful.
“We’d still like to see it,” her husband added, “if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” The governor stood up and straightened his kimono. This made him sway; he supported himself on one of the girls. “Follow me.”
They climbed into what must have been the castle’s foundations, a deep, two-storey cellar. As they reached the end of the corridor on the upper floor, the governor nodded at the guard, who opened a great timber door leading to the treasure room.
Satō’s eyes glazed over the chests full of copper and silver coins, and nuggets of precious metals on the shelves. This was not what she was looking for. She wished she had Bran’s ability to see magic… She closed her eyes and focused, but couldn’t detect anything out of the ordinary.
“What’s in the room below us?” asked Shōin.
“Can you sense it?” she whispered.
“I’m not sure,” he whispered back.
“Oh, it’s just where I keep some of the prisoners,” answered the governor. “Before sending them to Chōfu for further interrogation.”
“And are there any here now?”
“No… not as such.” He grimaced and winced. For a government official he was a terrible liar — or the amount of saké he had drunk had rid him of the ability to keep a straight face.
“Please, show us.”
Or we’ll think you have something to hide from Lord Mori, was the unspoken threat.
Sour-faced, the governor led them to the lower floor of the cellar. This one was a true dungeon, dark, damp and cold, smelling of dead rats and moulding bamboo. There were several cells along the corridor, all empty except the last one.
The Chrysanthemum Seal (The Year of the Dragon, Book 5) Page 27
