Poison River

by Josh Reynolds

  Despite his amusement, he chose his next words carefully. “Why deny myself the pleasures of life in order to please those who give me no thought at all, save when I might be of use to them?”

  “You’re talking about your grandfather.”

  “Among others.”

  Kasami looked at him. “You should show him more respect.”

  “I tried that once. Neither of us enjoyed the experience.” Shin snapped his fan closed. “He thinks I am an embarrassment. That suits me just fine.”

  Kasami started to speak, and then fell silent and looked away. Shin hid a frown. Despite everything, he was fond of Kasami. She was loyal, if somewhat stodgy, and lethal when provoked. An excellent companion for someone like himself, though he had no doubt that she wished it were otherwise.

  That was one of the reasons he allowed her such leeway. It was a sign of respect, though she might not recognize it as such. He liked to think that she did, even if she would never admit it. Kasami kept him honest with the world – and with himself most of all. An invaluable service, and one he could not afford to dispense with.

  He sighed and turned his attentions back to the stage. The traditional kabuki performance combined many aspects into one cohesive whole. It was like watching some ornate mechanism, comprised of several dozen moving parts. This particular play was set during the Battle of White Stag, though it featured little in the way of stage combat, focusing more on the immensely awkward romantic entanglements of a young samurai and a gaijin. It was almost a comedy of errors – if one ignored the tragic conclusion.

  It was also several hours long, which made for a full afternoon. Kasami had yet to make it through a performance awake. Shin, who had more stamina, found it somewhat short by his standards. A play was at its best when it had room to breathe – anything less than five hours made for terse storytelling.

  Kasami looked at him. “Why did you have me spare that fool last night? He tried to murder you.”

  “And now he owes me his life. A man like that has many uses.”

  “You mean he can sniff out more depravity for you to indulge in.”

  “Among other things.” Shin gestured languidly. “He was a sailor – perhaps still is. Sailors are useful sorts of fellows, especially when one lives alongside a river.”

  “How do you know he was a sailor?”

  “His dress, his walk, his knife, the curses he employed so liberally, all speak to a life lived on the water. His fellows were sailors as well, I suspect. No doubt some captain is now lamenting the disappearance of a substantial portion of his crew.”

  “You’re the one who told me to kill them,” she said, stung.

  “I was bluffing, obviously.”

  “I don’t bluff,” she replied. “Daidoji do not bluff.”

  “Oh of course we do, and frequently,” he said, dismissively. “We bluff our enemies, we bluff our friends, we’d bluff the gods themselves if there was some gain in it for the Crane. There was no gain in their deaths for me.”

  “Other than preserving your life, you mean.”

  “Other than that, yes. In any event, he may come in handy. Commoners are not deaf, dumb and blind you know. Despite what some samurai might think.” He gave her a pointed look. “They gossip as much as any courtier, and often know things that their betters are not privy to.”

  “Does that mean you’re actually going to take your responsibilities here seriously?”

  Shin turned back to the stage. “Time will tell. Now be quiet. The performance is beginning, and I do not wish to miss a moment of it.”

  •••

  Kasami immediately tuned out the performance in order to imagine herself anywhere else. It would last most of the day, and she settled in for a long haul. She had always thought that a samurai should be above such base entertainments. Let the lower orders waste their coin on the stamping and yelling of itinerant actors. There were greater joys to be had in contemplating the correct fold of an origami shape than in listening to some pompous fool belt out a soliloquy. Shin did not agree, however.

  Despite her boredom, she did not let her guard slip. More than one nobleman had met his end in the comfort of a private box. Shin would not be one of them. She glanced at him and frowned. She had been so proud at first. Her family had served the Daidoji for centuries, and to be chosen as a bodyguard for one of their sons was a high honor.

  Then she had met Shin.

  He was quick of wit, but licentious and lazy. He parceled out his honor in gambling dens and sake houses, racking up debts and making enemies. He seemed to have no ambition beyond wasting as much money as possible. He could be kind, in his way, and was less concerned about propriety than most, but taken together with everything else it made him seem a hapless fool. A wastrel, of no note or importance save in his name.

  Or such was his intent. After more than a year in his company, she had come to realize that there was some flicker of potential in him. If anything, it only made matters worse. It was as if he were deliberately wasting his talents. Maybe it was nothing more than adolescent truculence carrying over into adulthood. Some men were like that.

  She glanced at the stage. A swirl of garish costumes and shouting performers filled the space, engaged in a largely senseless plot involving mistaken identities, star-crossed lovers and a giant skeleton. Shin had attempted to explain the intricacies of kabuki to her on several occasions, but she had little interest in such things.

  He leaned forward suddenly, eyes narrowed. “Hmm. That’s odd.”

  She looked at him. “What?”

  “I’ve seen this performance twice now. Both times the role of the young samurai was played by Nekoma Okuni.” He pointed at the stage with his fan. “But this time, it’s someone else. Curious.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. No announcement was made. Therefore, it must have been a last-minute substitution. I wonder what’s wrong.”

  “Why would you think something is wrong?”

  “Because otherwise she would be on stage.” He sat back, frowning.

  “Why does it matter?”

  Shin didn’t look at her. “It doesn’t. I was merely curious.”

  Kasami eyed him knowingly. She was all too familiar with Shin’s preferences when it came to female companionship. He liked women of a certain character – or lack thereof. “Merely curious,” she repeated.

  Shin continued not to look at her. “Are you implying something?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “Maybe she took ill.”

  “Maybe,” he said, but his tone was doubtful.

  There was a soft knock on the door. Kasami glanced at Shin. Without turning from the stage, he twitched a finger, and she rose to answer it. She slid the door open, and a kneeling servant offered up a scroll in silence. Kasami took it and gestured for the man to depart before closing the door. “Message,” she said, tossing it to Shin.

  He caught it deftly and examined the wax seal, even giving it a cursory sniff before slicing it open with one of the steel blades hidden in his fan. He gave a soft grunt of surprise. “Well. Isn’t that interesting? I’ve been invited to Saibanshoki at my earliest convenience. Governor Tetsua wishes to speak to me.”

  “The governor – why would he want to see you?”

  “I have no idea.” He smiled widely. “But I am most interested to find out.”

  “Does that mean we get to leave early?”

  “Sadly, yes. But before we go, I will need you to deliver an invitation to the master of the troupe.”

  Kasami perked up. “What? Why?”

  “I wish to properly thank him for the quality of the performance.”

  Kasami looked at him in disbelief. After enduring her baleful stare for a few moments he sighed, and added, “Fine. I am curious as to Okuni’s whereabouts. I wish to ask him what
happened to her.”

  “I knew it.”

  “It is harmless curiosity, I assure you,” he protested. “Nothing more.”

  She shook her head and bit back a sulphurous reply.

  “Does that mean you’ll do it?” he pressed.

  “Yes,” she said through gritted teeth.

  Shin smiled cheerfully and turned back to the performance. “Why thank you, Kasami. It is a comfort to know that I can always count on you.”

  Chapter Four

  An Actor’s Life

  Backstage, Wada Sanemon, master of the Three Flower Troupe, gnawed his cuticles in frustration. The audience had noticed. Of course they’d noticed. Okuni was the draw, she always had been. Without her, the troupe faltered. They tried their best, but she was the heart of every performance, and she damn well knew it. But some things were more important, according to her.

  He growled softly into his fists. Nekoma Okuni was good at acting, but a bad actress. “Why me?” he muttered. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

  “Would you like a list, or a brief summation?” a voice inquired. Sanemon glanced over to see one of his actors, Nao. Tall and effete, Nao could pass easily for either a man or a woman, depending on his mood.

  “What do you want, Nao?”

  “Is she not back yet?” Nao asked, in amused tones. “How unexpectedly rude of her.”

  Sanemon glared at the actor. Nao was wearing Okuni’s costume, and doing so with admirable grace. He often played multiple parts in plays, and had achieved some renown for his ability to shift from one role to the next in full view of the audience, as well as to transition seamlessly from the more popular bombastic style of acting to a gentler, more realistic performance. Transformation dances were all the rage this season, and Nao was adept at making the awkward business of turning a double-sided kimono inside out look magical.

  “No. She is not back yet.”

  Nao quirked an eyebrow and came to stand beside him. “This isn’t the first time our kitty cat has gone astray, Master.”

  “Nor will it be the last,” Sanemon said. “Shouldn’t you be on stage?”

  “Not quite. Do you think anyone has noticed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course they have,” Nao said. “I’m much prettier than her. And a better actor.”

  Sanemon looked at him. “Is there something you need, Nao? Or are you just trying to get under my skin?”

  “The others are worried. They have asked me to speak for them.”

  Sanemon snorted. “More like you took it upon yourself, but go on.”

  Nao frowned. “Unusual as it may be, I am being serious. It’s not like her to miss a performance. Something has gone wrong.”

  “Of course it has. This is kabuki, Nao. Something always goes wrong. But we persevere, because it is our calling.”

  Nao rolled his eyes. “This is different and you know it. She’s done something foolish, and now it’s biting all our tails.”

  Sanemon scrubbed his cheeks with his palms. “And what am I supposed to do about it exactly?” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. The incipient headache he’d felt brewing earlier had arrived in force. The noise from the stage wasn’t helping. Nao was right, of course. Nao was always right.

  “Find her, before she gets us into more trouble. Remember what happened in Tsuma?”

  Sanemon winced. “This isn’t Tsuma.”

  “No. It’s a larger city, and therefore more dangerous.” Nao swatted him affectionately with the folded fan. “You’re a good master, Sanemon. I’d hate to abandon you.”

  “But you will.”

  Nao laughed. “In a heartbeat. An actor of my caliber cannot afford to be seen with riffraff.” He paused. “Also, I would like very much not to die. At least, not in a squalid river port such as this.”

  “This is one of the most important trade hubs in Rokugan.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s attractive. Oh – there’s my cue.” Nao swatted Sanemon with the fan again and strode off. “Time to make my second big entrance of the night.”

  Sanemon watched the actor go, and briefly imagined tipping a load of scenery onto his head. But the idle pleasure of that daydream was soon replaced by an all too familiar anxiety. It happened every time Okuni left on one of her errands. One day, he knew, she might not come back. And what then? Back to the gutter where she’d found him?

  He looked down at his hands, battered and scarred as they were. The hands of a cutthroat and a peasant, not the master of a performing troupe. It had been a long time since he’d held any blade heavier than a carving knife, but he thought he still remembered how to use a spear well enough. Ashigaru were always needed – experienced soldiers even more so.

  His hands curled into fists. No. Better the gutter than that. Running backwards never got anyone anywhere, and Sanemon desperately wanted to be somewhere.

  He lowered his hands and deliberately smoothed his kimono. Shabby as it was, it was a sign of his status. A status he had fought for, bled for, and would keep. He was master of this troupe and nothing would change that. Not even his debt to Nekoma Okuni.

  The performance went by with treacly slowness. Sanemon distracted himself by standing just off stage and exhorting his actors to greater heights of emotion with gestures and silently mouthed obscenities. It did little to calm him, but it gave him something to focus on besides Okuni’s absence.

  When that no longer proved engaging, he turned his attentions to ensuring that a steady supply of food and drink was brought in from the teahouses near the theater. It was best to keep the audience well-fed and lubricated, especially in this heat.

  The teahouses were only too happy to provide refreshments. He paid them enough, after all. He ran a hand over his shaved pate, trying not to think about cost. It was more expensive to put on a proper performance than most people realized. You had to rent a theater, pay off the local gangs, provide food – and that wasn’t even taking into account paying the members of your troupe, most of whom drank like fish and made it a point to cause as much trouble as possible when not on stage. It was enough to make a man think about tossing himself into the river.

  As the afternoon wore on his worry grew. It wasn’t like Okuni to be gone this long, not without sending a message. Something had happened. He went back to gnawing on his fingernails, trying not to think the worst.

  The performance, at least, was going well. A few hiccups; some broken props, a few missed lines and a slightly off-key song, but nothing the audience would notice. He retreated backstage to find something to occupy his mind.

  He slid open doors and bellowed at the stagehands to cease their gambling and get ready to work. Repairs needed to be made to both costumes and props, and the trickwork of the stage required checking before the next scene. There was nothing more embarrassing than a trapdoor that wouldn’t open – or worse yet, refused to close.

  Behind him, someone cleared their throat and he whirled, diatribe brewing. The words died in his throat when he saw who it was. The woman was short and stocky, but clad in a richly appointed kimono the color of a summer sky. She wore it uneasily, as if used to something heavier, and her hand rested on the hilt of her wakizashi.

  Sanemon swallowed. He knew a samurai when he saw one. “Are you in need of something, my lady?” he asked, tremulously.

  She fixed him with a cold eye. “Direct me to the troupe-master.”

  “I- I am he, my lady. Wada Sanemon, at your service.” He bowed as low as his substantial girth allowed. She peered down her nose at him, and he felt the urge to flee. “How might I be of assistance to one such as yourself?”

  “I have a message from my lord, Daidoji Shin. He wishes to invite you to his residence, before your next performance two days from now. Will you attend?” The way she said it implied that she, herself, was not interested in his respo
nse, but that he had best make it quickly.

  “He… does?” Sanemon blinked. “I- I am honored, of course, but might I ask why?” A hundred possibilities flew through his head in an instant.

  The woman gave an unladylike grunt. “That is for him to say. I have delivered the message. Come, or not, as you wish.” The implication was that he’d show up, if he knew what was good for him. That she had not provided directions was of no consequence, Sanemon was expected to know how to get there. He bowed again.

  “I will be there, yes, of course. Convey my most humble thanks.” Even as he said it, he wondered what Okuni would think when she returned. If she returned. He watched the samurai walk away, back ramrod straight, and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  “Who was that?”

  Sanemon froze, and his heart convulsed in his chest. He spun and glared at the young woman standing behind him. He hadn’t heard her approach. He never did. “Where have you been?” he snarled. “Nao had to take over for you!”

  “Did anyone notice?”

  “No.”

  “Good. It wouldn’t do to let Nao get any ideas about upstaging me.” Nekoma Okuni smiled thinly. At the moment, she was utterly ordinary in appearance. Only her poise gave her away. She wore a simple smock and trousers, such as a peasant might wear, and had artfully smudged her features. “As to where I’ve been – well, rest assured it was important.”

  Sanemon frowned. “I assume it had something to do with your… other profession?”

  She reached up and patted his cheek. “Probably best if you don’t know.”

  He stepped back. “Tell me.”

  Okuni frowned. “They wanted to cheat me, so I have made sure that they know how bad an idea that is.”

  Sanemon closed his eyes. “What have you done now, woman?”

  “Nothing that will come back to you, Sanemon. Not that it matters, of course. It’s not as if this is your troupe – remember?”