Poison River

by Josh Reynolds

  “She was leaving. Perhaps her business was concluded,” he said, softly. “Moving down the alleyway, when she was attacked. Perhaps they were waiting for her to leave…” He stopped. “Or for someone else to leave. Her contact?” He started moving again. “So why isn’t she dead?” There was only one answer that fit – she had fled. But where?

  He looked up and saw the wharf. “Ah,” he said. It was a shabby stretch of bank, clustered with rotting jetties and small boats. Fishermen, mostly, looking to sell their catches at the smaller heimin markets that shadowed the larger trading quarters of the city. People hastily averted their gazes as Shin prowled towards the water. The blood trail was faint here – a superficial wound, or else she’d managed to bandage it on the run.

  He stopped at the edge of the wharf and peered down. There was blood on the wooden steps that led down beneath the jetty. He paused and turned back the way he’d come. For a moment, he’d felt as if someone were observing him. He swept the street with his gaze, hoping to spot a familiar face, but saw no one. Frowning, he started down.

  The steps were roughly made and set deep into the soil of the riverbank. They carried him down into the shallows below the wharf, where a large section of the bank had been carved away in order to make room for support pylons and secondary jetties. Similar spots littered the length of the river. Some were simply shrines, forgotten by all but a few fishermen and mudlarks.

  The others were used for any number of illicit purposes. Shadows clustered thick in the forest of pylons and stone foundations, and in some places there was room enough for a small boat to navigate the swirling eddies of the shallows.

  Reeds rose from the water in dense patches, and frog-song was omnipresent, nearly drowning out the cries of dockworkers and the splash of oars. An abbreviated quay of roughhewn stone and rotting wood sat atop the water. Mooring posts ringed it, and a statue of a frog maintained a lonely vigil from its perch atop a cracked plinth.

  Shin genuflected to the statue instinctively. It might only have been a small kami, but it was a kami nonetheless and worthy of respect. He turned and spied more blood on a nearby pylon. She had been making for the water. A long run for someone injured, especially an actress. He knew trained bushi who wouldn’t have made it this far.

  “Desperation – or skill?” A glint caught his attention, and he awkwardly shuffled across a length of rotting wood to the next pylon. Using his fingers, he pried a small metal disk from the pylon. Like the other, it had a sharpened edge that was stained a curious color, and he was careful to keep his fingers away from it. Another shuriken – and something else… a strip of bedraggled silk that had been pinned to the pylon by the shuriken.

  He sheathed his wakizashi and stretched it between his fingers to study it. It was the same material and color as the scrap he’d found in the rice, he was certain of it. It wasn’t the sort of thing laborers or sailors would wear. Nor an actress, come to that.

  But a shinobi, possibly.

  “Ha,” he said, softly. “That is interesting, isn’t it?”

  This Okuni was definitely not the woman he’d imagined her to be. She was more interesting, for one thing. His desire to speak to her had only increased.

  It was a striking coincidence, and Shin did not believe in coincidences, at least not in regards to matters of this sort. Still on his heels, he turned, studying the water. He had no way of telling whether she’d made it or not – only a feeling. If she had, there was a good chance that she was still alive. And if she was still alive, that meant – what?

  Wood squeaked. He rose to his feet, smiling to himself.

  There were two of them. Ronin, clad in Kaeru-gray and armored. “Good day, gentlemen. How might I help you today?”

  “You can answer a few questions, Crane.” The voice came from behind them. A third figure descended the steps – Kaeru Azuma. “Like why are you here, rather than investigating as the governor requested?”

  “Who says I’m not?” Shin said. He cocked his head. “Are you spying on me?”

  “Do not play the fool, Crane. It insults both of us. The governor dispatched me to collect a report on your progress.” Azuma looked around. “So tell me.”

  “The Lion insist the Unicorn are guilty, but refuse to elaborate. The Unicorn deny any knowledge of the crime, but have no proof of their innocence.”

  “And the Dragonfly?”

  “I have not spoken to them yet.”

  “Why?”

  “I have not yet received an invitation.”

  Azuma grunted. He was silent for a moment. “I was against your involvement.”

  “I was against it as well,” Shin said, agreeably. “But here we are.”

  “Yes.”

  Azuma fell silent. Shin waited for a few moments, and then asked, “What do you think about it all?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The rice. Do you have a theory?”

  Azuma shook his head. “No.”

  Shin heard the lie in his voice. Azuma had a suspicion, but didn’t want to share it. “That is a shame, for I find myself in need of one. I cannot see a reason for it, you see… why provoke war, when it serves no purpose?”

  “There is a reason,” Azuma said. “Honor.”

  “Honor is not a reason,” Shin said.

  “Honor is the best reason – and the worst.” Azuma looked at him. “How much do you know about this city’s history?”

  Shin frowned. “Not as much as I should, I admit. Military history has never been an interest of mine.”

  Azuma sniffed. “And you a Daidoji. A generation of Iron Cranes are wailing in shame in the afterlife.”

  “Oh, I suspect they were wailing long before now,” Shin said. “But continue, my lord. I am always eager to be educated.”

  Azuma gave him a steady look. “The more we speak, the better I begin to understand your reputation.” He dismissed Shin’s reply with a wave and continued. “This city once belonged to the Unicorn. It was among those holdings given over to the Lion to hold in trust until the clan’s return. When the Unicorn came back, the Lion were expected to turn it – as well as much of the surrounding region – over to its original owners.”

  “Let me guess, the Lion disagreed with this.”

  “Most strenuously, in fact. So much so, that they schemed to reclaim the city, at least. And they did, annexing it unopposed.”

  “I can’t imagine that,” Shin said.

  “At the time, the Unicorn had little interest in the city. But the annexation changed that.” Azuma paused. “Eventually, at high cost, order was restored and an imperial governor was installed – not to stop the fighting, but to ensure that it does not begin once more.”

  “So Tetsua implied,” Shin said. “So far, the truce seems to be holding, however. And I’m sure there have been other incidents – possibly worse ones. Why should this one tip over the plum cart?” He paused. Azuma hadn’t come all this way just to give him a history lesson. He wanted something. Perhaps to deliver a warning. “What’s different this time?”

  Azuma said nothing. Shin followed his gaze, back to the distant shrines. “Kuma,” he said, in realization. “Tetsua admitted that both the Lion and the Unicorn felt his judgement to be… biased.”

  “That is a polite way of putting it,” Azuma said. “Tetsua is a good man. A good governor, despite what some claim. This incident puts all that he has worked for at risk.” Azuma looked at him. “You ask what is different? Tetsua is weak now. His reputation suffers – and will suffer further, if things get worse.”

  Shin blinked. “You think this was done to hurt his position. To weaken him in the eyes of the clans. To what end?” The question was an obvious one. He well knew the reasons, but he wanted Azuma’s opinion on the matter.

  Azuma snorted. “You think the Great Clans are the only ones who can play politics? The Hantei ha
ve their own games, and they play to win.”

  Shin frowned. The political one-upmanship of the imperial families was not unknown to him. There were more of them than there were posts to be filled at times, and that made competition fierce. Tetsua’s position was one of great influence – influence he had chosen so far not to wield. But someone else might not be so discerning. “Do you have any proof?”

  “Proof? No. Merely a feeling. Tetsua has too many enemies and not enough friends. I wager that when the culprit is discovered, the trail will lead back to some third cousin twice removed, looking to secure himself a position as governor at Tetsua’s expense.”

  “There are simpler ways of having a governor recalled,” Shin said.

  Azuma shrugged. “Perhaps. But you asked for my opinion and I have given it.”

  Shin nodded. “So I did. And I consider myself illuminated.” He paused. “I trust you are conducting your own investigation?”

  Azuma hesitated. “If I am?”

  “Then I have done you a disservice. Popular opinion has it that the Kaeru are nothing more than ill-bred ronin, incapable of loyalty save to the coin.” He paused, and then hastily added, “I never believed it of course. But it is good to have my opinion confirmed.”

  Azuma grimaced. “We are not a family in the normal sense, it is true. We are a collection of orphans – men and women without masters or homes, looking to make something from nothing.” He met Shin’s gaze. “Do you know what Kaeru means?”

  “Frog,” Shin said. “I thought it was a joke.”

  “No more than your own clan name is a joke.” Azuma looked at the statue of the kami on its plinth. “This place is our home now. It is the city of the frog. It is as much our holding as it is the Lion’s, or the Unicorn’s. And we will defend it – and its ruler – to the last drop of Kaeru blood.”

  Taken aback by this declaration, Shin could only nod. Azuma turned back to him. “I will leave you to your investigation, Lord Shin. And I wish you luck.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Actor and Gambler

  “A satisfactory day, my lord?” Sanemon asked, as he and Shin stood in the wings of the stage, watching as the stage crew began to make ready for the evening’s performance. As Kasami had not yet returned, Shin had decided to pay a visit to the theater in the hopes of finding out more about the mysterious Okuni.

  “Not as such, Master Sanemon,” Shin said, watching the controlled chaos from what he hoped was a safe distance. It was fascinating to see such preparations up close. There was an odd rhythm to it all, almost like a secret performance, seen only by a select few. “In fact, it has been quite the opposite.” He was still pondering what Azuma had told him earlier, and how it might relate to his own investigation. He had a surplus of questions, but answers were in short supply.

  “My apologies, my lord.”

  “It is no fault of yours, Master Sanemon. I only wish that I had better news for you. She has not returned, then?”

  Sanemon frowned and shook his head. “No, my lord.” Shin noted a slight hesitation. As if Sanemon had wanted to say something else – and changed his mind.

  “Would she come back here at all, if she were hurt?”

  Again, Sanemon noticeably hesitated before answering. “I don’t see why not, my lord. Is she – do you think she’s, I mean, is she…?” He trailed off, clearly flustered.

  Shin looked away. “I do not think so. But something happened in that alleyway.”

  “Perhaps one of the other actors…?” Sanemon began.

  “I took the liberty of speaking to most of them earlier when I arrived. I thought it best to talk to both them and the stage crew before they became preoccupied with preparing for tomorrow’s performance.” In fact, Shin had spent an enjoyable hour questioning actors and actresses, and then a less enjoyable one putting the same questions to the stage crew.

  The latter were a surly lot of drunks and lotus-eaters, culled from nearby sake houses and gambling dens to pull ropes and shift scenery. The troupe followed the usual tradition of hiring locals to perform the more tedious tasks associated with the theater. They had little of worth to share, and seemed altogether too eager to escape his gaze.

  In contrast, the dozen or so actors of the troupe were a motley assortment of artistic temperaments, status-seekers and stage-mercenaries willing to play any part for the right price. Most, like the stagehands, had little in the way of useful information about Okuni. They claimed not to even know her family name, though he thought this a lie. He wasn’t sure however, as they were, by and large, decent actors. And those that weren’t seemed to know nothing at all.

  “And they were not helpful?” Sanemon said. He did not seem surprised.

  “Not as such.” Shin looked at him, hoping for some hint as to what the man was hiding. What they were all hiding. There was a secret here, and one they were all desperate to keep. “Are you certain that you do not know what she was doing in that alleyway?”

  Sanemon shook his head convulsively. “She told me nothing.”

  Shin frowned. A neat sidestep, and not quite an answer. Conversation was a game of skill, full of feints and parries and counterthrusts. To witness two masters of the art discuss something so innocuous as the weather was a thing of fierce beauty.

  Sanemon was no master, though he had some natural talent. His feints were clumsy – instinctive. But effective. An outright lie could have tripped him up. So he avoided them with the desperation of an ashigaru caught in open ground.

  Shin decided to change tactics. “Is there anyone else I might speak with?”

  Sanemon looked away. “Have you spoken to Nao yet? Our lead actor?”

  Shin paused. “No. He seems to have made himself unavailable.”

  “Nao does that. Come.”

  Sanemon led him backstage into the small warren of spaces that served as the actors’ dressing rooms. Most of the actors made do with curtained off sections of hallway or tents set up out back, but a few got rooms to themselves. Small rooms to be sure, but private nonetheless. He’d visited Okuni’s room earlier, and found it distressingly empty of anything resembling a clue. It appeared unused. He suspected someone had cleaned it after her disappearance, but had yet to broach the question to Sanemon.

  His thoughts were interrupted as Sanemon stopped and rapped politely at the frame of a door. “Enter,” a voice called out from within. Sanemon slid the door open and gestured for Shin to enter ahead of him.

  “After you, my lord.”

  “And who is this you have brought me, Sanemon?” the room’s occupant said. “An admirer, perhaps? Come to wish me well as I carry tomorrow’s performance on my shoulders?” The actor was tall and slim, and sat before a polished mirror of brass, set atop a table. He primped and preened as he spoke, not turning around. He wore a stylized white wig, and his features were powdered and marked by lines of ash. From the wig, Shin thought he was supposed to be the founder of the Daidoji, Doji Hayaku – one of the principle characters of tomorrow’s performance.

  Like Sanemon, his name was a traditional identity for an actor of certain talents. Nao could play a man or a woman, and was highly skilled at acrobatic feats. A utilitarian, but one of quality, probably able to command a high fee. Shin wondered why a man of his talent was working for such a small troupe. Then, he’d wondered the same about Okuni as well.

  Sanemon cleared his throat. “This is Lord Shin. He has come to ask you about Okuni.” He paused, and then, almost pleadingly, “Please be respectful.”

  “I am always respectful,” Nao said. He turned and looked Shin up and down with a considering gaze. Then, slowly he rose and bowed humbly. “My lord, you honor me with your presence. I am told you are a regular attendee of our little dramas.”

  “It would be better to say that I am enthralled by them,” Shin said. “I caught the show a few days ago. Your performance as Doji Hayak
u was sublime.”

  Nao straightened and smoothed his kimono. “You are obviously a man of taste. I thank you for the compliment.” He sat. “If you will excuse me, I must continue to get ready as we speak.”

  “Please, by all means,” Shin said. “Though – isn’t it a bit early?”

  “Practice makes perfect. Even as you must occasionally hone that blade you carry, I must sharpen my skills with the powder brush. Speed and accuracy are of equal importance to samurai and actor alike.”

  Shin considered this for a moment, wondering if it was simply an excuse for Nao avoiding him earlier. Dismissing the thought as unimportant, he said, “What do you know of Nekoma Okuni?”

  “She was a mystery,” Nao murmured breathily.

  “Was?”

  “Is,” Sanemon said.

  “Oh, she’s obviously dead in an alley somewhere,” Nao said. “Let’s not put on a brave face for his lordship.”

  Sanemon glared at the actor, and Nao turned. They looked at one another for a moment and then Sanemon said, “I have things to take care of before the performance. My lord…?”

  Shin gestured. There was clearly something going on, but he’d decided that patience was the best course. Things would unravel as they would, and he would seize on whatever opportunities presented themselves. “Thank you, Master Sanemon. I can see myself back to my box once I am done here.” Sanemon hesitated, and then backed out of the room, bobbing his head obsequiously. He shut the door behind him.

  Nao turned back to his mirror. After a few moments, he said, “Is he gone?”

  Shin glanced at the door. There was no shadow on it, no sound of someone on the other side. “Sanemon, you mean? Yes. Why?”

  Nao smirked. “No reason.” He turned. “So, what do you think?” He stood and turned. “A good likeness? Be honest.”

  “Good, if a bit flamboyant.”

  “It’s kabuki,” Nao said. “Flamboyance is expected by the audience. Bright colors and loud songs are what they pay for.”