Gai-Jin (120 page)

Rushan’s new position was on the edge of the roadway. A last look to place his quarry. Then he sat on a stool with his back towards the column, eyes on his friend Izuru, completely at peace. His death poem for his parents was in the hands of his village shoya, given years ago when he and ten other student samurai had rebelled. They were all goshi and had rebelled when they were refused entrance to the school for higher education—their parents could not afford the necessary bribes to local officials. They had killed the officials, declared themselves ronin and for
sonno-joi
, and fled.

Of the ten, he alone was still alive. Soon to die, he thought gloriously, knowing he was prepared, trained, at the height of his power and that Izuru would be his witness.

Izuru was just as ardent. He had already decided on his own attack plan if Rushan failed. Confidently, he moved into a better spot. His gaze left the patrol and went to the gateway. Guards were preparing for the ritual of checking the others back through the barricade. At once he noticed there was more bustling, and barking orders than usual, the men smarter and more nervous.

He cursed to himself. They know! Of course they know and have known since the column left! That explains why they have been so jittery and irritable all morning. They all knew Lord Yoshi was loose outside and in disguise. But why? And where’s he been? Ogama! But why? Were they planning another ambush on us? Are we betrayed again?

All the time his eyes darted back and forth, never forgetting Rushan, gauging distances and timing. Already many pedestrians and shoppers close by were bowing. Any moment the officer would halt the column, the officer of the gate would come to meet him, both would bow, together they would inspect the incoming men and then they would all march away.

The officer held up his hand. The column shuffled to a halt. “Now,” Izuru said almost audibly, and gestured. Rushan saw the signal and dashed for the tail of the column twenty metres away, his long sword poised in a two-handed grip.

He burst through the first two men, sending them sprawling before they or any of the soldiers realized they were being attacked, and hacked at Yoshi who stared at him blankly for a split second. Only Yoshi’s honed instinct made him lurch towards the death blow, diverting it into a stupefied soldier beside him who screamed and went down.

Shrieking
“sonno-joi”
in the sudden shouting melee around him, Rushan jerked the blade out as soldiers fought for space, shoving each other out of the way, other guards rushing from the gateway, bystanders everywhere gaping and paralyzed, Wataki, the shishi informer, as surprised as any of the soldiers, and terrified he would become involved or betrayed by this shishi he recognized who had appeared out of nowhere.

Wataki saw Rushan strike again and held his breath. But Yoshi had recovered his balance though had no time yet to draw his sword so he used the haft of his spear against the blow. Rushan’s sword sliced through it easily but the blade twisted and slowed slightly, giving Yoshi just enough time to lunge and grab the sword hilt left-handed.

At once Rushan’s right hand flashed to his short sword, ripped it out and stabbed for the belly, a classic gambit in hand-to-hand fighting. Again Yoshi was prepared. He had let the spear fall and jammed his right forearm against Rushan’s wrist to deflect the blade into his cloak to entangle it. Instantly Rushan let go and his hand, now a murderous weapon with fingers like rock-hard talons, and nails like claws, stabbed for Yoshi’s eyes. The nails missed the eyes but sank in below them.

Yoshi gasped. A lesser trained man would have released his grip on his assailant’s long sword hilt and would have died. Blindly he hung on, now with two hands, to the man who flayed impotently, out of control now. This gave a soldier behind Rushan the opening to grab him around the throat, and Wataki, knowing the fight was lost and petrified the shishi would be captured alive, thankfully drove his short sword into Rushan’s lower back.
The strength of the blow thrust the blade right through him. Rushan cried out. Blood seeped from his mouth, but he fought on, though blind with death as his life soared upwards and outwards and ended. Barely a minute had passed since the first attack.

Though his own glands generated panic, Yoshi felt the life go out of the man. And the sudden weight of the body against him. But he did not let go until he was completely sure the man was truly dead. Even then he allowed other hands to pull the corpse away and let it fall.

Blood covered him. He discovered quickly that it was not his. His good fortune did not dissipate his fury at the men nearby who had failed to be alert, failed to move into a protective screen, leaving him to do the fighting. He cursed them, ordering the whole troop inside, on their knees, their swords broken, except the two who had helped him. Then, panting, he looked around. The busy street was almost empty.

When the shouting, milling skirmish surrounding the lone attacker was seen to be what it was, and in seconds Yoshi’s hat torn off and he was recognized, a hum of astonishment had gone through the common folk. At once, two or three sidled away, heads averted. Others followed. The cautious dribble became a floodtide, no one wanting to be held as a witness or even accused of being an accomplice.

Izuru was one of the first to leave when he saw there was no reasonable expectation a second attack would succeed. Rushan mishandled the attack, he thought, walking down the predetermined side street, well shielded by departing crowds. The fool should have hacked the head off one of the first two as a diversion, then on the recovery used the same fluid, brutal force to swing back on the prime target, waist-high. No likelihood of Yoshi escaping that blow. None. Katsumata would be furious. He demonstrated it enough times, told us enough times. A unique opportunity wasted! And as for allowing Yoshi to catch his hilt and parry the belly thrust …

Rushan deserved to be captured alive and used for sword practice! Wait, perhaps it was better this way. If Rushan was so inept in his supreme duel, he probably would have broken and given away our safe houses, the ones he knew about. You can’t trust Tosa people, shishi or not!

But why was Toranaga Yoshi taking such a risk?

There were shouts behind him. Soldiers were chasing the last of the crowds to catch some as witnesses. No chance that he would be caught, no need to hurry.

Rain began again. The wind picked up. He pulled his cloak around him, glad for it and his hat. Down another puddled alley, into another, across a bridge, the wooden slats slippery. Soon he was safe in a maze of slippery little streets that led to a back entrance in the wall of a great dwelling. The guard recognized him, let him pass, waving him toward the secret shishi
safe house lost in the vast gardens. The man’s uniform carried the insignia of Lord Chancellor Wakura.

In the street of the Toranaga Headquarters the stall keeper was being hustled to the guard house, loudly protesting that he knew nothing, was nothing and begged to be allowed to go—he had dared not vanish with the others as he was too well known there. A few stragglers who had been caught were shoved after him. The awning of the stall flapped miserably in the wind and rain.

Koiko was putting the final touches to her makeup, helped by a hand mirror of polished steel. Her fingers shook slightly. Again she made a conscious effort to empty her mind and compartmentalize her fears, for Yoshi and because of him, for herself and because of herself. The other two women, Teko, her
maiko—
apprentice—and Sumomo watched intently. The room was small and functional, like the rest of the suite adjoining Yoshi’s quarters, sufficient for her when she slept alone, and one maid. Other quarters, for her attendants, were farther away.

As she finished she stared at her reflection. She could detect no worry lines and when she tried a smile the skin of her face crinkled only in the correct places, her eyes were white where they should be white, dark where they should be dark and showed none of the depth of her concern. This pleased her. Then she caught a glimpse of Sumomo. Not aware she was observed, Sumomo’s face was momentarily open. Koiko’s stomach twisted, seeing so many conflicts there.

Training training training, she thought, what would we do without it, and turned to face them. Teko, little more than a child, took the mirror without being asked, deftly touched a vagrant lock into place with a tiny hand.

“It’s beautiful, Lady Koiko,” Sumomo said, bewitched. This was the first time she had been allowed into Koiko’s private quarters. The secrets of the beauty process had been a revelation, beyond her whole experience.

“Yes, it is,” Koiko said, thinking she meant the mirror, the perfection of its surface making it almost priceless. “And it is a kind mirror too. Few are kind, Sumomo—vital in this life for a woman to have a kind mirror to look into.”

“Oh, I meant the whole picture you make, not that,” Sumomo said, embarrassed. “From your kimono to your hairstyle, your choice of colors and how you make up your lips and eyebrows, everything. Thank you for allowing me to witness it.”

Koiko laughed. “I hope that with or without, the effect is not too different!”

“Oh, you are the most beautiful person I have ever seen,” Sumomo
burst out. Compared to Koiko she felt like a country person, unsophisticated, inept, bovine, all fingers and elbows and big feet, for the first time in her life conscious of a lack of femininity. What can my beloved Hiraga see in me, she asked herself dismayed. I’m nothing, unattractive, nothing, not even a Choshu like him. I bring him no face, no lands, no prestige and no money, I’m sure in truth his parents disapprove of me. “You are the—the most beautiful I’m ever likely to see!” she said, and she was thinking, Are all Ladies of the Floating World like you? Even the
maiko
will be stunning when she is grown, though not like her Mistress! No wonder men marry women like me just to control their houses and bear their children, because it is so easy for them to worship elsewhere, to enjoy beauty elsewhere and oh, so much more.

With the sincerity Koiko saw the unhappiness and envy that could not be hidden. “You are beautiful too, Sumomo,” she said, long aware she had this effect on many women. “Teko-chan, you may go now but prepare everything for later … and make sure we are not disturbed, Sumomo and I.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Teko was almost fifteen. As with Koiko, her contract had been concluded with the mama-san of the House of Wisteria by her farmer parents when she was seven. Her earning life would begin when she was fourteen or fifteen. Till then, and as long as the mama-san wanted, the contract made the mama-san responsible for keeping her, clothing her, and training her for a life in the Floating World, and, if she developed the aptitude, in its various arts: as musician or dancer or poet or conversationalist, or all of them. If the
maiko
proved untrainable or difficult, the mama-san could resell the contract at her whim, but if her choice had been wise, as with Koiko, the mama-san’s considerable financial outlay and gamble would be repaid abundantly in money and reputation. Not all mama-sans were considerate, or kind, or patient.

“Run along now and practice your scales,” Koiko said.

“Yes, Mistress.” Teko knew she had been blessed to be apprenticed to Koiko whom she adored and worked very hard to please. She bowed perfectly and, adorned by an irrepressible charm, went away.

“So.” Koiko looked at Sumomo, uneasily fascinated by her, her direct look and manner and strength. Since she had agreed to allow her to stay five days ago, there had been almost no opportunity to talk alone. Now it was time. She opened a mental compartment: Katsumata.

Oh, my friend, what have you done to me?

He had waylaid her during her visit to the Kyōto mama-san who had, at the instigation of Meikin, her own mama-san in Yedo, arranged maids, hairdresser, masseuses while she was here. Only Teko and a maid had travelled with her from Yedo.

“I ask a lifetime favor,” Katsumata had said.

“No, you must not!” she had said, shocked to see him, shocked that he
would endanger her with such a clandestine meeting and shocked that he would ask such a favor of her that surely must have dire consequences. Once granted, no other favor could ever be asked of the same person, the ensuing debt enormous. “We agreed when Lord Toranaga Yoshi honored me, all personal contacts between us should cease, except in an emergency. We agreed.”

“Yes, hence the lifetime favor I ask.”

Seven years ago, in Yedo, when she was fifteen, Katsumata had been her first client. Quickly he had become a lot more: friend, guru and consummate teacher. He had opened her eyes to the world, to the importance of the real world, as well as the Floating World. Over the years he had taught her the tea ceremony, the art of debating, calligraphy, about poetry and inner meanings of literature, politics, and regaled her with his ideas and plans for the future, how his small band of acolyte samurai would dominate the land, would force through
sonno-joi
, and, in time, showed her how there was a vital place for her in the jigsaw called
sonno-joi
. “As a courtesan of supreme rank you will be a confidante of the powerful, as wife of one of them, you’ll marry one, never fear, and have samurai sons and be indispensable to the new future and a major part of its power, never forget it!”

Meikin, her mama-san, was an adherent so of course she had agreed, her imagination devoured by his bravery and daring and his band of shishi, the rise of their fortunes.

“Our fortunes have ebbed,” he had said, and told her about the ambush last night and his escape with two others. “We were betrayed—I do not know by whom but we have to scatter—for the time being.”

“Forty shishi spiked?” she whispered, appalled.

“Forty. Most of them leaders. Only three of us escaped, another shishi and a girl—a ward of mine. Listen, Koiko-chan, there’s not much time. The lifetime favor I ask is for you to guard this girl while you stay in Kyōto, take her into your household, even back to Yedo with you an—”

“Oh, but as much as I would like to, so sorry, that would be very difficult, the General Akeda is very particular about people. He would personally interview her—he did with all my other helpers,” she said as nicely as she could, inwardly horrified that he dared to make such a dangerous suggestion to her that she harbor a shishi escapee, however innocent. “It would be very diff—”