Heart of the Ronin (29 page)

The ronin himself had been unexpected. Yasutoki had expected someone larger, stronger, older, rougher looking. But this young man with such a peculiar innocence in his face, could he have killed Hakamadare? A young man like this one could easily be underestimated. But his naiveté could also be exploited. If only he could be found again. He had been escorted from Lord Nishimuta’s house hurriedly, and he disappeared into the night. After that, Yasutoki’s spy lost him. The spy was still looking, however.

Perhaps Hatsumi also knew the whole truth about what happened between Kazuko and the ronin. Poor, plain, wounded, unloved Hatsumi. Here was a woman ripe for the plucking. He sensed her desperate loneliness, the longing for any sort of romantic liaison. She was like a wounded bird, fluttering, fearful, vulnerable. A woman like that had many uses. She could be a means to reaching the deepest secrets of the Lady Kazuko, or perhaps Hatsumi had some secrets of her own worth delving. He would have to approach her carefully for fear of frightening her off, however, after what happened at the hands of the oni bandit. He had already set that plan into motion with the gift of the robes. They had been expensive, but the means to the best information sometimes came at a high price. He had a good instinct for such things, and he was seldom disappointed. Besides, beautiful clothes and trappings were a tried and true ruse to draw women into his bed. He occasionally coupled with several of the prettier servant girls in the castle. They were a lovely diversion, a release of the energy of his sometimes-precarious existence.

Tsunemori was another matter entirely. Yasutoki’s attempts to gain information from him were always fruitless. Someday Yasutoki would find the key to unlocking Tsunemori’s secrets. Someday.

Two

“There was a man who said, ‘[That] person has a violent disposition, but this is what I said right to his face. . . .’ This is an unbecoming thing to say, and it was said simply because he wanted to be known as a rough fellow. It was rather low, and it can be seen that he was still rather immature. It is because a samurai has correct manners that he is admired. Speaking of other people in this way is no different from an exchange between low-class spearmen. It is vulgar.”

—
Hagakure

The air was damp and chilly on Ken’ishi’s face as he walked along the rocky coastline. The cold gray of the waves merged in the distance with the colorless sky, making it difficult to discern where the sea ended and sky began. The neighboring mountains rose into the shrouds, losing their heads in the mist, their forested slopes soaking up the mist like a sponge. A few small fishing boats bobbing on the frothy crests of waves were the only features in the endless gloom. The thunderous crash of the surf drowned out the cries of the sea birds dipping and hovering on the wintry air. But even so, the weather was more hospitable than he remembered the winters in the north, winters he spent huddled in a cold, cheerless cave hoarding the warmth of a tiny fire.

His quilted undergarment now kept the worst of the cold at bay, and he kept his hands inside his robes. Back in the port town of Hakozaki, he purchased a less expensive set of clothes than those he had received as gifts. He did not wish to ruin those with the dust and unpredictability of the road. At least, that was what he told himself.

There was no road here, only endless stretches of rocky shoreline trailing around the skirts of towering mountains and hills, interspersed with a few modest beaches. And he saw no one, except for Akao, who picked his away among the rocks ahead, mindful of the ever-oncoming surf. Back in Hakozaki, Ken’ishi had overheard two merchants discussing a public notice and description of a criminal who murdered a Nishimuta constable. Apparently, his pardon had lasted only until he was out of Lord Nishimuta’s sight. Wanted criminals were harder to spot because of all the people visiting the city for the New Year celebration. Even though he had thrown away his old tattered garments and now wore his hair properly cut in the traditional warrior’s style, he thought it best to leave quickly. Hakozaki was now lost in the hazy distance behind him, somewhere around the curve of the great bay’s shoreline.

The grayness of the sky started to darken with the coming of evening when he spotted a small fishing boat coming toward shore, tossing on the waves. The fisherman was oaring heartily to keep the bow of his craft across the waves. Ken’ishi’s gaze followed the boat’s course to a sheltered inlet, where the shoreline hooked sharply out into the sea. Nestled in the inlet were several low docks, with other boats tied alongside. Among the trees, houses with roofs made of closely packed sticks and walls of gray, weathered timber stood like hunched tortoises, lights shining through paper screens.

Akao stopped to wait for him. The dog was feeling the same trepidation that always came with entering a new village, but he was hungry, too, as always. “No meat on crabs. Want fish!”
 

“Are you going to steal some?” Ken’ishi asked, teasing.

Akao smiled back, tongue lolling. “Perhaps.”

They approached the village by the stretch of beach near the docks. Even from a distance, the smells of fish and smoke were heavy in the air. A few fishermen worked at the docks, putting up their boats for the night or trussing up their catch. They noticed the man and the dog approaching, but upon seeing he was a warrior, pointedly ignored them. A few townsfolk walked the streets, and the sight of a stranger among them bearing weapons caused some suspicious second looks. But Ken’ishi no longer looked like a bandit or ruffian; he looked like a respectable samurai, and he had some money left to buy a room at the inn. He no longer needed to beg, at least for a while yet.

Flamboyant streamers covered with painted characters hung from poles all around the village. They were a New Year custom, covered with prayers and wishes for the coming year. The sounds of music and revelry drifted from the center of town.

Akao stopped. “Smell good! Eat now!” The dog took off at a trot.

Ken’ishi took one step after him. Akao was an accomplished thief. He wouldn’t go hungry tonight.

Ken’ishi discovered that the music was coming from inside what looked to be the inn. As he stood outside, the warm smells of fish soup, rice, pickled radish, and the sharp pungency of sake struck him in the face. He stepped inside and placed his shoes among all the others near the door. The revelers hardly noticed him. The music was coming from two men playing the drum and biwa, and the celebrants were tipping jars of sake, heads bobbing to the music. Most of them appeared to be townsfolk, fishermen, and farmers, but Ken’ishi noticed a samurai sitting alone in one corner of the room. The samurai noticed him as well. They nodded to each other, then the innkeeper stepped in front of Ken’ishi, bowing.

He was a tall, thin man with an abundance of merry wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and a bulbous, sparsely haired pate. “Welcome, sir. Have you just come to town?”

Ken’ishi nodded. “Have you any rooms?”

“Yes, sir. You’re in luck. I have one room left.”

“Very well.”

The innkeeper showed him to a room at the rear of the inn. It was small but clean, just large enough to spread a futon. The thin paper walls hardly diminished the sounds of the music and conversation. “One of my best rooms, lord. The bathhouse is across the street. Shall I bring you some food? We have many special treats tonight because of New Year!”

Ken’ishi nodded. “Yes, food would be good.”

The older man departed. Ken’ishi left his pack and weapons in his room, taking only his sword with him when he returned to the common room.

He noted that the lone samurai watched him but did not appear to be suspicious, merely watchful. The way the man sipped his sake indicated that he was not drunk.

The innkeeper brought Ken’ishi’s food promptly, tasty fish soup, a bowl of rice, some pickled plums and a handful of sweet, sticky rice cakes. He enjoyed his repast in silence, allowing the revelry to ebb and flow around him. The music’s strange rhythms and tones danced in his mind, and he wondered if he could reproduce it on his flute.

When Ken’ishi was nearly finished with his meal, a man came into the common room from one of the rooms in back and took a place among the other patrons. Ever alert, Ken’ishi wondered where he had been. His question was answered when he saw a woman dressed in brightly colored but threadbare robes. Her face was freshly powdered, and she seated herself near the hallway.

After a moment, Ken’ishi realized that she was not a woman at all, but a girl, probably younger than him. She might have been pretty had there been any spark of life in her eyes. He recognized her bearing and posture as like that of other whores he had seen, weary, beaten down by a harsh existence.

The girl had not been sitting long when a man stood up from among the patrons and staggered toward her. He reeked of fish, his eyes were dull, red-rimmed, and watery, and he walked as if the floor was a heaving boat under his feet. The man was old enough to be her father, perhaps grandfather. After the man passed her, the girl stood up and followed him out of sight. No one else paid any mind, and Ken’ishi wondered why he had. He had seen whores and their patrons in inns and sake houses before, and none of them had gained his attention for more than an instant. Why was this time different? The longer the girl was gone, the more attuned to his surroundings his senses became. With a sudden insight, he realized his instincts were preparing him for a fight. The kami were speaking to him.

Moments later a terrific slap and a squeal of pain ripped through the air from the back rooms, halting the music and dropping silence over the revelry like a blanket. The musicians recovered from their surprise and tried to resume playing, until the girl came running out of the hallway and stumbled through the crowd, one hand covering the large red welt on her cheek, the other hand clutching her robes together. The innkeeper came out of the kitchen, and she ran toward him, throwing herself at his knees.

A few seconds later, the drunken fisherman followed her out of the hallway, using the walls to support himself. “She tried to rob me! That thieving little whore!” His words were so slurred they were barely intelligible.

The girl looked up desperately into the man’s face, shaking her head in denial, tears streaming down her cheeks.

The drunken fisherman’s voice rose. “Give her to me! I’ll show her what it means to steal a man’s money!”

Ken’ishi heard her breathing whispered pleas to the innkeeper. The innkeeper’s eyes said that he did not believe the fisherman’s accusation, but the fisherman was a big, rough man.

The samurai stood up, holding his scabbard in his left hand, and interposed himself between the innkeeper and the fisherman. His voice was measured and terse as he spoke to the fisherman. “Yoba, do you still have your money?”

“Well, yes, but. . . .”

“Then I will see to it she is punished for trying to steal from you. Tomorrow.”

“No! Give that bitch to me! I’ll beat her!”

The samurai’s voice remained steady, but hardened. “Let it be. This is the New Year, a celebration.”

But Yoba staggered forward with drunken persistence. “No! I’m going to punish her!”

The samurai assumed a ready stance, prepared to draw his weapon if necessary.

A young man jumped up from the floor and stepped in front of the fisherman. “Father, stop this! She is not worth it!”

The fisherman shoved the young man aside, sending him sprawling across two other patrons. “Stupid boy! You don’t understand. She needs to be beaten! Stay out of my way or I’ll see to you too!” He took three more steps into the room.

The girl was quivering with fear, huddled against the innkeeper’s knees.

The samurai said, “Leave now. I will not warn you again.”

The fisherman stopped, took a deep breath, and his head sagged against his chest. The young man extricated himself from the patrons he had fallen on and stepped behind him. “Let’s go home, Father.” The fisherman nodded, allowing his son to support him as they made their way toward the door. As the samurai stepped aside to let them pass, Ken’ishi noticed the glint of cunning in the drunken fisherman’s eyes, and his body tensed with the warning of danger.

The fisherman used his son’s body as a pivot and lunged at the samurai, colliding with him. The samurai grunted and staggered backwards, driven by the fisherman’s weight. A dreadful hush fell over the room. Ken’ishi saw the crimson-smeared boning knife in the fisherman’s fist. The samurai staggered back a step, clutching his side with his right hand, wearing an expression of speechless surprise on his blanched face, falling over a stunned patron onto his back. The young man, aghast, his mouth working but no sound coming out. The fisherman, his face beaming with triumph, his bloodshot eyes turning toward the girl, burning with fresh anticipation, taking a step toward her.

“Now, girl!” the fisherman rasped, his breathing husky and drenched with sake. The horrified girl jumped up and hid behind the innkeeper, whimpering in terror. The older man’s gaze was glued to the crimson blade, his eyes wide, frozen.

“Stop!” Ken’ishi said.

“Eh?” The fisherman turned and squinted through watery, bloodshot eyes at Ken’ishi. His eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed, and he flipped the knife in his hand to grip it by the blade. He cocked his arm to throw.

Silver Crane’s blade caught him just below the ribcage, neatly parting his shirt and creating a pair of wet red lips stretching across his torso. A choked sound burst from the fisherman’s throat as he clutched at the spreading wound with his empty hand. After a long moment, he fell forward onto his face, blood and entrails spilling from the great gash in his belly.

“Father!” The young man’s face twisted with shock and horror.

Throughout the inn, dead silence.

The young man glared at Ken’ishi. “You killed him!”

Ken’ishi said nothing.

“He didn’t have a chance!” The young man’s gaze fell to the corpse on the floor and watched the slow spread of the scarlet pool at his feet.