Gloria Oliver

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Zumaya Publications

www.zumayapublications.com

Copyright ©2002 copyright Gloria Oliver

First Published December 2002

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

His prison’s blank, glowing walls
glared silently at him as he entered. His sickness washed over him. A dead certainty stole over him then, and though the unearthly cold of the ship was mercilessly flowing into him, he didn’t run for his blanket when he was released. Instead, he turned around to face the departing samurai.

Asaka-sama, please. I beg you!” He sank to his knees, his hands face down against the floor, and his eyes closed in supplication. “Release me. Take me home. I can be of no use to you. Please, I don’t belong here!” His voice got caught in his throat. “Please, Lord, I beg you!”

Worm
.He pressed his forehead against the floor’s glowing planks, shooting cold passing through it as it was already doing through his knees and hands. He shut his eyes tighter with a prayer, his heart quickening as he heard the sound most dreaded by his people everywhere. His acrid breath hung still in his raw throat as the soft click of a katana being slightly drawn from its sheath reverberated in the room’s silence. He waited for the end.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 1-894869-67-2

Cover art by Marlies Bugmann, cover design by Martine Jardin

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by Zumaya Publications, 2002

Look for us online at: www.zumayapublications.com

This is dedicated to John, without whom this book would have never been written.

Great thanks to the House of Three Gaijin, especially to Wendy “Dinzumo” Dinsmore, for all
their help with the technical details of this book and support. I also want to thank all the great
folks at Zumaya for their great patience and efforts. And last, but by no means least, my editor,
Cathy, for helping make this manuscript the best it could be.

The sun dipped beneath the horizon, taking with it the last light of day. Toshi crouched a little lower over his workbench as the light faded, knowing his master wouldn’t want the lamps lit while a moment of daylight still remained.

Bought from his family while he was very young, he knew his master’s ways well. Just as Master Shun didn’t want any money wasted unnecessarily, he also precluded spending it on unneeded frivolities. Toshi ran his hand over his black hair, fingering the old, thin, stretched tie holding it in a ponytail. And though the last few months had seen a growth spurt for him, he knew he would not be receiving a new pair of knee breeches or a loose-fitting tunic for several moons yet.

Still, he was well-fed, and the skills he was learning would earn a better living than some. Aside from his not-so-common profession, he was the same as hundreds of others, a boy with the usual dark hair, brown eyes, slightly tinted skin and almond shaped eyes—characteristics which made it virtually impossible for a foreigner to pass as a native.

With precision gained from long practice, he slid his brush smoothly over the thick rice paper as he diligently copied the curving meridian lines from the yellowing foreign parchment pinned on the desk beside him. As he squinted, he dipped his brush in the small reservoir of ink built into the desk. Gently twirling the brush on the bowl’s long lip, he bled off any excess. His steady hand guided the brush in another slow curve, marking the outline of his map. His attention didn’t waver from the delicate work, even as he heard the shop’s front door slide open.

“If you would please wait a moment, O-
kyaku
-sama, I’ll be right with you,” he said.

At an unhurried pace, Toshi came toward the end of his curving line. An unusually cool breeze made its way through the long shop, carrying with it the heavy scent of the sea. Like most shops in town, theirs was comprised of two stories, one in which to conduct business, the other for sleeping and eating.

Master Shun believed in cleanliness, so a day did not pass during which Toshi didn’t have to sweep the entrance or run a wet cloth across the floorboards. On days when it rained and prospective customers tracked in the mud with them, it was all he could do to keep up.

A large counter took up the left side of the front of the shop, while the rear held the working desk and wall-to-wall niches to hold their wares.

He rubbed his suddenly cold feet together, wondering why the customer hadn’t bothered to close the door. His gaze snapped up as he realized that the customer had already shut the paper screen door. Yet the scent of salt and seaweed still crowded into his nostrils. It was strange that the smell had come so far and was so strong, since the shop was so far from the port. Dismissing the oddity as he heard the late customer moving about, he set his brush carefully aside.

“O-kyaku-sama, I’ve finished.” He bowed in the general direction of the visitor out of long-ingrained habit though he couldn’t see him. “I apologize for the wait. How may I help you?”

He glanced at the shadow-enshrouded figure on the far side of the room, just as the last of the sun’s light dwindled away. He quickly left the side of his workbench and its wooden platform. A small, unexplained chill coursed through him as the customer’s ever-deepening shadow came to loom over him.

“Sir?”

He didn’t receive an answer. Realizing Master Shun wasn’t likely to make a sale if his customer remained in the dark, he shifted past the familiar surroundings and reached for the nearest paper lantern.

“I’ll have some light for us in a moment, sir. I apologize for it being so dark.” He removed the paper covering of the lamp and exposed the candle inside.

“Where’s your master, boy?”

The unexpected voice made him jump. Though the customer was standing less than five arm-lengths from him, the low, monotone voice had sounded as if it issued from far away. He glanced up to answer, but hesitated as he saw a flash of greenish light issue from somewhere around the customer’s face. He rubbed his eyes, feeling foolish even as a tinge of unreasonable fear tried to crowd into his mind. Realizing his continued silence could be misunderstood as rudeness, he turned away from the figure and answered the question. At the same time, he reached to light the lamp.

“Master Shun wasn’t feeling well today, sir. He retired early. If you wish, you could leave a message for him. I’m sure he’ll be feeling better tomorrow.”

Warmth tickled his fingers as the wick caught fire. He placed the oval paper covering back over the candle. Its light gently spread over the room. He then carried the lantern to the main counter in the front of the shop and turned to get his first good look at the waiting customer.

The man was facing away from him, so his gaze landed upon well-cared-for armor with its small steel plates hooked on lacquered leather. He wasn’t surprised by what he saw, having already figured from the harsh and emotionless tone his customer was samurai
—
an elite, upper-class warrior. Dressed as if for battle, the samurai wore the commanding rounded helmet with protruding strips of plate to guard the back of the neck. Fitted back plates and metal shoulder pads were attached to the toughened leather that made up the sleeves and the lower skirt. Strapped on leather tubes protected the warrior’s legs. No, what made his eyes grow wide and his heart beat faster were the long tufts of wet seaweed hanging from the armor. Droplets of water reflected the lamp’s light even as they fell from the armor and the soaked clothes beneath to make a small puddle on the floor. His eyes followed the water trail leading from the samurai’s feet back to the front door, his throat growing dry.

He took an unsteady step back, not sure what it all meant. His gaze traveled back to the armor and looked at the family crest painted there. The crest showed three white crescent moons facing each other within a thin circle. He didn’t immediately recognize it. It wasn’t one belonging to any of the prominent samurai families in town. Perhaps the man was a
ronin
, a masterless samurai; but the good condition of his armor and his kimono suggested otherwise.

Toshi watched with growing curiosity as the samurai slowly turned about to face him. His breath caught in his throat as a demonic scowl stared him in the face. He tried to still his racing heart as he realized the evil, horrifying expression before him was but a mask clipped to the front of the samurai’s helmet, hiding the man’s true face.

Taking another step back, he forced his eyes to leave the mask. Why would a samurai in full battle regalia come here to see Master Shun? He wondered what time it was and when the city watch would be coming by. Ever since the foreigners, the
gaijin
, had been allowed entry into the ports and even certain regions of the city itself, the curfews and patrols had become more stringent than before. If he ran out to look for them, would they cut him down before he could explain why he had broken curfew? Or worse, would he even make it out of the store if he decided to try?

His eyes fixed on the sheathed swords, the long
katana
and shorter
wakizashi
, hanging from the samurai’s side. He wasn’t sure he could run past the strange customer to get help before the warrior could draw either blade and make its razor sharpness cut through his hide. Glancing up into the warrior’s masked face, he froze. He had seen it again—a flash of greenish light in the eye slits of the mask!

Excitement and fear clutched at his breast and a thin sheen of perspiration rose on his brow. He stared hard at the samurai’s metal mask, noticing for the first time how dark the area beyond the eye slits were and how the brown eyes that should have been there staring back at him were nowhere in sight.

“Sir, it … it’s time for the shop to close. Is there a message you wish me to convey to Master Shun?” He tried not to look at the snarling, demonic mask, though his eyes were drawn toward the unnatural emptiness of its eye slits.

“Can you read gaijin maps, boy?”

Toshi felt surprise rush through him at the totally unexpected question. “Yes, sir. A little. My—my master has had dealings with a number of gaijin to try to learn their ways of making and reading maps. I have studied this with him.”

He hadn’t meant to say so much. He didn’t want to deal with the strange samurai—that was Master Shun’s responsibility—but his frightened tongue hadn’t known when to stop. With a long, silent shiver, he wished his master would come downstairs right then, even if it meant he would get a flogging.

“Do you have maps for the area with the chain of islands just to the north of here?” The samurai’s distant monotone slammed into him even as he tried to figure out what he should do.

When he didn’t immediately answer, the seaweed-covered samurai took a long step forward. Toshi took one back.

“Well, boy?” the samurai asked. His impatience was unmistakable even as his voice sounded like it came from a deep well.

Not wanting the samurai to come any closer, he tried to answer his question as quickly as possible.

“Yes, sir, we have many maps.”

“Show me.”

He scurried away to the shop’s rear. Against the wall, on the right, racks of small square-shaped shelves were stacked upon each other almost to the ceiling. Ruffling through the carefully rolled parchments in a number of the squares, he grabbed what he was looking for and walked cautiously around the samurai to stand behind the safety of the shop’s front counter. He laid the rolled parchment on the end of the counter closest to the unusual customer and then backed away from it.

Without a word, the samurai stepped forward. Toshi watched as the man raised his arm to reach for the map. Filled with a bolt of sudden fear, he jumped back, smashing his head against one of the shop’s wooden support beams as the hand he had expected to see reaching for the map never appeared. With spots of color flying before his eyes, he stared in paralyzing horror as fleshless fingers reached instead to claim the waiting map.

“You’re
obake
. A monster!” The boy clamped his hands over his mouth as he realized the accusing words were his. He stared at the samurai in cold horror, sure his words would be the end of him.