Moonshadow (7 page)

SEVEN
Enemy territory

The drizzle had finally stopped, though the sky remained overcast. Heavy grey clouds, along with the towers and roofs of Momoyama Castle, loomed over Fushimi.

Moon squeezed through the inn's small, crowded eatery, the box containing his new writing kit under his arm. Before closing the sliding door between the noisy diners' lounge and the corridor to his tiny room, he scanned the seated, feasting lunch patrons. Three married couples, two travelling hawkers, an old lady pilgrim, a middle-aged samurai and five townsmen whose jackets said they worked for the local sake brewery. Near the door, a family with three noisy toddlers.

No. The goddess of the forest was not among them.

After defending her and the farmers, his remaining days on the road had passed without incident, perhaps mostly because heavy spring rains had settled in, forcing everyone on the highway to seek shelter or move along faster.

Just before dawn that morning he had crept into Fushimi, inspecting the town from the vantage point of the highest roof he could find. He had scanned its layout until confident the depths of his mind would retain the details of what he had seen. Then, after stealing a new disguise from a back courtyard's drying pole, he had checked into this, the cheapest looking inn.

Moonshadow was now dressed as a long-distance mail boy, complete with a small wooden post-box-backpack and a faded running jacket marked
Messenger
in large script. He frowned as he paced down the corridor, smoothing wrinkles from his jacket. Some believed it bad luck, taboo, to ever kill a messenger. Probably not
his
enemies, who were most likely both close and numerous. But he would not concern himself with them yet.

It was time to prepare, to draw up a sound operations chart, not worry about who might be on his tail. Let them show themselves first, as foes with less training always did. In the meantime, he had to ensure the silver coins he had just spent weren't wasted. Moon closed his room's sliding door, sank to the reed matting, and opened the writing kit.

He took out and unfolded a large sheet of hand-made paper. Then a brush, a stick of black ink, a small, grooved ink stone and a clay water beaker. After pouring some water into the stone's groove and dissolving part of the ink stick into it, he dipped his brush and started drawing a map of Fushimi.

Moon had learned a technique named passive recall, and now it served him well. The trick was to stare at a diagram or scene – in this case, the layout of a small town, as he had – until the information sank deep into the mind. Heron, who coached him in the art, had called the knowledge the
fly
, his will the
spider
, and his deepest memory the
web
. To later recall the information and capture it on paper, she had told him, he should choose to remember it, set a brush in motion, then simply let his conscious mind wander. She'd then developed his skills with guided meditation. At first, this notion of daydreaming to produce an accurate chart had sounded somewhat ridiculous. But under her skilful tutelage he had discovered that passive recall enabled more accurate map and plan drawing than everyday methods. 'Only we shinobi, we spies, use this way,' Heron had once told him, her gentle eyes watching his eager face as he handed her a copy of a diagram she had told him to memorise. 'It's another example of our greatest strength: our power comes from knowledge that ordinary men have lost. Scraps and shards of Old Country sciences, from an age when people were wiser and closer to the land.' His brush moved slowly, in time with his breathing. He glanced up. The cramped, rented room was not a lonely place. At least two mosquitoes circled overhead at all times, and his first glance at the floor had warned him of the presence of other, equally tenacious invaders. Hence his second purchase this morning – a carved bamboo tube full of white flea powder – was as crucial to his survival here as his sword. Moonshadow cursed his accommodation but then, despite himself, smiled. This horrid little room reminded him of the map-drying booth behind the Grey Light Order's library. Smelly, musty and confining as that
other
tiny chamber was, remembering it always made him grin.

One particular incident there repeatedly came back to him. A day on which Brother Badger, GLO archivist, tutor on military history and battlefield theory, had – yet again – lost his beloved monkey Saru-San. Moon shook his head. Though Badger, in his life before the Order, had been a scholar, it was not a very clever name, since it meant
Mister
Monkey
. Not a very
nice
monkey, either.

Moonshadow, or Nanashi as he had been back then, was ordered to check the map-drying room and other nooks and crannies for Saru and several missing brushes. The creature was mindlessly destructive, but it also stole things for futile hoarding. Food, tools, even children's toys from nearby homes. Saru would hide them all pointlessly, then fly into a rage when he couldn't relocate them.

Interestingly, Moon recalled, Badger would also misplace things then become irritable while searching for them. In fact, Groundspider had once whispered that Saru and Badger resembled each other, both in their personalities and looks. He observed that both were balding, with slightly pointy, randomly scratched heads and very yellow teeth.

'The same dull eyes . . .' Groundspider had teased. 'They could be half-brothers.'

That fateful day, Nanashi had entered the drying room, dodging freshly painted hanging maps that swayed from the ceiling rafters. Holding up a paper lantern, he had searched the dark corners for Saru. The animal's sudden screech overhead startled Nanashi. He raised his lamp only to find the largest, most detailed map torn and ruinously streaked, with Saru smudged from snout to tail in its wet, recognisable colours. It was one of Nanashi's tasks to repair damaged maps or redraw them from scratch.

He cursed the beast. With twinkling eyes, Saru waved a dripping brush at him.

'You're a demon!' Nanashi had growled, stamping one foot at the monkey. 'Come down now, I'm dragging you straight to Brother Badger.' He hoisted the lamp under Saru. 'Monster! Drop that brush! At least you've already done your worst!'

The monkey had stared at him, cocking its head to one side as if pondering his words. Then it raised its eyebrows, turned its back and lifted its tail. Too late he'd sensed the hairy little fiend's plan. Cursing, Nanashi had turned to flee as a wet sputtering sound came from the rafters. In fast, foul seconds he would never forget, the lantern was put out and his new robe and hair drenched by the most terrible of all monkey weapons.

'I'll kill you! I mean it this time!' Nanashi had fumed, backing out the door, as Saru mocked him with triumphant chatter from above.

He had bumped into Badger, who'd started yelling, 'What's happened? This mess! What a stench! Oh no, my maps!'

Moonshadow grinned broadly. Only after all this time could he find that day funny.

He pictured Badger's face and his signature stare of concentration, the one Groundspider called 'a dull look'. He remembered the time when he had disliked Badger almost as much as he had the monkey. Yet a single conversation had completely changed his attitude towards the grumpiest of his tutors. It had happened a month after the drying-room debacle, in the heart of a harsh winter, when the monastery grounds gleamed with fresh knee-deep snow.

He'd been sitting opposite Badger on the library floor, enduring the archivist's long lecture on the history of shinobi on the battlefield and in espionage. Bored to desperation, he had thoughtlessly given Badger a glare of weary contempt. The tutor had narrowed his eyes, then shuffled closer. His student had cringed, half-expecting to be slapped for his rudeness. Instead Badger had spoken softly, carefully, a trace of amusement in his eyes.

'You think me a pedantic old fool, Nanashi, a drab trainer compared to the others, do you not?' Badger had raised one hand. 'Don't answer; spare me a roughshod denial.
I know you do
. Why, you wonder, is this crusty old scholar even here? He is no warrior, therefore barely a man! Unworthy of respect, patience or the full attention of a young hero-to-be like you.' He'd watched his victim squirm a moment before going on. 'Well, let me impart a different history, then. A tale of respect and, perhaps oddly, of what a man must sometimes do in response to
too much
respect.' Seeing an intensely earnest look on Badger's face, young Nanashi had listened as he never had before.

'Not so many years ago,' Badger said, 'I was not called
Badger
– that is my Order name, given ironically no doubt, because the animal denotes patience. I was once a travelling teacher, and an author of battle manuals. My name then was Hosokawa.' Nanashi had gasped. 'Yes, that's right,' Badger had smiled. 'I don't just draw maps and translate. Half the published books you've already studied here . . .
I
wrote them.'

As Nanashi, Moon had glanced around the library, struck with awe.
The
Hosokawa! His works were considered required reading throughout the warrior class.

'Well, when I
was
that fellow, Hosokawa the famous writer,' Badger had continued, 'I chanced one summer to be lecturing in Tanabe Castle . . . the very week it came under siege. An unusual affair,
that
siege, for few armies use cannons – so hard to transport quickly in our mountainous land – yet a row of fine, imported cannons was lined up facing Tanabe's walls.' Badger had frowned deeply. 'But when the artillery captain learned that
I
was inside and might come to harm from his flying cannonballs, he delayed firing, telling his men he read and loved my books, and would avoid my accidental harm at all costs. He was in a hard position: his general, who was on the way, had ordered the castle's relentless bombardment.'

'So did he fire on it?' Nanashi had asked with fascination.

'He was obliged to!' Badger's supposedly dull eyes had sparkled. 'But though he fired all his cannons many times, not one was ever loaded with a cannonball. On arriving, the general demanded to know why the castle walls were still intact. His captain politely claimed he'd forgotten how to load the cannons. The general, a sharp fellow, had ordered him to speak the truth without fear. Apparently, on hearing the real reason and my name, the general exclaimed, "Hosokawa? I love his work! You acted wisely, Captain. Hosokawa must not die, and further more, I want his autograph!" Imagine that!'

Badger had laughed, then his face had clouded with sadness. 'He ordered his men to take the castle without using cannons. The hard way – just ladders and a battering ram. His army captured Tanabe all right, but a third of them died doing it. No harm came to me, and the general got his autograph. But when I learned all this, long after the siege, the burden of it split my heart. I withdrew from public life, never publishing again. Instead, I answered the Shogun's call,' his voice had turned to a whisper, 'to slip into the grey light, to become one of its phantoms, to live only as a secret guardian of peace.'

They had returned then to the scheduled lecture, but from that moment on, Nanashi had found it in him to respect Badger, to work harder in his classes, and to more readily tolerate both his abrupt manner and his stinking, pesky pet.

Back in the present, Moonshadow blinked and stared down at the paper, brush drooping in his hand.

Passive recall had proven itself again. While dreaming of the past, he had completed his map of Fushimi without apparent thought. Now it had to be checked with his conscious mind. He studied its wet lines, starting with the image of the great castle and moving clockwise around the page as he compared the map with his dawn memories. Every detail had to be right.

His planning – his life – depended on it.

The town of Fushimi was set among low rolling hills, beyond which sharp mountains rimmed the horizon. The original folds of the hand-made paper had left creases through his map, dividing it into four equal quarters.

In the top-left quarter, his brushstrokes showed Momoyama Castle, surrounded by a wide moat and linked to the town, downhill from it, by a single, heavily guarded bridge.