Sword of Honour (15 page)

‘Are you not taking me to the head of your school?’ he said, curt as he thought appropriate. ‘Where is Sir Yoshioka? Does he think himself above the most noble Lord
Tokugawa?’

‘The most honourable Naokata Yoshioka regrettably lies stricken with a grave malady, and is unable to receive the privilege of the most honourable Captain Inoue’s presence. Humbly,
Tadanari Kozei serves in the most honourable Sir Yoshioka’s absence.’

‘Very well,’ said Goemon, and then thought it would be best here to add a kindness: ‘I will pray for Sir Yoshioka’s health.’

Tadanari bowed in gratitude. His eyes were black and the lids of his eyes were as still as though they were carved of wax.

The master led him to a forehall, where they waited for a meal to be brought to them. They knelt opposite each other in the formal position, thighs rested on calves and the pressure of the
entire body’s weight wrenching constant at the knees. Neither one of them revealed his discomfort; this had to be endured for the sake of manners. They looked both at and through each other
in silence. Goemon would have guessed Tadanari’s age to be fifteen, perhaps even twenty years greater than his own, the bald man appearing to be in the waning years of his fifties. Yet the
samurai retained a dignified presence about himself, a hardness in the shoulders, a bearded jaw that brooked no argument.

The longer he looked at the master of the Yoshioka, the less Goemon wanted to look. He found himself, if not intimidated, then at least keenly feeling the disparity in their ages. The man seemed
ensconced here, and not just solely in this room. He gave out a sense of ownership, of possession.

Goemon’s eyes fell elsewhere. At Tadanari’s belt he saw netsuke beads clasping the thongs of the pouches that hung from his waist, beautiful things carved out of either ivory or some
pale wood that held a sculpted edge as fine as bone. He recognized the form of an ogreish being sitting cross-legged with a halo of fire rising from over his shoulders, a lash clutched in one hand
and a foreign, double-edged sword clutched in the other.

‘Saint Fudo.’ He nodded. ‘You have an affinity for the saint of swordsmen.’

Tadanari mimicked the nod. ‘It is he who has an affinity for all of us, most honourable Sir Inoue.’

That was all they spoke, were permitted by etiquette to speak, until the food was brought in. The meal was of yuba, rolled skins of tofu dipped in soy sauce and wasabi. Goemon offered his polite
thanks and began to eat, slurping the skins quickly. Halfway through his platter, he became aware Tadanari and his lesser men that had joined them were savouring each mouthful, considering the
flavour. The food must be some delicacy of the city, he realized. Yet he could not admit the mistake clad as he was in Tokugawa livery, and so he fought the blush and forced himself to eat at
exactly the same speed he had done before.

When he was done he set his chopsticks down as though he was entirely without guilt, and placed his hands upon his thighs.

‘My thanks,’ he said, and he spoke with great care to twist his accent into that of Kyoto. ‘It was most delicious. To business, then.’

‘Of course,’ said Tadanari. His own plate remained half full but he gave gestures and servile staff came and began to clear the cutlery and dishes away. ‘It was with great
delight that this most humble school received the request of the most honourable Captain Inoue for an audience. If you will permit the audacity, the most humble Tadanari Kozei foresaw the intent of
such a meeting.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Goemon. ‘Then it shall not take you long to accumulate a registry of your numbers. I assume each man carries two swords, and that is fine and well, but my
most noble Lord would also have of you a tally of all additional swords your school possesses in its armoury. Bows also, polearms, guns if you have them.’

This was clearly not what Tadanari had anticipated. The bald samurai paused for a moment, finding words, his eyes wandering to the floor but his face remaining still. The request had jarred him
enough, in fact, that when he spoke next he had abandoned the courtly tongue.

‘Most honourable Captain,’ he said, ‘I would question the need for the Yoshioka school submitting a catalogue of our arms to your most noble Lord. We are the foremost of the
martial schools in the capital. During the conquest and ascension of your most noble Lord, members of our school served faithfully as swordmasters under his gracious and just command, and other
Lords sworn to his wise rule. Does that not speak of our trustworthiness?’

‘As I understand it, many of you served under false Lords of the traitor coalition also.’

‘We are faithful, I assure you,’ Tadanari said. ‘Adepts of our style serve many Lords, this is true, but we ourselves harbour no affiliation to their political
stance.’

‘I was at Sekigahara,’ said Goemon. He had meant it to sound imposing, or as a hint that he himself was a blooded warrior that Tadanari should not take lightly, but it came out even
to his own ears as a shallow boast.

Tadanari bowed in respect regardless. ‘I assure you, Captain, our sole interest is the sword and the beauty of its wielding. We infallibly and willingly serve the rightful government.
Indeed, that was what I had assumed your visit here was in regards to.’

‘How do you mean?’

Tadanari gestured to the adept attendant at the door. He slid it open, and a third man came in bearing a lacquered tube with great reverence. This man placed the tube upon the floor, bowed to
it, and then shuffled backwards on his knees out of the room once more. Tadanari then bowed to the tube, unscrewed its lid and very gently brought forth a scroll within.

He unrolled it with great care and laid it on the tatami mats before Goemon. The writing upon it was very ornate and it was stamped and sealed in gold leaf.

‘As you can see,’ said Tadanari, ‘the school of Yoshioka are the incumbent swordmasters to the Shogunate. I had assumed your most noble Lord Tokugawa had sent you this day that
we could continue to render faithful service to your master.’

‘My most noble Lord has not been awarded the Shogunate yet,’ said Goemon.

‘It is, however, imminent,’ said Tadanari.

Goemon did not deny this. He read the entirety of the proclamation. He read it again, feeling the eyes of the Yoshioka upon him. The proclamation of office was worrying. It concerned an
authority the true power of which he did not quite understand, and neither its relation to his Lord. He waited for as long as he could, until he squeezed out an attempt at command.

‘As I see it, this appoints your school swordmasters to the Ashikaga Shogunate,’ he said. ‘They have not held power for half a century. This has no relevance.’

‘If you would examine it closer, no mention of the fallen Ashikaga is made,’ said Tadanari. ‘Thus we are sworn to the Shogunate itself, regardless of which bloodline holds that
mantle, and will be honoured and humbled to fulfil our duty to the most noble clan of the Tokugawa.’

Goemon said nothing.

‘This is a proclamation ordained by the Son of Heaven himself,’ said Tadanari.

It was. In desperation, Goemon chose the safety of acting affronted.

‘It is true,’ he said, ‘that my most noble Lord is indeed seeking to appoint a swordmaster and is considering which school he shall adopt as patron. If attaining this
appointment holds the interest of your spirit, it might be prudent for you to send the head of your school to Edo to demonstrate the virtues of your style. I believe the masters of the Yagyu and
the Itto are attendant already, others on their way.’

‘Honourable Captain,’ said Tadanari, ‘this . . . If I may be so forthright, the school of Yoshioka should not be made to parade itself in some lowly audition. The position is
ours by right. We have immutable precedent.’

‘Do you?’

Goemon said it obnoxiously innocently, too obnoxiously, and he saw the anger flare in the depths of Tadanari’s eyes. But the man was decades practised at civility and had fine composure.
‘Very well,’ he said, perfectly courteously. ‘I am certain that this shall all be clarified in Edo. We will send an emissary to your court, and when he presents this proclamation
I am sure rightness will prevail.’

‘Emissary?’ said Goemon, committed to his path. ‘The head of your school shall suffice.’

‘As I have informed you, Captain, the most honourable Naokata Yoshioka is currently suffering from a sickness. He is unable to rise from his bed and so—’

‘If you think anything less than the head of your school will suffice for the head of the nation, then you are entitled to do so. Edo awaits.’

‘Edo awaits,’ repeated Tadanari.

That ended their meeting. There were other platitudes, but nothing further of substance was stated. Goemon worried about the course of it that night as he sat drinking in solitude in the hard
berth of his chambers. Soon his mind wandered to distant places. He thought of his wife, now married to another man, and then of his sons and his daughters, who now carried that man’s name,
and, lastly, as his conscious mind faded and sleep imposed itself upon him, he heard once more the pack of his hounds that he had left behind howling at his departure.

Chapter Ten

The first snows of winter were falling. The trees of the woodland were a wilderness of barren dark limbs punctuated by errant clouds of the proud jade needles of pine trees.
Musashi hauled upon the reins of the horse, and the beast followed after him along the trail. Both their breaths were steaming.

Ahead, enveloped almost by the wild, lay an old dilapidated house. Its beams were blackened with age but the thatch on the roof remained whole. Musashi watched it cautiously for some time. It
was still and silent. He looped the horse’s reins over a bough and then walked forward to explore inside.

It was a small structure, perhaps belonging to some long-departed woodsman. The door of it was lying on the ground, the desiccated husks of shed cicada skins mustered on its planking. He could
see holes rotted through the walls, and the thatch was fetid with rotten dampness. He was about to step inside when he heard the sound of feet behind him.

He turned. There was a young girl swathed in frayed clothes much too big for her, she no more than eight or nine years old. Her surprise was equal to his. She froze for a moment, saw his size
and his swords, and then she ran. Instead of fleeing, however, she skittered past Musashi and vanished inside the house.

Musashi could hear her whispering, hear her panicked breaths. Tentatively, he followed after her. In the shadows of the single room, he saw the girl bending at the shoulder of another person
sitting against the walls. Their form was indistinct, a mess of blankets and long hair.

‘A man, a samurai,’ the girl was whispering to this adult, and then she saw Musashi entering and shouted at him, ‘Leave us alone!’

‘I mean you no harm,’ he said.

‘Then leave us!’

‘I cannot,’ he said. ‘I need shelter.’

The adult spoke now. It was a woman, her voice low and accented. ‘Then go to town. Town close.’

‘They will not have me.’

Musashi stood in the doorway. The woman did not rise, did not move at all. The girl seemed caught between wanting to hide behind her and wanting to shield her from Musashi. With great care,
Musashi pulled the swords from his belt still in their scabbards and laid them on the ground between them. The girl whispered what he was doing into the woman’s ear.

‘I mean you no harm,’ he said, stepping back from his weapons. ‘I thought this house was abandoned. I am sorry for intruding. Is this your house?’

‘No,’ said the woman.

‘But you live here?’

They did not answer.

‘I need shelter,’ said Musashi. ‘I am in great need – the snows are here and I cannot spend the night outside. I do not wish to force you out. There is space enough for
us all.’

Still they were scared of him. He pointed at the hearth pit in the centre of the room. Within its square depression there were old leaves and translucent snakeskins and hardened nuggets of
rabbit dung, but no fresh ashes.

‘Does either of you know how to light fires?’ he said. ‘It will be cold, and colder still in the weeks to come. I know how to light fires. I would share this heat with
you.’

‘Why your great need of this house?’ the woman said.

Musashi beckoned the girl outside. She left the woman behind and followed him at a cautious distance. He showed her the horse, and the pitiful litter the creature had been pulling. He had
constructed it himself out of saddlebags and belts and fallen boughs, and strapped tight to it lay the delirious form of Akiyama.

‘He is in a grave state,’ Musashi told the girl. ‘Another night in the wild might kill him.’

Akiyama murmured something. His eyes were closed and his red skin was pallid and sweating. The girl watched him, and then she disappeared inside once more to tell the woman.

The snows continued to fall through the night. The flue was clotted and the smoke from the fire Musashi made curled thick around them to billow out of the door. He had stoked
the fire well, and had covered Akiyama in as many covers and blankets as he could spare, but still the man’s brow felt cold. He sat cross-legged by his assassin’s side, helpless and
watching.

Outside, the ground was already covered in snow. It had come weeks early and boded for a long season.

The woman sat against the wall, guarded yet. She held the girl between her legs protectively, wrapped her arms over her shoulders. It was clear that she was blinded; she would not raise her face
to Musashi, hidden always by the long tresses of her hair, and the girl patiently explained everything that was happening to her.

Over the past few hours the girl, for her part, had decided in that way of children that something that was not immediately dangerous could be trusted. She sat looking at Musashi and his swords
in open curiosity.

‘Why are they so dirty?’ she asked.

She spoke of the sorry state of the scabbards, the lacquer chipped and scratched, of the rusted pommel and guards, and of the shortsword’s grip, which had rotted clean away and which
Musashi had replaced with a leather cord lashed and helixed over the wooden handle.