The Way of the Fox (11 page)

A group of Imperial
foot soldiers at the gates were commanded by a well dressed samurai. They were permitting only well-born individuals to enter the castle – either as spectators, or as contestants. Attired in her formal splendour, Sura passed through the guards and approached the samurai with her fan held regally in hand – opening it to show the painted image of a nine-tailed fox.

“Gr
eetings. I am Priestess Kitsune nō Sura, the official observer sent to you by Kitsune Mountain.” She waited for the samurai to initiate a bow – the Kitsune, after all, were a family far older than even the Imperial line: not that they cared, for the most part. “I shall require accommodation at the castle for myself and for my entourage.”

The samurai immediately bowed again.

“Yes, priestess! You shall be given rooms and lodging at the outbuildings.” The man sent a foot soldier racing off to arrange the matter. “The steward doubtless already has your letter alerting us to your arrival?”

“No doubt! No doubt! But it is best to plan for disasters. The mail can be so unreliable.” Sura was already walking along side by side with the samurai, treating him as the best of friends. “Ah!
Speaking of which – we must report a murder in a village two hours down the road.”

“I shall conduct you to the Office of Deputies myself,
priestess!” The man signed for his men to keep guarding the gate against itinerant travellers and tourists. “This way if you please.”

“A moment! One of my men is in the tournament.”

With her train sweeping elegantly behind her, Sura cruised back over to Kuno, Chiri and Tonbo. None had been close enough to hear her exchange with the guards. Kuno was looking anxiously up hill towards the castle keep. Sura tapped him with her fan.

“Hey! I’m going to report the murder and do the paperwork. It might take a while. So you race up the hill and get yourself entered. Don’t miss out!” Taking her spear out of
Chiri’s hands, Sura skipped off to follow after the officer of the guard, one hand clapped to her tall cap to keep it in place. “Tonbo – Chiri! Look after him! I’ll meet you up there.”

Off she went, already chatting with the samurai officer. Tonbo shook his
head, shouldered his burden, and clapped a hand upon Kuno’s shoulder.

“Come, my friend. You will need help. We shall assist you.”

Behind the inner ring of curtain walls, the castle boasted groves of beautiful tall trees: shade for the gardens, and also a means of blocking incoming arrow fire. Between the trees and the inner castle, there were broad gardens, with ponds, streams and bridges. There were little shrines, a majestic keep, and an elegant five-tiered pagoda. Long wooden dormitories stood beside flower beds and willow trees, with broad eaves shading them from the sun.

A broad, open space
before keep had been laid out for the tournament of swords.
Machi
screens printed with the imperial mon made colourful walls that enclosed the tourney space. A raised platform had been prepared for the most senior spectators, and shaded areas covered with tatami mats were provided for the watching crowds. Screened enclosures served as preparatory areas for the contestants, and were filled with busy trainers, sword masters and assistants. Contestants were industriously pulling on their armoured sleeves, loosing their hair and tying on their head scarves. The rattle of armour was almost deafening. There were easily sixty contestants moving about, strapping on armour or taking advice from their instructors. In the spectator’s stands, samurai and officials – all dressed to the nines – were sitting themselves in orderly fashion, row by row. Camp stools were being set out beneath the trees to seat yet more arrivals.

The morning had seen sparring between the young beginners – usually short, clumsy contests filled with aggression. The masters of training schools and lower ranked officials had been the main audience. But now, the most skilf
ul swordsmen in the surrounding provinces were gathered to compete. Viewing room was decidedly at a premium.

Once, the way of the samurai had been the way of the horse and bow: men fought as armoured archers o
n speeding horse back, supported by ragged bands of foot soldiers. But for two hundred years, warfare in the sacred islands had been a matter of clan feuds and civil revolts – all of them fought in well inhabited lands. Street fighting, mountain fighting and combats in rice paddies were no place for horse archery. A samurai must now excel in battles fought on foot.

With the land now largely at peace, swordsmanship had taken on a new mystique.
The wandering swordsman had a romance that appealed to the poetic soul of the age. Schools of swordsmanship had flourished. Magistrate Masura – keen to remove any impetus for deadly duelling, had instigated his yearly tournaments of the sword: battles fought with wooden swords by men of proven character. Those who drew attention to themselves by their prowess could expect position, promotion and rewards.

In the contestants’ lines,
the Seven Winds school had their own enclosure. As the most prestigious school of the region, they fielded a great many candidates. The old grey haired master of the school – a man with a livid scar upon his face – exhorted his students to excel. Some distance away, Kuno shrugged into his armour, while Tonbo tugged his belts and laces tight.

Tonbo was
decidedly unhappy with Kuno’s choice of armour. He tugged critically at Kuno’s mailed sleeves.

“You need solid plates on the forearms.” He sucked on a tooth as he considered Kuno’s armoured sleeves. “You should borrow mine.”

“They are sufficient. I do not like to be weighed down.” Kuno had foregone armour for his thighs, and his sleeves were light mail sewn over padded cloth. “This is how I march.”

The swords used in the tournament were made of wood. Although unable to kill an armoured man, they could certainly break an incautious forearm. Tonbo checked over Kuno’
s armour, and once again shook his head. It was a light suit – the scales alternated rawhide with iron.

The Tsunetomo did not believe in doing things by halves.
Tonbo’s own suit was made from a double thickness of face-hardened kitsune iron.

Sura came merrily over, greeting Chiri’s air elemental nose to nose as it perched upon the machi screens.
Still in her ‘fur form’, with her fox face and tail gleaming in the sun, she was enjoying being a centre of attention. Still with Chiri’s rock elemental bearing up her train, the fox breezed into the contestants’ area and leaned her spear against a handy tree. She slapped her hands together in glee.

“Right! How’s our boy? Tonbo – did you talk to him about the sleeve armour thing?”

“I did.” Tonbo looked at Sura. In her ‘fur form’, she was drawing stares from every possible direction. “You just
had
to draw attention, didn’t you.”

Sura waved a hand. “It’s a festival! Kids love this look! Who knows – maybe we’ll get some business?” She waved to a passing
samurai who had been staring at her tail. “Spirit Hunters! Exorcists – monster removal. Yes – tell your friends!”

The rock elemental dropped Sura’s train, spared her a glare, and returned to Chiri’s side. Sura made haste to pack away her formal robe and hat.
Kuno adjusted the shoulder plates of his armour, looking over at the fox.

“Have the murders been reported?”

“With paperwork all filled out. I even added pictures!” Sura had brought along a flask of iced tea. “Best news is – we have V.I.P. food and accommodations for the night!”

Chiri was quite amazed. “That is
marvellous, Sura san! How did you manage such a coup?”

“Oh… people are just pleased to see me. Foxes have that effect on people.” Sura looked over the competition, peering at other contestants. Some were practicing kata with their instructors. Others meditated.
Some prayed. The fox scratched at her nose. “Hey – we have a couple of copper pieces left? Is there anyone taking bets on the contests?”

Kuno was incensed. “There most certainly is not!”

“Hey – I’m saying I’m backing you! You’re our guy! Our Kuno. Comrade at arms! Samurai supreme!” Sura buffed off Kuno’s helmet. “Here you are – road to glory! Victory is certain.”

Kuno eyed Sura in suspicion. He was far too tense. “Did you lie to the guards to get yourself accommodation?”

“I don’t lie! I merely have a gift for fiction. Now ssssh! Focus!” Sura pivoted Kuno so that he could look at the empty tournament field. “Now – empty your mind of all your worries. All your ambitions. Why are you here? Because you love the sword. Feel the movement – the flow, the grace of it. Do everything for the joy of it. Connection with your opposite. Reaching out into the world. Feel it all – love it all. Be at one…”

Chiri stepped quietly back and let Sura do her work. She watched in fascin
ation as the fox spoke firmly and soothingly in Kuno’s ear. The man visibly relaxed – became calmer, more focussed. His tense expression faded.

Chiri was utterly amazed.

“Sura san. She is a true priestess after all.”

Tonbo nodded. He leaned upon his mighty tetsubo, and looked benevolently out across the crowds.

In the Seven Winds enclosure, six high ranking students were dressed in armour and kneeling in a disciplined row, facing the tournament field. The master of the school stood with his two senior men, Hamada Bunji and his assistant instructor, the lean, narrow Yoshikiyo. All three looked to where Asodo Kuno was seating himself in the shade. The master looked at Kuno’s calm, dignified demeanour and narrowed his eyes.

“
Hamada Bunji. Is that the man?”

Bunji – dressed in armour laced in flame reds, yellows and orange, gave a coarse, sneering nod of assent.

“Yes, sensei!” Bunji’s voice dripped with ice. “That is the samurai from the village.”

Yoshikiyo quietly assessed Kuno from afar, noting that his companions
– a fox, a vast samurai, and a beautiful rat spirit – seemed utterly untroubled. Yoshikiyo considered the man carefully.

“We were told that he is an
imperial deputy. I see no insignia from any school…” Yoshikiyo thought back over his past observations. “He draped the cords of his sword sheath in a loop. That would indicate a teacher versed in the Northern Mountain Shrine style. They are masters at negating enemy attack.”

Bunji looked away, contemptuous of any such idea. “The art of the sword is found in offense!”

Yoshikiyo continued to watch, his eyes narrowing in his harsh, bony face. Asodo Kuno was now in conversation with the shy nezumi girl who had accompanied him at the inn: a woman with startling white hair, and elemental spirits as her attendants.

Interesting. Most interesting…

The master of the Seven Winds school looked out over the tournament field. The spectators were seated, and the buzz of conversation was still loud. On the upper stand, the commanders of the garrison had been joined by high ranking officers from nearby fiefs. There was even a fox priestess at large. Important eyes would be watching: the reputation and prosperity of the Seven Winds school was at stake.

“
This tournament has been organised by the imperial magistrate – the eyes and ears of the emperor himself.” The scarred master gripped his sword. “We have gained great prestige in this province. We cannot have a mere wanderer shame our school.”

Hamada Bunji bowed.

“Sensei – it shall be done.”

Bunji swished his wooden sword through the air, then walked confidently away. Behind him, Yoshikiyo turned and watched Asodo Kuno and his companions.

He drew a narrow-bladed kodzuka knife from his short sword’s sheath, and began whittling a stick.

Half hidden inside his robes, the blood red amulet gleamed…

Chapter 5

Iris castle was a place with a reputation. From here, areas under the imperial writ of justice were protected: roads, contract law, inheritance, shrines, rivers, bridges, towns and cities. Rights were defended – for the empire was governed by laws framed in a spirit of benevolence. Disputes between families and even feuding clan lords could be adjudicated. Magistrate Masura projected a sense of fairness, of firm authority and benevolence throughout the territories beneath his eye.

The sword tournament had been organised with great efficiency and decorum. Samurai both high and low sat in serried ranks to observe.
Foot soldiers from the garrison, officials and officers gathered in the shade, seated respectfully. Representatives from far flung offices of the law and commanders of imperial garrisons were ranked alongside grim officers from samurai clans. The performance of the contestants, the skills of their schools and instructors, were all under knowledgeable scrutiny.

Armed
imperial samurai, bows in hand, came forth to guard the viewing stand. Soldiers blew upon conch-shell horns, filling the air with cacophony. The crowds – spectators and contestants alike, all bowed as Magistrate Masura himself finally arrived on the field.

He arrived with minimal show of pomp: indeed, his clothing, while beautiful, showed great taste, simplicity and restraint. He wore a long sword slung for riding, with a long dagger sheathed beside it – a formal cap and shooting gloves. He was a man in his late forties, with untonsured hair worn long and folded back in a formal
queue.

Beside
Magistrate Masura strolled another lord: a man with a shining eye, immaculate robes, and the face of a true rogue. The man was utterly enjoying the day. He cast a merry eye over the crowds, seeing an old acquaintance here and there. The man accompanied Magistrate Masura up onto the viewing platform and sat down in high state. He was pleased to immediately accept a drink from a servant, settling himself down in the shade.

“Aaah – excellent!
Plum wine!” He sampled the drink, and found it immaculate. “Masura san, your taste is immaculate.”

Lord Masura made a dignified bow. “I thank you, Lord Ishigi.”

Lord Ishigi looked about himself. The castle was beautified by gardens and trees. The surrounding hills were covered with soothing forests. The townspeople beyond the walls were clearly enjoying themselves. Ishigi nodded in absolute approval.

“
We stayed at a delightful forest lodge last night. Most comfortable indeed! Your town and castle are extremely pleasing, Masura sama. Truly pleasing. And the festival is delightful.” Lord Ishigi suddenly sat bolt upright, looking out across the field and over to the contestants’ lines. “A fox! It is a fox?”

Magistrate Masura inclined his head. “Animal spirits are frequent visitors. The town has a considerable colony of
tanuki raccoon dogs, and a family of cat spirits.”

“But a fox!” Ishigi leaned over to one of his attendants, a
nd spoke to the man in an eager whisper. “Find out who she is betting on. We will bet on the same man.”

Lord Masura gave a scowl.

“This is a sword tournament, displaying the training and skills of master warriors. Men disciplined in the arts of bushido – in self control, religion and the arts. There surely will be no betting.”

“Oh – indeed. Indeed, indeed!” Ishigi waved his fan. From the shelter of that fan, he silently mouthed the words.
‘same man’
to his servant, who nodded and subtly slipped away.

The appointed time had been reached: the contestants were assembled.
Magistrate Masura inclined his head to Commander Hijiya, his armed and armoured second in command. The officer stood up, took a signalling fan from his belt, and strode forth onto the tournament ground.

He was a fit, nuggety middle-aged man – samurai through and through. The officer held forth his fan, and addressed the assembly in a parade ground roar.

“Honoured guests - the sword tournament shall now commence! Lord Masura welcomes the contestants.”
The officer swung so that his powerful voice reached every corner of the ground.
“This is the champion level! Contests shall be fought with the wooden bokken to the first clear strike.”

To Commander Hijiya’s annoyance, Lord Ishigi now strode forward to address the crowd. Hoichi bowed and gave way. Lord Ishigi stood at the edge of the viewing platform, his fists on his hips, and regarded the contestants with great approval.
The old rogue joyously called out to the watching samurai.

A ripple of approval travelled through the crowd. Contestants eagerly straightened their backs. Greatly pleased, Lord Ishigi nodded. One of his attendants held the two prize swords in a lacquered case, which was placed prominently upon view.

Magistrate Masura was less than happy about Ishigi’s announcement: it smacked of a certain crowd-pleasing showmanship. Lord Masura shook his head, and raised his fan to signal the officials.

The tournament commenced. An umpire consulted his documents, and then called to the contestant’s area.

“Asodo Kuno! Toronaga Munesghige!”

Kuno rose to his feet. Tonbo bowed to him, and Kuno strode off into the cleared ground. Chiri watched him go with her hands gripped tight together, her eyes shining.

“Kuno san looks magnificent!” The nezumi woman suddenly caught sight of Kuno’s opponent. “Oh – but his opponent seems so huge!”

The man was indeed a monument of muscle. He was almost of a size with Tonbo
– shorter, but far,
far
more hirsute. He was almost alarming! Sura cast an eye over the man, and gave a shrug of unconcern.

Chiri watched the contestants with heart in throat.
“Kuno san is good?

As Kuno marched off to the centre
of the field, Tonbo leaned closer to Sura and whispered into her ear.

“
We have a bet on Kuno – yes?”

“Two copper pieces at four to one!” Sura was watching the field with interest. “Here we go!”

Kuno faced off his opponent – looking absurdly small. The two contestants bowed to Lord Masura and Lord Ishigi, bowed to the senior judge, and then to one another. They drew their bokken, and settled into guard.

Kuno’s opponent growled as he settled into guard position. He then gave a great, numbing sho
ut, whipping his sword up above his head into attack position. An instant later, he had lunged forward, his wooden sword smashing downwards. The blow moved at lightning speed.

Kuno had deliberately lowered his blade to invite attack. The instant the incoming blow was struck, Kuno
calmly moved into the blow. He glissed it aside, and instantly cut, his sword striking his opponent square in the helmet – all in a flash so swift that it scarcely made sense. The entire movement had a glorious, poetical simplicity. Kuno backed away from his astonished opponent, and solemnly bowed.

Sura was already racing off to the back of the tents.

“That’s eight coppers! I’m off to reinvest before someone changes the odds!” The fox dove off into the crowds. “Get that man some cold tea, and tell him he’s a legend!”

Chiri blinked as she watched Kuno return
from the field.

“He is… quite remarkably skilled.”

Tonbo gave a proprietal nod. He set out a stool for Kuno, and helped him remove his helmet.

Out on the fie
ld, the next pair met in battle – and then the next and the next. The umpires ran forward, fans aloft to signal that a contest was over. The clack and clash of wooden swords cracked out into the air.

The spectators began their observations with decorum, but soon were
joyously pointing out finer points of sword play to each other. Men applauded with their fans as excellent moves manifested. Cheers and approbation met the efforts of the victors. The tournament became a festival indeed.

Kuno fought a second bout – this one far
lengthier, where he seemed to somehow lay his sword atop his opponent’s weapon and control his enemy’s actions. The swords slithered back and forth, until Kuno twisted his hips and let a thrust slide past him, running his enemy onto his own weapon with calm efficiency. His third bout was over in a second, as he met an incoming cut, somehow twisted his sword, and stepped in, slicing the length of his blunt sword blade along his opponent’s inner wrist. His opponent was halted by the umpire, and a victory declared.

Tonbo was ready with a cool towel as Kuno arrived back into the contestants’ lines.
He gave Kuno sweetened ginger tea, nodding in approval at his comrade’s skills.

The lines were no longer quiet: they had become a beehive of cheers and comment. Men excitedly discussed techniques, swapped opinions, or cheered on the contestants. There had been injuries – a broken wrist, and a set of broken fingers. Chiri had raced the injured men over to the nearby ponds, where she had summoned aid from a beautiful
little serpentine water elemental. The creature flowed back and forth over the wounds, healing the damage at a miraculous rate. The rat had gathered her own circle of grateful admirers.

The Seven W
inds school were more than holding their own. Their style was brash and aggressive, but swiftly crushed most of their opposition. Hamada Bunji demolished three far, far less able opponents, always finishing with great, sweeping sword cuts delivered with merciless style.

Only a few other swordsmen out of the competing masses held Tonbo’s interest.
Some wandering ronin proved to be formidable, tackling some of Magistrate Masura’s men and defeating them. Kuno watched intently, enjoying their firm, centred style. Tonbo joined him, nodding to himself. As the judges called for Kuno yet again, he clapped Kuno upon his armoured back.

“Straight forward work. Only two swordsmen in the bunch.”

Sura
breathlessly raced up to her friends, thoroughly pleased. She clearly had been having the time of her life. She heard Kuno’s name being called and came bustling up to help wave him off into the lists.

“We’re on again?” She rapped Kuno upon his helmet. “Right! Get in there and rack up another one! Go go go go go!” She stood back and called out to Kuno as he stalked off to the centre of the field. “Hey – and
I’ll listen to one of your poems. No – really! I mean it!”

Off he went. Sura pulled out her latest notes with her betting partners, and looked at them in glee.

“That’s a hundred and twenty eight coppers so far! I’ve got it riding on him at four to one! So if he wins, that’s four times one hundred and twenty eight… That’s ah… ah…”

“Five hundred and twelve.” Chi
ri bustled forward to collect an injured man. “Why do you ask?”

“No matter! Just an idle problem in mathematics.” Sura looked out a
t the field. Kuno was already fighting, tackling one of the ronin. This time they fenced back and forth, the wooden blades clacking. The ronin had solid style, but an unimaginative one, entirely lacking the almost liquid suppleness of Kuno’s blade. He moved in close; there was a weird slipping and slithering of Kuno’s sword. The ronin panicked – and suddenly Kuno’s sword point was at the man’s throat.

He did not strike. The ronin withdrew, and they bowed solemnly to one another. The umpire signalled a clear victory to Kuno. Kuno walked back to the contestants’ lines with the ronin beside him, talking with him politely. The Seven Winds school were utterly incensed: three of their members had fallen to the ronin in the course of the afternoon. Hamada Bunji could only watch the men retire, and made an ill nature
d slash of his sword against thin air.

Out behind the enclosure curtains, Sura was deeply engaged with arguing with a fellow sportsman, trying to find her old odds of four to one. There were no takers – Kuno ha
d suddenly been recognised as an unknown prodigy. She was eagerly pointing out Kuno’s rustic origins, questionable eyesight and gimp leg to her potential mark, when quite suddenly she saw a disturbance just nearby.