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A (rather lengthy!) series of vignettes from across the face of the Emerald Empire!
Scenes from the Empire
By Nancy Sauer, Robert Denton, Yoon Ha Lee, and Shawn Carman
Edited by Fred Wan
The Weight of Words
Matsu Kasei saw Shosuro Akemi’s panel of embroidered silk on display on the Turquoise Championship’s third day, and thought, I should not be here.
Kasei had never spent much time thinking about embroidery. But his childhood friend Akodo Tsunesada had wed a Crane woman who had a passion for beautiful obi. Every time he visited them, she wore one with a different motif: fans overlaid with the geometric flax-leaf effect in paler colors, fierce lions outlined in gold thread couched with precise yellow-orange stitches, languorous plum blossoms amid lazy curves composed of staggered diagonal segments. Taking Kasei’s natural reticence as a sign of a receptive audience, Tsunesada’s wife had spoken at length about her favorite brocades and the latest fashions.
Shosuro Akemi’s masterwork had little in common with Tsunesada’s wife’s obi, although her panel used techniques that Kasei recognized. The entire piece had been sewn in reds of varying intensity on black silk, displaying a certain severity that Kasei wouldn’t have expected from a courtier with a taste for the flamboyant.
The red stitches formed demons, Destroyers, the terrible refrain of Rokugani dead. Akemi had declined to add the words, but Kasei could hear them clearly as he looked at the extravagance of carnage: We must not fail.
The judges were conferring in another room, but Akemi stood next to her work, a half-smile curling her mouth. Kasei couldn’t help but glance at her obi, a remarkably subdued affair in dull red and dark brown. Still, he nodded respectfully to her, and she inclined her head in return.
Kasei had not entered the competition expecting to win, an attitude that his sensei would have rebuked him for. His purpose was other. Still, looking at Akemi’s work, he could only think of all the battlefields across Rokugan that she had condensed into lines of merciless red.
* * * * *
“I hadn’t realized that you had artistic aspirations,” Shiba Erena had said when he asked her permission. She looked at him gravely, and he wondered what thoughts lurked behind those calm eyes.
“Yes, Erena-sama,” he said.
“Take a walk with me,” she said.
There wasn’t any real expectation of privacy in the section of the gardens that she led him to; courtiers could be counted on to take advantage of the fact that voices carried. Nevertheless, because of his duty as a member of the Empress’ Guard, Kasei didn’t find the surroundings as restful as he might have otherwise. He was perennially aware of possible ambushes and cul-de-sacs where eavesdroppers could lurk, the tension between security and aesthetics.
The koi in the pond were fat and sleek and bright, flowers in their own right. Erena spent an inscrutable moment staring at the pond. Kasei wondered what drew her attention the most: the agile dragonflies, perhaps? The lotus blossoms? Or perhaps it was the calming fact of water.
“This story you mean to tell,” Erena said. “Your Crab friend’s story. What makes it more worthy of such an august audience than the thousands of other stories that are walking out of this war?”
Trust Erena to ask the hard, pragmatic question. He respected her all the more for it. “It’s the story I know,” Kasei said simply. “Hida Tatsuma died well, and I aspire to the same. Surely that’s a thing worth sharing.” He paused, picking his words with more care. He was no Ikoma bard or Crane storyteller, but he was cautious by habit, and that might serve him adequately here. “Sometimes I wonder, Erena-sama–sometimes I wonder if we forget that the heroes in our stories are not just bright words and bold deeds, but people who looked their duty in the face and did not flinch.”
Her expression wasn’t disapproving, not yet. But she said, “Do you think that our heroes hesitate to meet their destinies?”
Quietly, he said, “If duty were always easy, Erena-sama, there would be no need for heroes.”
Erena smiled a little, then. “Not so long ago,” she said in a musing voice, “there was an unremarkable Phoenix girl. She listened to the Shiba soldiers, knowing she would join them someday. At first she thought the most important things were solely matters of physical skill, so she practiced with the bokken and learned to run despite her blisters and walk silently in the woods. These are all important, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
Kasei waited, knowing she had more to say.
“But of course battle involves more than steel in your hand,” Erena went on. “There was a one-armed veteran who told stories about a commander who always hesitated to attack, so that even with an advantage in numbers and terrain he was already defeated. From this, the girl learned that victory is a state of mind as much as it is anything else. He told stories about a frighteningly skilled bushi who told one small lie–but she told it to a Scorpion, and eventually she had to tell another lie, and another, until there was nothing left inside her but lies. From that, the girl learned that no amount of skill will save you if you are indiscreet. And he told stories about the Black Scrolls, and we all know that those tales end poorly.”
Not so far away they could both hear two courtiers exchanging exquisitely disdainful insults, and the plaintive song of a bird that a Mantis ambassador had presented to court some years ago.
“Tell your story, Kasei-san,” Erena said, “and tell it well. I don’t imagine that many Phoenix children will be in attendance, but perhaps someone will hear something important in your words.”
“I will do my best,” Kasei said, bowing to her.
* * * * *
Kasei assumed that Shiba Erena had some particular reason for assigning him to share sentry duty with Tsuruchi Sanjo. Erena struck him as the kind of person who planned everything down to the last brushstroke. It was a pity that he couldn’t be privy to that reason, but then it was his duty to do as ordered, not to know why.
That being said, Sanjo’s habit of complaining about everything did become wearing at times. Sometimes it was the noodles at the noodle shop he and Kasei liked to frequent. Sanjo often said they weren’t salty enough, although they tasted fine to Kasei. At other times, Sanjo criticized some of the prevailing fashions–more out of boredom than any real sensitivity to color or form–or came up with increasingly ridiculous plans for what he would do when he got off-duty. Admittedly, the one involving cats and calligraphy brushes tied to mice would have been entertaining if you didn’t care about consequences.
Even so, although nothing said that Kasei had to spend his spare time with Sanjo during the championship, he found himself drawn to the other man’s company anyway. He was starting to question his judgment.
“You don’t even have to hang around here,” Sanjo was saying as he gestured vaguely in the direction of the palace. They had had lunch together, as usual, and for once Sanjo had something to complain about that wasn’t the noodles, even if it was Kasei himself. They were now standing in the shade of an awning, benignly watching the passers-by. “It’s too bad I didn’t think of your scam myself!”
Kasei raised an eyebrow.
“Not to imply that your undertaking such a distinguished endeavor has anything but the most honorable intentions,” Sanjo added hastily, in a fair imitation of a particular Miya courtier with a gratingly nasal voice.
Kasei knew from the fate of a junior messenger that mocking courtiers could have interesting, not to say fatal, consequences, but he decided it would be condescending to remind Sanjo of such possibilities. “You haven’t been going to any of the viewings?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“I’ll show up for your storytelling, never fear,” Sanjo said. “It’s all a comrade can do for his brother. But I’m not some Crane, to spend hours rhapsodizing about the virtues of this cutting-word over another in a haiku.”
“Come with me,” Kasei said. As members of the Empress’ Guard, they had a little more latitude than the ordinary audience. The tournament was arranged so that only a small, carefully selected group could attend the initial viewing or performance with the judges; then the artwork was left on display for the duration, or additional performances were sometimes scheduled, in the case of musical presentations or displays of acrobatics. “I have something to show you.”
Sanjo looked at him sidewise. “You’re not going to show me some endless commentary on cutting-words, are you?”
“It will be better than that,” Kasei promised.
Sanjo might get bored easily, but Kasei had to concede that the man would at least hear you out when you piqued his interest.
The guards recognized Kasei and Sanjo, and let them into the hall where Yasuki Otsuka’s sculpture was on display in an alcove. Someone had arranged the lanterns in such a way that their flickering light gave the sculpture a greater sense of drama, but Kasei suspected that the sculptor had not had any such artifice in mind, and that the piece would look just as remarkable in unvarnished sunlight. Several courtiers and a Dragon shugenja were also viewing the piece. The Dragon was defending the choice of granite over marble on philosophical grounds. Kasei almost thought that Otsuka had picked the first piece of rock that was big enough for his purpose, based on his single encounter with the man earlier in the week.
“That’s something,” Sanjo said after a moment. “I won’t say the rock looks like it’s about to breathe, because it doesn’t, but that’s not the point.”
Otsuka had hewn the granite with rough strokes; chisel and rasp marks gouged the sculpture’s surface where he had chosen not to smooth them with sand or emery. Paradoxically, the effect was to give a certain harsh vitality to his depiction of the Thunder Dragon and Hida wrestling amid the crashing waves. Kasei supposed that this was a Crab’s idea of a seduction, if the plays were to be believed.
“I’ve heard both Crab and Crane versions of that courtship,” Kasei said. “The Crane version is considerably more refined, but there’s something to the directness of the Crab telling. I’ve never heard a Mantis version, though.”
Sanjo chuckled. “I suspect it’s just as coarse as the Crab story. I’ll tell it to you sometime when we’re not in such illustrious company.”
Kasei glanced in Sanjo’s direction, but the other man was gazing pensively at the statue. He knew that look, and it wasn’t for him to ask what Sanjo was thinking. Sometimes he remembered the golden grasses of Lion lands, and while he knew his duty, he took a certain comfort from contemplating his home. “Some of the Mantis entries are worth your attention, too,” he said. One of them had been a conventional painting of gulls at sea; unlikely to win, but that wouldn’t matter to Sanjo.
“I might take a look,” Sanjo said gruffly, after a moment, and Kasei only nodded.
* * * * *
On the next day, Kasei found himself trying to explain Bayushi Jou’s ikebana to the noodle shop’s owner, an older woman named Misaki. Misaki always had flowers from the flower shop down the road on her tables, and from the way that she lingered over the dahlias and morning glories, it wasn’t difficult to guess her love for them.
“I think what happened,” Kasei said as Misaki poured him more tea, “is that Bayushi Jou realized that the space for her display was going to make a traditional ikebana vase look”–he thought for a moment–”inadequate. So she developed a variation of the seven branches style–”
Misaki looked thoughtful. “It’s eight branches now, isn’t it, Matsu-sama? For the Great Clans?”
“Indeed,” he said. Unless you wanted to snub the Mantis, but in practice people were not usually so blatant in their disrespect. “So she brought a potted tree, a bit too large to be a conventional bonsai, and in its branches she placed the eight vases: bamboo for longevity and careful sprays of forsythia, and taken as a whole the arrangement could be interpreted as a representation of the chrysanthemum.”
“It’s in the Empress’ honor, I’m sure,” Misaki said firmly. “Was it well-received, Matsu-sama?”
“That’s a matter of some controversy,” Kasei said: nothing she wouldn’t be able to learn for herself, listening to her usual customers. “Doji Hatashi pointed out that all the vases were lacquered in red and black, and could be construed as implying that the Empress relied on the Scorpion, and some wit retorted that at least the Empress could rely on someone. I didn’t hear the end of that argument. But the ikebana itself was clever.”
“I sometimes think I’d like to try something more elaborate with my flowers,” Misaki said, with an air of self-deprecation, “but really, a little color inside is all I want.”
Just then, another samurai called for more sake, and Misaki went to attend to her. But he thought of flowers as he left, wondering briefly if the heimin would have tried something new with her modest vases next time he stopped by.
* * * * *
Paperwork had never been one of Kasei’s particular strengths, although his sensei had sworn that it was important to keep up with it. A couple of young Miya girls, Yuuka and Suzu, dared him to replicate one of the lilies from Doji Shikishi’s extravagant origami display. Kasei could have shooed them away–their sly giggles suggested that they had managed to slip their keepers’ leash–but he thought he had heard too little genuine laughter lately, and it wouldn’t hurt him to indulge them.
As it turned out, the only paper he had handy was a set of orders from two weeks ago, and even an eight-year-old girl knew that you didn’t casually fold those up for origami practice. The younger one, Suzu, ran off to charm usable paper from someone–he didn’t ask whom–and came back with flimsy paper that had obviously been intended for painting practice.
Kasei gave it an honest try, but managed to rip the paper on a tricky reverse fold. He chuckled and shook his head.
“What was your favorite part of the origami display, Matsu-san?” Yuuka asked.
Kasei considered it. Only the lilies and swans had been traditional. The rest had involved staggeringly detailed musicians, beyond what he would have thought possible in the medium. “The shamisen player,” he said. Shikishi had folded it out of blue and white paper, and demonstrated how the figure appeared to play the instrument when she pulled on a certain fold. “I remember the first time I attended a play in Toshi Ranbo. It was performed by an excellent Crane troupe. In the play, a Lion general is betrayed, but dies killing his betrayer. I will never forget the beauty of the shamisen as it accompanied that final scene, the musician’s perfect accord with the actors’ performances. In battle I imagine I hear its music again, and her shamisen player reminded me of that.”
Yuuka poked Suzu and said, “This means you have to practice harder!”
“But the strings make my fingers hurt,” the younger girl said plaintively.
“We must often do things that pain us in order to grow stronger,” Kasei said. “Practice being brave in the small things, and you will be ready to be brave in the large things.”
Suzu’s smile was sudden and had a dimple in it. “I will try harder!”
“I’m sure you will, little one,” he said, thinking that in ten years the court was going to have to reckon with her.
* * * * *
When it came time for him to tell his story, Kasei had achieved that enviable state of freedom from worry. His mother had told him that worry is only useful for telling you when you are in a bad situation, and that he should not let it rule him. “When in doubt,” she had liked to add, “charge. If it works, all’s well. If it doesn’t work, you’ll die gloriously. There’s really no way to lose.”
Kasei wasn’t sure that charging really applied to storytelling even when you were versed in its particular art, which he wasn’t, but there was something to be said for the idea anyway. The judge who made him the most nervous was Otomo Eri, because he had seen her around court and he happened to know that she had a reputation for scathing critiques of people’s calligraphy.
The audience was modest, which made him a little sorry on Hida Tatsuma’s behalf, but on the other hand he had to consider that these were probably people who would not have given much thought to any particular Crab’s death, when there was so much death already. At least Sanjo nodded jauntily to Kasei when he thought no one else was looking.
He had told most of this story to Tsuruchi Sanjo already, but this time he was able to finish it as well. It was probable that Tatsuma would never have imagined his fate told again in this hushed hall, where there was no blood, no clamor for death. He would have been thinking, even to the end, only of the things that mattered immediately: the cold necessity of killing, the trajectory of his tetsubo through the air, how best to spend the coin of his life. And Kasei said as much, although it might offend some of his listeners.
“I should not have worried for him,” Kasei said at the end. “As long as such warriors defend the empire, Rokugan will stand.”
Kasei did look questioningly at Eri’s face after he had finished, but she only inclined her head, eyes dark and unrevealing. There was polite applause, but nothing more than that. He passed out from the hall, thinking ruefully that he should have spent more time polishing his delivery–but no. It was done; no use in second-guessing it.
* * * * *
Kasei had meant to attend the final ceremonies of the Turquoise Championship–it would have been gauche to do otherwise–but Tsuruchi Sanjo seemed to think that he needed persuasion. “There’s no need to mope about it,” Sanjo said. “We’ll go see what the fuss is about, then drown our sorrows in some good sake, eh?”
“I’m not sure why you should have sorrows,” Kasei muttered. In truth, he was coming not to mind Sanjo so much, but best not to let that on.
“I’ll always drink sake on your behalf,” Sanjo said brightly. “And I can tell you how the Mantis think the Thunder Dragon seduced old Hida-kami once we’re safely drunk. Come on.”
At least they were in agreement on where to stand. The ceremonies were situated in one of the larger courtyards, whose flower displays clashed notably with the Scorpion contingent’s clothing. Shiba Erena arched an eyebrow at him when he took up his post beside Sanjo, but that was all.
Unlike Sanjo, Kasei had an appreciation of the importance of ceremony, so he gave the opening remarks his full attention. Sanjo, he was sure, was already planning which sake houses to visit this evening. Kasei couldn’t tell whether Togashi Satsu’s comments on applied aesthetics were unusually abstruse because he was a Dragon, or because the imperial wisdom he was conveying was too elevated for a simple bushi’s ears, but that was nothing new.
Otomo Eri bowed, then addressed those gathered. She had a dry, crisp voice, softened a little by humor. “Honorable samurai, we have seen many excellent examples of many excellent arts. But perhaps it’s true, as the Suzume like to say, that everything begins with a story.”
Kasei immediately tried to remember how many other storytellers there had been in the tournament. A fair number, some of whose performances he had attended, and whose stories he hoped to retell through the years.
“Matsu Kasei, please come forward.”
Matsu who?
“That’s you!” Sanjo hissed. “Go! You don’t want to insult an Otomo! I hear they hold grudges.”
The world must have tipped upside-down, Kasei thought, if he was winning a tournament for artisans and Sanjo was giving him etiquette advice. He came forward, as he was bidden, and bowed deeply.
“If I may be so bold, Kasei-san,” Eri said, “perhaps I may explain the judges’ decision so that everyone can see what we saw.”
“Hai, Otomo-sama,” he said. It had to be painfully obvious that this was the last thing he had expected.
“In this tournament,” Eri said, “I heard music that would make the pines weep, and poetry that would stir the stars to song. I saw paintings that rival those hung in the palace, and watched acts of acrobatics that swallows would be hard-pressed to best.
“But in the course of the tournament, one man told stories–not just the story he had come to tell, but stories about art. And the people he told those stories to listened to him.”
He knew better than to wonder how she had found out. Courtiers lived by their ears.
“I saw many who brought honor to their families and to the empire with their art, but one man was already doing the Turquoise Champion’s work: to encourage art in others.”
Otomo Eri smiled, then, brilliantly.
In your honor, Kasei thought to Hida Tatsuma, and he knelt.
Failure
He had never failed her.
In the time since Kakita Hideshi had been assigned as Asahina Beniha’s yojimbo he had faced assassins, samurai, zombies, Destroyers, and Scorpion courtiers. He had triumphed against them all. He had guarded her from danger, reminded her opponents in court that they were dealing with a person of importance, and enlivened her nights. In all that time he had acted only in her best interests, and in all that time he had succeeded only in bringing her closer to disaster.
Hideshi snarled and shook his head violently, trying to contain his wayward thoughts. He needed to focus. In an hour’s time he faced another man in a duel, and only one them would walk away alive. He intended to be the loser.
The thought horrified him in a way that only another Kakita could understand, but there was no other option. He was Tainted, and Taint was anathema to the Crane. When his state was discovered he would be executed without ceremony, or shipped off to one of the monasteries the Brotherhood maintained for the purpose, or, if he were very, very lucky, permitted to seppuku. And then he would be forgotten, his name quietly erased from the rolls of the Kakita Academy and never again spoken in the courts of the Crane. All of this was acceptable to him: he was a Tainted man and deserved no better. But his fate was entangled with Beniha’s, and the knowledge that he would drag her down with him was unendurable.
When the challenge was made Hideshi had realized that it was the answer to his troubles. Dying in a duel was an honorable, if somewhat embarrassing, death. It would end his life before the Taint could devour it and ensure that he would never become a menace to his clan. Beniha would then be obliged to commit jigai, putting herself and her honor beyond the reach of any scandal. It was the perfect solution. All he needed to do was set aside everything his sensei had ever taught him, all the long hours he had poured into his devotion to the sword.
The light in the doorway flickered and Hideshi looked up to see one of the shrine’s attendants. He bowed one last time to the images of his family’s founders and then followed the priest out to the garden where the duel was to take place. A crowd had already gathered: the entourages of the two courtiers responsible for the challenge, the officials in charge of making sure the formalities observed, other duelists interested in seeing the techniques of the participants, the idly curious.
Beniha stood to one side of the dueling circle looking poised, confident, radiant. Her opponent stood nearby. He appeared calm and dignified, but Hideshi thought he detected an undercurrent of nervousness. Rumor had it that he had issued the challenge under the assumption that Hideshi was still too wounded from the battles against the Destroyers to serve as Beniha’s champion, and that she would be forced to call on some other, possibly less skilled, duelist to represent her. It chilled Hideshi to think about the source of his vitality and swift healing.
From across the circle the other champion turned around to look at Hideshi curiously. The Kakita knew what it was the man saw. You cannot hide a killing spirit, and you could not hide the lack of one either. Hideshi ignored the other man, took his place, and waited. The duel’s master of ceremonies arrived and began to address Beniha and the other courtier in the time-honored formula establishing that all parties understood what was about to begin and what was at stake. The familiar pattern of words washed over Hideshi and he felt his spirit rise to the challenge. He struggled against it, trying to ignore the slow tingle in his fingers and what his eyes saw in the set of his opponent’s shoulders and how he placed his feet.
At the proper moment Hideshi gave the necessary bows, then he moved forward and took his stance. With something akin to despair he realized that his stance was perfect: feet that were the correct distance apart, knees bent just so, arms relaxed yet poised for action. His sensei had drilled these things into him, making them a part of him; as much a part, perhaps, as the corruption that webbed through his bones. Speed, Hideshi thought. He could still control his speed.
The crowd quieted around them, leaving as the only sounds the soft whisper of breath and the rustle of breeze-kissed leaves. Hideshi waited, waited. He could smell the scent of the garden’s white roses, the incense smoke that clung to his kimono, the blood on his opponent’s blade. He would not draw first. Every color around him looked bright and new, as if it had not existed until this moment. He waited.
There was a soft click and the subtle rasp of steel on wood: the sounds of a draw. Hideshi recognized it and suddenly something dark and powerful roared up inside of him, his spirit exploding like a lightning-struck pine. He grasped his blade and drew, funneling all the strength of his body through shoulders and wrist.
When he finished his arc he was facing Beniha, and she gave him a quick smile of satisfaction. He blinked at her for a moment, and then twisted around to see the sprawling, blood-soaked form of his opponent.
He had never failed her before.
Endgame
Noritoshi moved like a shadow, no sound betraying his movement or presence. The opulence of the estate in which he found himself disgusted him. After so long living in the hidden places of the Empire, this seemed ridiculously extravagant and shamefully excessive. He struggled not to think of the similar décor in his homeland, from which he had been long absent. Only a little while longer, he promised himself. This war, his war, was almost at its conclusion, and then he could return home.
It was a lie he told himself often, and he almost believed it.
The estate seemed completely empty, and was as dark as a moonless evening in the forest. Noritoshi crept cautiously, careful to avoid anything that might betray his presence. The only light he could see was through a screen on the far side of the chamber, something that seemed to emanate from a lantern on the other side. It was the only sign of life he had seen within the entire estate. He approached noiselessly and lifted one hand toward it, hesitating only slightly.
“You may enter,” a strangely tired voice said from within. “We are alone here.”
Noritoshi hesitated for a moment, then slid the screen back forcefully. Behind it was a small, modest room containing only a table and a few meager decorations. The table was set with an elaborate tea set, and only one man was within. Shosuro Jimen. The Emerald Champion. His mortal enemy.
The man he had come to kill.
Jimen nodded to Noritoshi. “It is no trap,” he said, putting voice to Noritoshi’s concerns. “As your instincts have doubtless told you, there is no one else here. I dismissed my servants and guards for the evening.”
“So that no one would see your disgraceful assassins cut me down from behind?” Noritoshi snarled. “Or so they would not see you die like the weak creature you are?”
“Neither, actually,” Jimen said, taking a seat. “Will you take tea with me?”
“Drinking the tea of an Aotora poison master is a fool’s errand,” Noritoshi answered.
Jimen smiled. “It is refreshing to deal with someone who properly investigates their enemies. I cannot tell you how often I have been disappointed by those who have not done so.” He poured two cups of tea and sipped at one. “You have my word that the tea will do you no harm whatsoever.”
Despite himself, Noritoshi chuckled. “You cannot believe that I would take your word as having any value, surely.”
“I suppose not,” Jimen answered, sipping again at the tea. “For that I have only myself to blame.” He looked up at the older man. “I wanted to speak with you privately. I wanted… I wanted to offer you my apologies.”
Something burned hot in Noritoshi’s chest. “Apologies?” he asked quietly.
“For a great many things,” the Emerald Champion continued. “I spoke once to one of my kinsmen, a fine samurai, and derided him for failing to realize that life was a game. In the moment that I spoke it, I believed it to be true with absolute sincerity. I believed that life was a game.” He shook his head. “In truth I still believe it to some degree. Such things are difficult to relinquish, unfortunately.” He looked at Noritoshi carefully. “Do you know what I have realized in these past few years?”
“What?
“Life can only be a game when it is not imperiled,” he explained. “Life can only be a game when it is safe, when the greater good is not compromised. Most people,” he waved his hand absently, “are fools and pawns. They deserve nothing more than to be manipulated, because they choose to exist in ignorance. But there are those that see the truth of the world and, rather than be changed by it, choose to try and change the world through their own behavior. Through their own… honor.” He shook his head again. “Men and women such as they, they do not deserve to be dragged down as a result of something so petty as a game by a fool like me. Doing so only lessens the world.” He sighed.
“You speak like a madman,” Noritoshi said. The fire in his chest was building.
“Perhaps I am mad,” Jimen said. “It would explain much. Such as why I have allowed this feud, this war between us, to consume so much of my time and energy, when I could instead have been contributing more to the defense and protection of my Empress, of my Empire. There are so many who have stood tall and died in her name, when I, her ultimate champion, have done so little. Once I would have called them fools. Now I wonder who the true fool is.”
“Do you think this show of remorse will erase what has happened between us?” Noritoshi said through clenched teeth. “Do you think I will forgive the death of my wife? The threats against my son? The shame you have struggled so desperately to smear on the name of my family?”
“I am guilty of many, many things,” Jimen said. “We both are. I have come to regret it. I thought perhaps you might as well. You are an honorable man, after all. Can you not see what we have done to the Empire? Can you not see how our madness has spread to all those we touch? How many have suffered? We are fools, you and I.” He hesitated. “I hoped you would take tea with me. I had hoped that we could try and find a way to undo that which we have done. And I had hoped that you would see how truly, genuinely sorry I am that I took your wife from you.”
Noritoshi roared inarticulately and kicked over the table with the tea set, spilling it everywhere. His sword flew like a ray of light, cutting Jimen across the chest and returning to its original position almost instantly. “I will never accept your apology!” the Crane shouted, a tear streaming from his one good eye. “Only your death will suffice!”
Jimen struggled to rise from the floor, but could not. Blood covered the floor beneath him, stained his clothes, robbed his face of all color. “I understand,” he wheezed, his breath coming short. “It is… no more than I deserve.” He coughed, wracking his body with bloody spasms. “The tea… not poisoned. Antidote.”
“What?” Noritoshi demanded.
“Agents poisoned you… at the tea house last night,” Jimen said. “I thought that… if you sat with me… if we could realize how badly… we had failed… then perhaps we both deserved to live. But no… it is better this way…” Impossibly, Jimen laughed. “I suppose you could say… I win.”
And the Emerald Champion was gone.
Kakita Noritoshi looked at the dead form of his most hated enemy, then at the tea drying on the floor. In his heart he knew that the man had spoken the truth. There was tea still there, perhaps enough if he would lick it from the floor…
“No,” he said. Jimen was right. He had doomed too many with his foolish pride and hatred already. If death was to come, then he would accept it with some semblance of honor intact. He would not be found curled on the floor, licking up spilled tea like some lapdog.
Noritoshi sat down and placed his blades at his side. Perhaps it was his imagination, but suddenly he found that his left arm was tingling quite badly, and his legs felt somewhat numb. He closed his eye. “Mai,” he said. “Forgive me. At least our son will not suffer a disgrace for a father any longer.”
When the midnight moonlight came through the opening in the roof, no one living remained within the tea chamber.
Fortune of Horses
Some time ago…
With practiced movements, Keiko brushed the last of the day’s dust from the horse’s mane. Four others, painted the same rich browns and whites, watched her with dark eyes, awaiting their turn. In the night sky above her, a thousand stars glittered faintly. There was one for every fortune or kami, as her grandmother had taught her. For little Keiko, just two months away from gempukku and the cradle of her mother’s hopes and dreams, the brightest was surely that of the Fortune of Horses.
“Mother,” she said softly, her head turning towards the orange glow of the campfire several paces away, “are all of these horses the descendants of Junko?”
Keiko’s mother, Daidoji Natsumi no Junichi, often greeted as “Lady of Horses” by her followers, paused in her stirring of the dark tea before the fire, lifting the ladle from the tanuki-kettle so that the wood would not soak. She turned in her perfect seizen, nodded, then looked towards her daughter and said, “Yes, Keiko-chan. Just like Hikaru.” The little round face she remembered had grown thinner. Those tiny hands that grasped for her mother’s hair as a child were now strong and skilled, ready to hold a sword.
Keiko cast a skeptical glance at the tiny herd. “They are not as smart as my Hikaru,” she said. “They do not have his spark in their eyes.”
Her mother smiled and nodded again. “Well, perhaps not just like him, then.” She turned back towards the fire. “But they are still descendants of Junko. Remember the story?”
Keiko led the horse back to the others behind the sturdy fencing. The next one followed her out into the night, where she resumed her gentle brushing, beginning with the short-toothed currycomb and then advancing to the dandy brush. The horse stood still for her in an honest display of trust.
“Hai,” she said with a nod. “When the descendants of the Ki-Rin came before the Emperor, none truly believed them to be the followers of Shinjo. But then Shinjo Nishijin approached Doji Ryobu, who was Emerald Champion of the Heavenly Sovereign, and revealed Lady Doji’s fan, which was gifted to Shinjo upon her departure hundreds of years before. The Emerald Champion knew upon its sight that they were who they claimed to be, and with his acknowledgement, all followed suit.
“And in return for this recognition,” she continued, her soft voice calming the powerful beast, “Shinjo Nishijin gifted the Emperor’s Champion with a small herd of horses. They were from Shinjo-no-Kami’s stock; stronger, larger, and smarter than any before seen in the Empire.”
She smiled broadly as she finished her brushing, patting the noble beast on its long snout. “The strongest of them was named Junko.”
Her mother finished the tea, balancing the ladle on the tanuki-kettle’s outstretched paws. “You know the story of our family’s ancestral duty well,” she praised her daughter, the admiration in her voice clear as the night sky. “Junko’s stock is distantly tied to the steeds of the Unicorn. That is why our horses are so special.”
Keiko bit her lip as she glanced back to the others. “Mother,” she said timidly, “What if I could marry one of the Governor’s sons? Toshiro likes me, I think. He keeps horses… perhaps they will accept his.”
Daidoji Natsumi sighed with the weight of many difficult years. “I do not think so, Keiko-chan. Even if it were so, our lord pledged the best horses the Daidoji could provide for the front lines. It falls to us to keep this promise. It is unfortunate that the war has come to this, but it cannot be helped.”
The horse let out a snort, and Keiko lowered her head. She knew this answer in her heart already. Keeping her feelings inside, however, was never her strong suit. How her mother could hide her pain and anguish at the sacrifice of so many of Junko’s descendants was more than a marvel to her. Keiko let her eyes wander to the horizon of the grassy plains, where the distant rusty-hued tents of Akodo Kenichi proudly displayed his personal Mon, too far to see.
“The Lion general will treat them well,” her mother said.
Keiko clenched her jaw to prevent a reply. Instead, she led the horse back to the others to exchange for another.
Natsumi was suddenly aware of another presence, and she looked up in recognition at her gunso, announcing himself with a wordless bow before taking his seat across from her. Quietly, she poured him a serving of tea from the kettle as he watched Keiko soothe the cluster of noble beasts.
“Are you sure her father was not an Utaku?” he asked playfully.
Her fire-illuminated face made a wry expression. From anyone else, she would have taken mention of the girl’s father as an insult. “I am certain,” she replied, turning the tea cup three times before pushing it forward. “He was too well-dressed to be an Utaku, at least.”
* * * * *
While the others were asleep, Keiko snuck into the stables as she had countless nights before, approaching the stirring form of Hikaru as he snorted in recognition. Smiling at him, she presented the apple she had brought for him, then surrendered it to his reaching mouth. His lips struggled to hold it in place, his flawless teeth seeking the sweet flesh, and his dark eyes looked deeply into hers, betraying the spark of recognition, a deep intelligence far beyond that of his brothers. And perhaps something more, an emotion of which only humans should be capable, one unbecoming of Samurai.
Keiko laid her head against his muzzle as he chomped the apple. “You would not leave me, would you, Hikaru?” came her whisper.
* * * * *
The Jade Sun painted the tip of each swaying grass-leaf along the rolling plains, even as they were tussled by invisible fingers of wind. Kyuden no Junichi was no larger than an arrowhead on the curve of the horizon, but Keiko’s eyes still caught the blue rooftop of the stables, even if the lithe forms of the running ponies there could not be seen.
She rode on top of Hikaru, who seemed tense today. She clicked her tongue as he followed her look with a lazy sway of his head, a gentle chide meant also for herself. When she was finally a Samurai, and her name, her grandmother’s name, would be written in the Scroll of Decades under that of her eldest brother, she could no longer allow herself such brief comforts. When she looked back again, it was not at the hazy outline of home. She looked at the five horses that would be given to the Lion for the defense of their lands. Her mother caught her gaze for only a moment, riding a proud horse and dressed in her second-finest kimono. She was vibrant in dark blues. The Mon of her family showed on her left shoulder, that of the Daidoji on her right. Her face was a serene mask of tanned porcelain, sheathed in the light of the morning sun.
They were accompanied by a retinue of guards, her mother’s loyal gunso amongst them, but their swords were tied closed with silken knots of peace; they expected no need for them. It was a wordless display of the sort Keiko had yet to understand, that complex language of rituals and gestures through which greater Samurai often spoke without making a sound. She knew that every aspect of their appearance and arrival was chosen meticulously for this purpose. Her mother’s kimono layers doubtlessly symbolized something, as did their agreed location for the meeting, their choice to arrive collectively on horseback, to dress each of the gift-horses’ manes in blue ribbons, and to carry the family’s Uma-Jirushi to the left side instead of the traditional right. It was all a hidden language, a sort of code, the cipher to which lay forever outside the realm of Keiko’s understanding. At least it did for now.
They were coming to the spot. Keiko coaxed Hikaru to a slow trot, allowing her mother to take the lead, as was proper. She had hoped to appear eager to fulfill her family’s role in these matters; truthfully she wanted them over and done with. They led their tiny herd past the border of three stones, where a small creek babbled a stealthy path through the grassy fields. As one they dismounted. Keiko felt her wooden sandals sink into the soft earth as the wind tugged at her hair, dyed white in honor of her distant ancestors.
Perhaps they watched her now. Her gaze turned upwards to a cloudless sky.
“Discipline,” her mother whispered, “they’re coming.”
Her sight swung back to earth. A mounted group of six orange and brown-clad samurai approached from the direction of the Lion camp. They carried the Mon of Akodo Kenichi on a bright banner, and two others that she did not recognize from the document her mother had shown her. Keiko lost count of the breaths she took before they reached the meeting place.
They seemed quiet and solemn, these men of the Lion. They were like armored statues in the saddles of equally quiet horses. She looked from one dispassionate face to the next and saw in each the expression of a soldier.
She at once noticed, with disdain, that their horses seemed to care nothing for them. They were not allies in daily tasks, fellow brothers-in-arms, nor even indentured servants to their masters. They were simple beasts of burden, resigned to their fates. Keiko frowned.
One of the men dismounted and stepped forward, bowing neatly from the waist. His armor was more exquisite than that of the others, although it was still simple and functional, bearing the mon of his lord the general, and that of the Matsu family. His thin mustache trailed far lower than his lips and pointed chin. Keiko watched as her mother returned his bow with proper etiquette.
His voice had graveled edges. “I am Matsu Ishi of the Chui rank, commander of the third Kaisha of the Fire Sky Army, under command of Akodo Kenichi, victor of the Plains Above Evil, in service to the honorable Akodo Daimyo, the right hand of the Daughter of Heaven!” His dark eyes flashed pridefully with the announcement of every accolade.
Keiko’s mother responded in kind. “I am Daidoji Natsumi no Junichi, the Lady of Horses, in service to the honorable Daidoji Daimyo.” She paused for the space of a breath. “I am here to honor the agreement made by our esteemed lords.”
The man nodded, a cool smile spreading on his face. It didn’t suit him. “I have never before heard of the Junichi family of the Daidoji. It is an honor.”
Keiko watched her mother bow to the man again in acceptance of his words. She heard Hikaru snort behind her and instantly knew he disliked the man as much as she did. She noticed that his horse was heavy with improperly fitted barding, and he was too thin. She felt her frown deepen, and Hikaru stirred slightly, as if upset. She gently patted his neck to calm him.
Two of the other Lion dismounted as their leaders spoke. The five horses were surrendered with wordless bows, the exchange completed with ceremonious solemnity. Keiko felt her stomach clench as the Lion took custody, and she tightened her jaw. She did not mean to question her lord, and she knew that Junko’s blood had thinned to a trickle in his descendants. The reality of war called for many sacrifices. But it was impossible to ignore the wrongness of this, even if it was possible to remain silent. She felt as though her frown would crack her face like unfired clay.
Matsu Ishi’s gaze turned nonchalantly in her direction. Keiko’s frown remained fixed upon her features.
“I don’t think she likes me very much,” the man remarked, looking at her.
All eyes fell upon Keiko. The Lion men stared at her with displeased expressions. Her mother’s eyes were wide and worried. Keiko felt her heart quicken its pace, and Hikaru shifted behind her, as if picking up on the sudden shift in tone. She tried to banish her frown, perhaps even replace it with the cold On of her mother. But a sword strike once made could not be withdrawn. The damage had already been done.
“Do you have something to say to me?” Ishi challenged. He shifted his weight, as if to approach. Her eyes widened, her voice stolen. She wanted to be swallowed by the ground.
Her mother moved swiftly between them, drawing his attention. “She’s just a girl,” came the hurried excuse. “Her Gempukku is two months away.”
The Lion all looked at their leader, curious and unsure of what he would do. Ishi’s brow lowered thoughtfully, and he nodded his head. “Is that so?” he said slowly. Keiko felt his scrutiny as surely as a guard’s frisking hands. He had dropped his offended posture, but his eyes still searched her, as if looking for something.
She realized her hand was still on Hikaru’s neck. She dropped it.
Ishi nodded again, forming another ill-fitting smile. He’d found what he was looking for. He turned back to Keiko’s mother after looking pointedly at the gift horses.
“There are five there,” he said. “I believe the agreement was for six.”
Keiko felt her heart skip.
“I must disagree with respect,” her mother replied, “I believe it was five.”
“It was definitely six,” Ishi affirmed. His smile grew. “It’s a lucky number.”
Natsumi’s eyes fell as she made swift calculations. The written agreement was back at the Kyuden, and the true purpose of the arrangement was appeasement. The Daidoji no longer saw value in the Junichi family’s ancestral duty; a few gifted horses would save face as an offering of support in the war, saving the more precious resources for the clan. What was one more horse to them?
To fetch the agreement now would be to imply that he was lying. He would answer such an insult in kind. If he was not appeased now, then the Junichi would fail in their duty. It could not be helped. She told her gunso to surrender his horse.
“No,” the Matsu said, pointing his finger at Hikaru. “That one.”
Her mother did not hesitate. “Keiko-chan,” she said, “offer this man your horse.”
The command sapped Keiko of strength, as surely as an inch of steel in her heart. She turned her head softly towards her beloved horse, and their eyes met. She felt him shift again as she laid a trembling hand on his neck. His peaceful gaze lingered long with hers, as awake and aware as any human being. Her face did not reflect in those dark orbs, but her sorrow surely did.
Darkly she led him to the side of the Matsu. The horse was hesitant; she felt his every weak protest with her fingertips. She stopped just before him, looking up at the man who towered three heads above her. Like a sparrow to a falcon, she stared up at him with wide eyes. Like a falcon to a sparrow, his narrowed down at hers.
She offered him the horse with a bow and trembling fingers. He nodded, one of the men moving to his side and accepting the gift at this unspoken cue. Hikaru was led to the others, casting his former owner a quiet, almost forlorn glance. She did not look back at him.
“The Lion admire your family’s dedication to peace,” Ishi said. Keiko’s mother could only bow in acknowledgement.
When the exchange had finished, the Lion left, taking their newly gifted horses with them. Keiko held back her anguish until the last of the orange-painted men passed beyond the furthest of the Lion’s tents and fluttering banners. Her eyes lingered on Hikaru, who used to be hers, as he carried Matsu Ishi beneath the impassive mon of the Akodo general and out of sight. Only then did her vision swim with the warm tears of her loss. Only then did she buckle from weakened legs, and allow her shuddering voice to whisper his name.
* * * * *
Matsu Ishi set his tea cup down after a bitter sip, nodding his approval at the strong blend. He knew that he would require the energy-gifting properties of the dark elixir to complete his work. It was nearly the hour of Togashi, and the night sentries had already been at their work. Ishi frowned at the curling parchment map laid bare upon the table in front of him, not because something had drawn his displeasure, but because it was his default expression.
The army would move by morning, and by then he would have to report to the Taisa’s tent with the proposed marching path. Then it would be back to the south to face the Destroyers. His command group alone had the chance to scout the area. His meeting with the Junichi family of the Daidoji had thusly served two purposes, a fact that brought him much satisfaction. Efficiency was his passion, after all, and when the fragile alliance inevitably broke, a map of Crane provinces would come in handy.
His mouth twitched. An almost-smile. In truth, the meeting served three purposes. In addition to the opportunity to scout, and to have his name mentioned to his lord as the one who received the offering of horses, he also had the opportunity to teach a young child a lesson on what it meant to keep one’s On in place. And a Crane at that! He would have chuckled at the irony were it not for his sense of discipline.
His light mood faded as a strange scent came into his perception. It wasn’t unnatural or even unusual, but it did seem out of place. It was smoke, like burning cloth, very faint but growing stronger.
The shouts outside his tent caused him only a moment of surprise, and then he launched himself into the night. His eyes met with the disorienting brightness of yellow flames as they consumed the closest tent. Shadowed forms scattered throughout the area, yelling desperately for water. A few of them barked orders in an attempt to restore order.
“How?” came his unfinished question, silenced by his warrior senses. There was an oddity in the chaos of the crowd. He spotted a still figure, inhuman in shape, standing unconcerned just beyond a standing brass oil lamp. It was a horse, that much was unmistakable, and it stared accusingly at Ishi, its glassy eyes lit with the orange and yellow flames.
How did the thing get free?
With unmistakable purpose, the horse turned away and began a gallop, and as it did, its back hoof struck the lamp, launching it in a graceful trailing arc of lit oil. It landed top-down onto Ishi’s canvas tent, lighting it ablaze. The Matsu had only a moment with which to grasp his sword in outright anger, only a moment to cast the retreating animal a vengeful glare. Then his Lion priorities took control, and he dashed into the burning tent to save the map.
* * * * *
While the others were asleep, Keiko crept into the stables as she had countless nights before, staring softly at the empty stall of her lost friend. The nightly gift of a summer apple balanced limply in her hand. The cold night, in all of its silence, offered her no comfort. She felt hollow inside, as if her weightless soul had long drifted from her body and anchored itself to the ceiling of the stables.
The sound of stirring came from outside, like trampled grass. She turned towards the sound, and at once her breath caught in her sore and dry throat, her eyes widening. She had thought that she would never cry again, but now fresh tears swelled in her red-rimmed eyes. She knew that equine silhouette as well as she knew the voice of her mother, as familiar as the steady thump of her own heart. He approached quietly, pausing when he saw her, then immediately made for the apple.
“Hikaru,” she breathed, his name falling easily from her trembling lips. As the horse bit the apple clumsily, her surprise melted as swiftly as her sorrow, and she wrapped her arms around his powerful neck. Her cheek laid against his long muzzle, the barest hint of tears saturating his fur as her smile returned. Someday she would be a Samurai, and such a display would be beneath her. But not tonight. “You came back,” she whispered, and he snorted in reply.
“You smell like smoke,” she said softly, unaware of the dark billowing pillars rising from the distant Lion camp into the night sky, as if reaching for the star of the Fortune of Horses.
