Winter Raven (Path of the Samurai Book 1) Page 5

  ‘You understand the situation,’ said the samurai. ‘We can’t let him go.’

  The girl glanced at the man. He was obviously from a dirt-poor background. He was young but he had already lost most of his teeth.

  ‘He’s just a boy.’

  ‘I know. But it has to be done.’

  She looked down at her feet and heard herself say: ‘Make it quick.’

  The samurai drew a knife and crouched next to the soldier. The man stared at the blade in terror and tried to squirm away.

  ‘Calm down,’ said the samurai. He gripped the man’s collar and pulled him back to a sitting position. He cut a section of sleeve and tied the strip of linen round the man’s head as a blindfold.

  ‘Night is falling,’ he said, to reassure the man. ‘Get some rest.’

  The samurai emptied the flask of water and shook it dry. He walked over to the cart and prised open one of the kegs. He scooped handfuls of powder and packed them into the flask.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked the girl.

  ‘I’ve never used this powder. I heard about it, read about it, but never seen it put to the test. I need to understand its potency.’

  The samurai crept noiselessly across the clearing and placed the powder flask in front of the injured man. Some preternatural sense told the blindfold soldier someone was close by. He cocked his head and listened hard. The samurai used a cup to shake a thin powder trail back across the clearing to the trunk of a fallen tree, then took shelter with the girl. The samurai held a burning stick pulled from the campfire.

  ‘Doesn’t seem right,’ said the girl. ‘Killing a man this way. No honour in it.’

  ‘Necessity.’

  ‘Seems cruel.’

  ‘No more cruel than putting a knife in his heart. This man is in the pay of the Imperial household. He’s peasant stock. He could have worked the fields, spent his life bending his back in a paddy. He would have died an old man. Instead he put on armour for the guarantee of two meals a day. He swore to give his life for the Emperor, if necessary. That was the oath he took, the bargain he struck. Today, that debt is due.’

  They lay flat against the trunk for cover. The samurai put a flame to the trickle of gunpowder next to him. Ignition. The black powder spat and fizzed. The fuse-flame circled the log and headed across the clearing towards the blindfold soldier.

  ‘What’s that?’ shouted the captive, as the hissing, crackling trail of combustion snaked towards him through twigs and leaves. ‘What’s going on?’

  A massive concussion. An explosion so loud it was silent. The girl experienced the detonation as a gut-punch rather than an audible sound.

  The samurai and the girl got to their feet. Their ears rang. They approached the smoking remains of the soldier. There was nothing left of him but a pair of legs and a pulped torso. His head and arms had been blasted away. His ribcage had been stripped of flesh. The girl clapped a hand over her mouth and turned away.

  ‘Well,’ said the samurai, contemplating the grisly spectacle. ‘It works.’

  They reached Kyoto a week later. The samurai and the girl descended the hill road on foot, the city laid out beneath them. They rested a while and sat on the grass by the side of the track looking over a labyrinthine street grid. A wide boulevard led to the Imperial Palace to the north. There were temples on the outskirts of the conurbation; a cluster of sweeping roofs and tiered pagodas.

  ‘Have you ever been to Kyoto before?’ asked the samurai.

  ‘No,’ said the girl, marvelling at the sprawl. ‘But I’ve heard many people speak of it. The greatest city in the world.’

  ‘Well, there it is.’

  ‘It’s like an ocean. An ocean of buildings. It’s too much to comprehend.’

  Kyoto had been levelled during the Ōnin War. Shōgun Ashikaga Yoshimasa died leaving no clear heir and subsequent turf-battles between the Yamana and Hosokawa clans left the city in ruins. The Imperial Palace and some of the major temples had been rebuilt but a wide strip of unreconstructed waste ground divided the city east-to-west, ground given over to cultivation.

  ‘It’s like a dream,’ said the girl. ‘A waking dream.’

  They got to their feet and continued to descend the hill.

  ‘They used to call it the capital of flowers,’ the samurai said as they strode towards the city gate. ‘They say it was one of the wonders of the world. I wish I had seen it before it burned.’

  * * *

  There was nothing left of the city’s great Rajōmon Gate but a stepped foundation. They climbed the steps and stood on the stone platform. They gazed the length of Suzaku Ōji, the cobbled boulevard that bisected the city, stretching to near-vanishing point and the distant gates of the Imperial Palace

  Walking north, they merged with a steady stream of merchants, monks and packhorses heading into the city.

  ‘Is it always this crowded?’ asked the girl.

  ‘People have travelled from far and wide to be near the Emperor. He lives behind high walls but one day of the year he and his retinue emerge from the palace to process to the temple and pray for the blessings of his ancestors. People will line the streets and try to catch a glimpse of his palanquin, the closest they will ever come to the presence of a living god.’

  ‘Why do they care?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe they think that if he turns their eyes on them for an instant the sick will be healed, the poor will be rich, the lonely will find love. Whatever ails a person, whatever weighs them down, will be set right.’

  ‘What must it be like to be the focus of all that need, all that heartache?’

  ‘All I know is that tomorrow the Emperor will be out in the open. Tomorrow he can be killed.’

  The samurai pushed through the throng. The girl followed, anxious not to lose sight and get swallowed by the crowd.

  * * *

  They explored the bustling side streets, the samurai wrapping his cloak tight around himself to hide his sword. No one gave him a second glance. There was nothing remarkable in his appearance – his shoes and clothes were matted with dust. A peasant and his daughter at the end of a long journey, they were probably visiting Kyoto to see family. Or maybe they were on pilgrimage, come to prostrate themselves before the Emperor as he passed.

  They found a busy hostel, the kind of place that might sell them a stretch of floor and not ask too many questions. The samurai surveyed the place from the outside. A ramshackle building, roof shingles held in position by rocks. Plenty of travellers passing through. The samurai and the girl would be faces in a crowd.

  ‘This will do.’

  * * *

  They entered the hostelry and found themselves in a wide room with a central pit fire. The samurai and the girl unshouldered their bags and knelt on a carpet of scattered straw. A maid brought food on a rough wooden tray. Saké, and some rice and pickles.

  The samurai glanced around, keeping a casual but watchful eye on the crowd. He observed a couple of men in well-maintained silk kimonos enter the tavern and seat themselves near the fire. The maid served them immediately.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said.

  He got up and crossed the busy room, accidently jogged an arm, apologised and engineered a conversation. His usual grave demeanour was replaced by sunny bonhomie as he sat beside the men. They chatted and laughed. He pointed to the street outside and asked a couple of questions. They pushed cups around on the floor like they were mapping out directions.

  The girl sat alone, self-conscious, aware of appraising glances from the men around her. She averted her gaze and studied the floor.

  Half an hour later the samurai returned and sat beside the girl.

  ‘Did they tell you where it is?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The precise location.’

  * * *

  They strolled along the Suzaku Ōji, the girl following a pace behind. The cobbled boulevard was lined with cherry trees to screen elegant homes that overlooked the avenue. They moved among light af
ternoon traffic. Tradesmen pushed carts or walked hunched with wicker panniers on their backs.

  The samurai bent and re-tied his sandal, glancing around to see if they were being followed. He got to his feet. He stared at faces. Tradesfolk stared back with bored disinterest. The samurai was alert for anyone who might refuse to meet his gaze, anyone who might make a conspicuous performance of disinterest. Both the Imperial House and the Shōgunate relied on a network of paid informants to keep them apprised of events taking place beyond their Palace walls. Innocuous townsfolk like shopkeepers and customs officials drew a monthly stipend in return for regular reports of suspicious activity, attempted infiltration of the workings of state by agents of rival houses. The samurai and the girl had done little to raise suspicion during their arrival in the city but there was always the chance that, as strangers, they had been targeted for random surveillance.

  The samurai straightened up. ‘Look at the road,’ he said.

  They surveyed the cobbled surface of the street. There was a slight ridge up ahead as if a section of road had been dug then re-laid. Cartwheels jolted as they rolled over the ridge.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the samurai. ‘A brick conduit. Part of the old irrigation system for the water garden at Ryōan-ji. The pipe used to siphon water from the hills and carry it to the Kyoyochi Pond. They destroyed a succession of shops and homes to dig the channel. The pipe fell into disuse following the war.’

  ‘How did you know it was here?’

  ‘I overheard someone talk of it when I was a child. One of those little pieces of trivia that gets locked at the back of the mind gathering dust until, years later, its full significance is revealed.’

  The girl nodded and looked down at the cobbles. ‘So we are standing over your grave.’

  The samurai nodded with a melancholy smile.

  ‘We all have a stretch of ground waiting for us somewhere. This is mine.’

  * * *

  They walked down a side-street following the tell-tale ridge of cobbles which marked the route of the subterranean water pipe looking for an entry point; some place they could dig and access the underground channel unobserved.

  The route disappeared beneath a row of textile shops. Vendors urged them to buy mats, kimonos, cushions. A shopkeeper sat opposite a shuttered and empty shop, behind a table stacked with bolts of linen.

  ‘Is this shop for rent?’ asked the samurai.

  The man nodded.

  ‘Who owns it?’

  ‘I do.’

  * * *

  The shopkeeper opened the shutters. Light shafted into the interior of the shop and lit fresh whitewash and empty shelves. The room was floored with rough planks laid on compacted earth.

  ‘Where are you from?’ asked the shopkeeper.

  ‘Nara,’ said the samurai. The girl hung back and said nothing.

  ‘What’s your business in Kyoto?’

  ‘Silk. My brother and I sell Chinese silk. We’ve come here to buy stock. I need a store house for a week or two, a place I can keep our purchases secure before shipping them west to Nara.’

  The samurai’s story had been composed to avoid any infringement of the za cooperatives which controlled commerce in Kyoto. By posing as an out-of-town merchant looking to buy, not sell, the samurai would not have to provide the shopkeeper with any official paperwork. There would be no violation of guild protocols, no violation of city governance that might cause complications.

  The shopkeeper nodded.

  ‘Here’ said the samurai. ‘Two weeks, in advance.’ He dropped coins into the shopkeeper’s hand.

  * * *

  They climbed a wooded hillside outside Kyoto. The samurai and the girl paused on the steep track and looked around. An empty dirt road stretched before and behind them. When they were sure they were unobserved, they left the road and waded through tall grass into the trees.

  They emerged from the trees and entered a wide clearing. The ox was placidly grazing in a meadow. The girl stood beside the animal, patting and stroking it. The samurai approached some shadows beneath the trees. He reached into dense undergrowth and probed a jumble of branches and leaves. He hauled the brushwood aside and exposed the cart hidden beneath.

  * * *

  They arrived back in Kyoto at nightfall. The samurai led the cart down a narrow lane behind the row of shops keeping a slow pace to reduce the sound of wheels grinding cobbles and flagstones.

  He brought the cart to a halt. Tradesmen and their families had locked their stalls and retreated to upper rooms to eat and sleep. The samurai and the girl hugged moon-shadows glancing up and down the narrow lane alert for any sign of the nightwatch.

  The samurai checked upper windows and glimpsed candlelight through cracks in the shutters. He checked to see if any of the neighbours were peering down to see who might be moving a cart around during the hours of darkness.

  He unlatched the back of the store and lit a lamp.

  ‘Let’s get this done quick as we can.’

  They unroped the kegs and folded the oil-cloth. The girl stood on the back of the cart and rolled keg after keg to the samurai. He stacked them in the back room of the store. When they were done, the girl led the ox away to a nearby stables.

  The samurai carried a lantern to the front room of the store, checking that the doors and shutters were secure. He knelt on the floor and prised the boards with a knife. He stacked the boards in the corner of the room and exposed an expanse of packed dirt.

  He fetched a hoe and spade he purchased earlier that day, shrugged off his kimono, stripped bare-chested and stood over the raw earth. He swung the pick and began to break packed earth into loose clods. The girl watched him dig. She used the spade to heap soil into a basket and haul it aside.

  An arm’s length down the samurai struck brick. He enlarged the hole to expose the circumference of the pipe. He prised bricks with his knife and threw them in a pile in the corner of the shop, exposing the clay inner jacket of the conduit.

  He paused, exhausted and parched. The girl handed him a bamboo flask of water. He drank deep.

  He knelt over the clay pipe and smashed it open with a brick. They both recoiled from a foetid exhalation of tunnel air.

  ‘Pass me the lamp,’ said the samurai.

  He leant through the jagged aperture, squinted into darkness and saw a conduit, wide enough for a man to crawl. A steady trickle of water washed the bottom of the pipe.

  ‘Perfect,’ he murmured, voice echoing in the tight tunnel space. He withdrew his head from the pipe.

  ‘All I have to do now is move the kegs into position.’

  The girl nodded. ‘Then our task is almost done,’ she said, overcome by a wave of anxiety. A few hours from now the samurai would be dead and she would truly be an orphan. No home, no family. She would be utterly alone in the world.

  The samurai took another gulp from the flask.

  ‘Yes. Almost done.’

  Dawn broke over Kyoto.

  The samurai stood at the centre of the boulevard enjoying birdsong and the crisp morning air. This would be his last day, he thought, wrapping his travel cloak tight around himself. The wide cobbled avenue was empty, apart from a distant fire watcher patrolling a row of aristocratic homes, vigilant for any sign of smoke. A few minutes from now the first traders and couriers would take to the streets and would be joined by visitors to the city hoping to glimpse the Imperial procession. The empty avenue would fill with milling traffic. Peace replaced by movement and cacophonous noise.

  He located the ridge of cobbles that marked the route of the subterranean conduit and walked down the side road back to the empty store, keeping a slow, measured step. He knocked a pre-agreed code on the back door. The girl opened up and let him inside.

  ‘A hundred and twenty-eight paces,’ he said, shrugging off his cloak. ‘A hundred and twenty-eight paces from here to the road.’

  The girl nodded without comment and continued to roll kegs to the lip of the
hole in the floor and stack them ready to be lowered into the conduit.

  The Imperial procession mustered in a courtyard in front of the cypress pavilion that served as the Emperor’s private quarters. A guard of cavalry and foot-soldiers in finest livery stood to attention in the morning sun, their helmets and segmented leather armour lacquered crimson. The helmets bore the gold chrysanthemum insignia of the Imperial House. Commanding officers inspected the ranked men and made minute adjustments to their spacing. Two ornate palanquins sat at the centre of the yard with bearers standing ready to take the load.

  The guard readied itself to escort the Emperor and his mother from the palace to the temple of Tenryū Shiseizen-ji to the west of the city. The temple was home to the tombs of Emperor Kameyama and Emperor Go-Saga. The Emperor intended to pay his respects to his forebears and would be greeted by the high priest when he arrived. Then he would visit the shrine, light incense and pray.

  An elderly nun stood in the corner of the courtyard placidly watching the procession assemble. She was little bigger than a child and her head was shaved bald, as befitted someone dedicated to a life of cloistered seclusion. She wore blue and white robes. Her hands were tucked in her sleeves. She, like the rest of the retinue, was waiting for the appointed moment when Emperor Go-Nara would emerge from his apartment. The doors would be thrown wide and they would prostrate themselves as The Son of Heaven descended the steps and took his seat in the litter.

  Had a detached observer watched the scene for any length of time, they would have noticed soldiers crossing the quadrangle quickened their step as they walked past the nun, taking care to avoid her gaze. They might have sensed the unease, the dread, of the people around her; they might have surmised the true centre of power lay not with the Emperor and his retinue but the elderly woman patiently watching the procession take shape.