Child of Vengeance (4 page)

“It is believed the slaughter was great, that the enemy were dashed to pieces upon the rocks of your brave men like a great wave of filth and pestilent vermin, Lord Shinmen?” asked Lord Nakata, eyes blinking around blindly.

“Indeed, Lord. Were guessing required, it is not unreasonable to think that even their distant descendants will still have nightmares of this day,” replied Shinmen.

“Quite so, quite so. No wonder, if even one such as a lord should sustain such a grievous wound as you have. Would it be rude to inquire of the combat, my stalwart ally? It is trusted the wretch who struck you paid with his life?”

“Unfortunately not, Lord. He was but a cowardly archer, so his fate is unable to be ascertained. But with this sword alone, three enemy were sent to their graves. The last one was barely worth calling a man! Have you heard the cry a pig makes as it dies, Lord? The cry this man made was not dissimilar!”

“Regrettably that pleasure has yet to be experienced, Lord. Were it only that all our enemies could suffer such a fate, gorging on their own entrails and drowning in their own blood.”

“If that were so, Lord, one might be happy. But then what would we do? We are samurai. It is our nature to slay our enemies. Peace is only the gasp of breath before we can plunge back into that rapturous ocean known as war.”

“Quite so, Lord. Quite so!” said Lord Nakata, and raised his cup of sake politely. Shinmen returned the gesture.

Munisai saw what he had feared—his lord had changed again. Gone was the man from the battlefield of today, confident and trustworthy and the one he had followed for five years. Here now was the new Lord Shinmen, who had been seeping in more and more these past months, the closer he drew to Nakata and his promise of wealth.

Ambition, they said, was a virtue. Once it had been, when Shinmen’s was a desire for honest struggle, for he and his forces to prove themselves upon the battlefield, as samurai ought. But now it had festered, rotted him from within, and drew him instead to shrines of affluence like the one he sat in now. Munisai could not bear seeing the man behave like this.

No one here would stop them, though, for it was regal mouths speaking and so all had to acknowledge it as profound rather than what it was—ridiculous. His face unreadable, Munisai made as if he had just arrived, swinging the curtain aside wildly and ensuring his armor rattled. He approached the dais and then dropped to his knees before Shinmen, placed his forehead to the floor, waited the respectful length of time, and then rose.

“My lord, forgive my lateness. There is still much work to be done,” he said.

“Like extinguishing fires?” said Hayato venomously, suddenly rising from his stupor to look at Munisai.

“My lord?” asked Munisai, surprised that the young lord had spoken. He looked to Shinmen, but it was Lord Nakata who spoke.

“Forgive my son, Munisai Shinmen. Being young, it is unknown by him how men should properly comport themselves,” he said, and turned to his son, who had returned to lighting incense sullenly.
“Look upon this man, Hayato—here is one named the Nation’s Finest! Do you not understand what that means?”

“You flatter me, noble Lord Nakata,” said Munisai, bowing. “But that title refers solely to swordsmanship and nothing more. There are much finer men than I within our land. Even so, if something has been done that is unsatisfactory to either yourself or your heir, it would be shameful if it could not be spoken of and rectified.”

“It has been a fine day’s work, Munisai, indeed. We live on in a world that is less one enemy. But … there is the issue of the castle,” said Lord Shinmen.

“My lord?”

“The castle of the late Lord Kanno, which was promised by Lord Shinmen to our clan as a most wonderful and splendid gift and a sign of our enduring alliance,” said Lord Nakata.

“The ruins of
my
castle, now which are still ablaze outside,” said Hayato. The young lord was all petulant fury as he looked at Munisai.

This was the first he had heard of any plans for the castle as a gift, but Munisai nevertheless bowed once more to the lords and said, “What happened with the castle was regrettable, my lords. But in the context of the situation an entirely necessary regret.”

“Are you certain of that, Munisai?” asked Shinmen.

“Yes, my lord,” said Munisai. “If you would allow me to explain?”

“Please do.” Nakata nodded.

“Very well,” he said. “My Lord Shinmen led the main body of men up through the valley, while I led a covert force around the rear to try to take the Lord Kanno and the castle itself. Unfortunately our ruse was spotted earlier than I had hoped, and Ueno was more cautious also. We had managed to pass the gate of the stronghold, but a fight ensued with a hundred men or thereabouts to my threescore. Furthermore, Ueno had a chance to barricade himself and the Lord Kanno within the armory of the clan. My men could not hold indefinitely, and neither did I want to prolong an uphill battle for my Lord Shinmen, so time was of the essence—we needed to extricate the lord from the armory as soon as possible.

“I believe there is no faster way to encourage men to leave a building than the prospect of burning, and so we set a fire that in
our zealousness unfortunately grew out of control. But it worked, and once the boy lord was in my custody, the Kanno samurai could not fight on with a sword to their lord’s throat. They surrendered, in the castle at least, and that is how the day was won, my lords.” Munisai finished speaking, and then bowed low once more.

“A stirring account, my honorable Munisai, and I salute your daring,” said Lord Nakata, nodding his head once. “But I have to raise a question with you—surely there must have been another entrance to the armory you could have sought, rather than resorting to arson?”

“There were none that were visible, Lord,” said Munisai.

“That does not mean an absence of exits, however. Indeed, in our many castles there is always an abundance of passages into each and every room. So it follows that there must be in Kanno’s also, no?” said Lord Nakata.

“So it may be, Lord,” said Munisai.

He wanted to point out that if there had been a secret entrance, Ueno and Kanno might have used it to escape, but he held his tongue. It would be a futile argument. He could see now what the intention here was—Lord Shinmen had made a mistake, and now Munisai was expected to take the blame for it. This was duty.

“It holds, therefore, that you owe our esteemed guests a formal apology. Do you not agree, Munisai?” asked Shinmen.

“Indeed, my lord.” Munisai nodded. “If you should wish it, my immolation by seppuku is humbly offered that my dishonor might be expunged with my blood.”

“No, no, Commander. That would be quite unnecessary. It is felt that your simple words would be enough,” said Nakata.

“Very well, Lo—”

“Coupled,” continued Nakata, “with a tithe from your yearly stipend to help pay for arrears, of course.”

Munisai made no outward reaction, but inside he seethed. Money was little more than a concept to him, but to be so publicly indebted to anyone, let alone the Nakata, galled him. Nevertheless, he swallowed that shame and bowed low once more.

“That is the least that could be offered. My estate shall be informed at once. Furthermore, my sincere and humble apologies for
my brash and destructive actions are offered to you both, your clan, your ancestors, and to all the descendants you have and may yet sire,” he said, and then lowered himself farther so that his forehead was on the ground as he waited for Nakata to speak.

“Very good, Commander Munisai, they are of course accepted,” the old lord said eventually.

“Rise, Munisai,” said Shinmen, and Munisai obeyed.

“Forgive me further, my lords, but my attention is required else—”

“I wonder why,” said Hayato, looking at no one, “I am even surprised at this. It’s not as though Munisai Shinmen wreaking destruction with flame is without precedent, is it?”

Something froze behind Munisai’s breastbone. Hayato stared only at the cherry of the burning stick of incense in his hand. He did not see his father turn to him and try to wordlessly communicate the danger of speaking slander in front of court. Neither did he see Lord Shinmen, who knew the truth behind such slander, look at the swords at Munisai’s side.

“And now he comes offering apologies covered in the filth of a battlefield,” continued Hayato, either oblivious to the sudden tenseness or feigning it, smoke coiling around his face. “Does the honorable Munisai not know how to present himself, or does he find contentment in reeking of dung?”

The numb potential for fury passed in Munisai; he realized then that Hayato was a brat and nothing more, picking around at whatever insult he could think of without knowing which was the true one. A great weariness and exasperation came in its place, to such an extent that Munisai committed a fundamental sin and let some of his true self show. He could not stop himself from fixing his gaze on the young lord until Hayato had no choice but to return it hesitantly.

“Apologies are offered, Lord Nakata,” said Munisai, “if the very idea of war discomforts you so. Sometimes I forget the delicate spirit of city dwellers differs from that of warriors.”

He might have gotten away with it had the koto player not sniggered. But the music’s rhythm broke for a jarring second; the woman raised a delicate hand to her face, composed herself, and then continued
playing. Hayato turned bright red, and looked at the ground. His father squinted his piggy little eyes harder at Munisai. Shinmen’s face had grown cold and still. Munisai turned to look at him.

“With your permission, my lord?” he asked.

“You may go, Munisai,” Shinmen said, voice somber.

Munisai bowed once more, rose, and strode off. There was silence as he left, though in some of the downturned faces he thought he could see amusement. There was little doubt the story would be passed around the camp before long. What that would reap, he didn’t know, but at that moment he didn’t care.

Outside night had fully fallen, but the cooler air did not refresh him. He was exhausted and angry and he could not deny that he felt betrayed, and over much more than what had just happened. That he felt such shameful selfishness only angered him further, and he stalked off toward what was left of Hayato’s castle.

T
hey had won, and so the drinking had begun.

Around the glowing embers of the castle bands of men had formed, growing larger as time wore on and final duties were seen to, shouting and laughing with friends old and new. The stores of the fortress had been raided before they could burn, and so now great cauldrons of rice and soup and vegetables were cooking and barrels were being smashed open with mallets the length of bodies.

Kazuteru held his arms out wide as he sang a bawdy old song of victory his father had taught him in his childhood, weaving his way through the groups of men half looking for someone he knew. Though he clutched a bottle of sake in his hand, he was not drunk. Truth be told the drink was bitter and he could stomach no more than a few mouthfuls of it; he carried it merely because he did not want to look out of place among the others. His body thrummed solely with the intoxication of being alive and having survived.

He thought of his father as he sang—the man had died in a war of his own some ten years ago, and the song was one of the few things he had left his son. The little wealth bequeathed to him and his mother
had quickly vanished and his mother had been too proud to seek aid from anyone, and so the pair of them had endured with shrunken stomachs in a house that was pawned piece by piece.

But now Kazuteru was a man, and more than that a warrior who had lived through his first battle. Soon his stipend would increase as he rose through the ranks, and so finally he would be able to provide for his mother and ensure that she lived in comfort in her aging years. Fine silk, fine food, a maid or two maybe … Why not? It was a night for dreams and glory.

Lingering sensations danced around the inside of his head though, terrible memories of the day—the sound of the man with the twisted leg, the sight of Kanno’s cavalry charge tearing down the hill in one fearsome arrowhead, the warmth of his piss streaming down his legs as he stood frozen in terror before those horsemen—but the young samurai curled his lips into a smile and banished them, singing louder and spinning as he walked.

They had all earned it, this one night, to forget the rules and decorum and etiquette that governed their lives. Men clapped him on as he sang and strode, older men who would have snarled at him and called him a fool at any other time. He passed men in fine kimonos bent double vomiting through mouths warped into numb grins, others stripped almost naked pouring buckets of hot water down themselves, long since clean and dousing themselves for no other reason than that it felt good and because they still could.

But time went on and the song had many, many verses. Kazuteru did not know much beyond the first three. He paused, took a wincing slug of sake—most of which he let dribble down his chin—to try to induce memory or inspiration, and as he opened his mouth to sing again, a hand pushed him in the chest hard enough to cause him to stagger backward.