The Initiate Brother Duology (33 page)

The stairs creaked! Or was it someone moving inside? Tanaka stared into the dark square of the stairwell until he could no longer discern anything at all. His muscles ached from the effort he made to be still.

Across the square, the guardsmen reached the Imperial Warship and began to load their burden. It went over the side quickly on tackle, but Tanaka could see nothing on the deck. There were more sounds, the sounds of men emerging from the ship’s belly. Then they moved back across the square, fanning out, searching the periphery of the area.

There were sounds on the stairs—footsteps!—but then they seemed to hesitate. Tanaka looked wildly around—where would he hide? It was then that he saw the old man was gone! It hit him like a blast of cold wind—
I have been trapped,
the merchant thought.

Tanaka began to edge along the balcony toward the nearest shoji. It was his only hope. The footsteps approached now. He could hear breathing and the sounds of armor—an Imperial Guardsman, undoubtedly. A shape appeared in the opening, dark against the darkness. Tanaka tensed, ready to spring, wondering if it was too late to reach the shoji now. The guard set a foot onto the balcony.

He looks right at me, Tanaka thought. It was in that instant that the merchant saw them—on the balcony behind the guard—two figures, seeming to take form out of the shadow. One held a knife. The merchant stood frozen, watching.

But then the two figures seemed to melt into one and slump into the darkness of the floor. The guard stopped, Tanaka could see the glint of light on his chin strap, he turned slowly about and then, almost silently, descended the stairs.

I have not been seen, Tanaka thought. Thank the darkness, thank Botahara!

In another instant the guards were gone. The Imperial Warship slipped its lines and began to recede into the darkness. Tanaka told himself to breathe again. But still he dared not move. Out of the black pool of the floor a figure rose, small, catlike in its movements. It faced him on the dark balcony. It spoke.

“Do nothing rash,” came the soft whisper. “He would have betrayed your
presence.” The figure motioned to the floor. “He will awaken soon. Then you must go.”

Tanaka blinked, trying to focus. The figure evaporated, the merchant watched it happen, but his eyes would not believe it. He shook his head to clear it, but nothing changed. There was a sound now. In the darkness on the floor, something stirred. He heard a soft moan.

Tanaka went immediately to the sound. The old captain lay on the rough planks, his dagger by his head. The merchant put his fingers to the man’s lips. “Make no sound. You are safe.”

He propped the man’s head up in his hand and listened, waiting for the old one’s breathing to become regular. He felt the old man touch his arm and nod. Helping him to rise, Tanaka returned the captain’s blade, and steered him toward the back stairs.

When they were around the side of the inn, the old man put his mouth close to Tanaka’s ear. “What happened?”

“We were saved,” Tanaka answered and said no more. When they reached the alley, the man who had once been a warrior reached into his sleeve and removed a small leather bag and placed it in Tanaka’s hand.

The merchant hefted it once, then leaned close to speak. “I will tell our lord.” He lifted the bag again. “This will not be forgotten.”

The two men parted, going silently through the streets of the Floating City. Tanaka felt more exhausted than he would have thought possible. His head spun with the significance of what he had just witnessed.

As soon as he had entered his own residence and assured his guard that he was, indeed, well, Tanaka pulled open the knot that closed the leather bag. Whatever was inside, had come from the trunk carried by the Imperial Guard. By the light of a single lamp he emptied the contents onto a table.

The merchant sank back on his heels. “May Botahara save us,” he muttered. Before him, glinting in the lamplight, lay five square gold coins, unmarked but for a hole in the center of each. They bore no stamp of official coinage, yet, clearly, they were newly minted.

“My lord does not imagine his danger,” Tanaka said to the room. “I must warn him.”

As he reached for his brush and ink, the merchant recalled the figure in the dark—his savior. Tanaka smiled to himself. He had never known praying to Botahara to have such a direct effect, for unless his age had overtaken him
entirely, what Tanaka had seen in the dark was an Initiate of the Botahist Order.

“Impossible,” he whispered. “Impossible. The Botahist Brothers endanger their Order for no one!” He could fashion no explanation for what had occurred, though something told him it was not Tanaka the Brothers wished to save, nor even the Lord Shonto Motoru—no, he was sure, it was a young monk they were concerned with. A young monk who Tanaka had seen perform an impossible feat. Yes, he thought, Lord Shonto must be warned.

A
GONG SOUNDED—THREE TIMES, a pause of two beats, and then a fourth deep ring. The sound echoed through the Palace of the Emperor, down long hallways and among the many courtyards. Then all was quiet again, all was still. In the cycle of the lengthening and shortening of the days, the hour of the owl never saw the light of the sun, and perhaps in balance, it never missed the moonlight. The autumn moon waned toward its last quarter, now, and its light seemed to take on the coldness and purity of the night air.

Jaku Tadamoto walked silently down an empty corridor, his sandaled feet making no sound on the marble floor. He wore the black uniform of the
Imperial Guard, though without the insignia of a colonel on the breast, and he carried in his hand a bronze lantern.

It was not unusual for a colonel of the Imperial Guard to be walking the palace at night; security was, after all, their duty, but it was somewhat less common that a colonel would not display his rank. It indicated that he had other purposes, purposes of his own—perhaps a test of security—and did not want his rank seen. Perhaps, too, he went on an errand for his famous brother.

The truth was that Jaku Tadamoto wanted to reduce the chances of being recognized, yet he wanted the freedom to roam the palace that the black uniform would provide.

He walked on, confident that his knowledge would allow him to avoid the guards on their rounds. Coming to a junction in the halls, the young colonel stopped to light his lantern from a hanging lamp. Once sure that it had been lit and would not die, he closed the lantern so that no light could be seen. He removed a single iron key from his sleeve and, without hesitation, crossed to a large, hinged door.

The lock turned without sound and Jaku Tadamoto was immediately inside a darkened room. It was a cluttered place, he knew, one that he would not attempt to negotiate in the darkness. Opening the lantern for a brief second, Tadamoto examined his surroundings. He was in the Hall of Historical Truth, which in fact, was made up of twenty rooms of similar size. It was here that the scholars labored on their great work, the history and assessment of the Hanama Dynasty. Tadamoto knew much about this because the work fascinated him, and he came here often to speak with the historians.

Closing the lamp, he crossed the room, by memory, to the far shoji. The screens opened onto a balcony, lit only by light from the waning moon. Staying back in the shadows, Tadamoto went silently to the balcony’s end parapet where he stopped to let his eyes adjust to the night. Far below, in a lantern-lit courtyard, the Palace Guard was changing. Tadamoto could hear the sound of muffled armor. Somehow this made him aware of the madness of what he did, yet the pounding of his heart was not from fear. The thought of Osha waiting for him caused a thrill to course through him.

We will not be found, he told himself, and wondered if his judgment was entirely clouded by his passion.

When his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, Tadamoto leaned over the parapet, gauging the distance to the next balcony. Two arm’s lengths,
he decided—he did not even consider the distance to the stone courtyard—the darkness below him seemed endless. There are safer ways, Tadamoto told himself, but I might be seen, and that would not do. I must cross here—it is an easy jump, a child could do it. It is only the thought of height that makes it difficult.

He climbed up onto the parapet’s wide top and balanced himself in the darkness. But still he hesitated. He bent his knees, flexing them for the leap, but then he straightened again. His palm, against the cool bronze of the lantern, was slippery with sweat.

Katta is the adventurer in our family, he told himself. So, he thought, perhaps I could have him come and carry me across to my assignation with the Emperor’s mistress! He took a deep breath then, and jumped into the darkness. His foot landed squarely on the parapet of the next balcony and he let the momentum carry him farther. Landing on his feet on the tiled floor, he let out a low laugh and shook his head. It had been ridiculously easy, as he had known it would be.

“The mind must control the fears,” he whispered to the night, and he turned to the nearest shoji. On an “inspection tour” earlier that day, he had left it unlatched and he found that it had not been discovered.

The east wing of the Imperial Palace had contained the private apartments of the Hanama before their fall, but now it was inhabited only by the royal ghosts. No one went there if it was not required of them.

Tadamoto did not let the fear of spirits overcome his very rational mind. He stepped into the room and pulled the screen closed behind him. Feeling his way, he crossed the wide floor before he dared let even a slight glow escape from his lamp. He breathed deeply to calm himself, but his lungs were assaulted by the mustiness of the unused rooms. The air seemed to smell of the past.

He opened a screen onto a large hallway, anxious to be moving, to leave the presence of the Hanama behind. His lamp picked out the wall paintings and the fine carvings in both stone and wood. The Hanama had exhibited much more refined tastes than their successors. Their art had been simple and elegant, with a subtle use of color, yet the court painters of the Yamaku were not required to execute such cultivated work.

Tadamoto came to a wide flight of stone stairs which rose up into landings on the next three floors. He stopped to listen for a moment but all was silent, all was dark.

He went up, his thoughts turning now to the Sonsa dancer. How had she come to this place? Had she been seen? Was she not afraid? A vision of her filled his mind, a memory of her hand on his arm.

At the second landing he turned down the hall, his lantern casting a warm glow over the floor and walls. Finally, at the end of the hall, he came to a set of large doors, ornately carved, painted with gilt. Depicted in this relief, were the Door Wardens—the giants who guarded the sanctuary within from entry by the spirits of evil. The door on the right was slightly ajar. Tadamoto reached out and grasped the bronze handle and pulled it toward him. It started to move, but then came to a stop. He pulled harder; it gave but then stopped again.

“Who dares disturb the sleep of royalty?” a voice hissed from the dark.

Tadamoto let the door go and it closed with a bump.

A voice came to him again, a woman’s voice. “Tadamoto-sum?”

He almost laughed with relief. “Yes. Osha-sum?”

The door swung open now, and in the light from his lamp Tadamoto could see the lovely Sonsa step back into the shrine.

“I…I was afraid you would not come,” she said in a whisper.

“I would not miss an opportunity to see you,” Tadamoto answered, and with that he opened the cover of his lantern. Osha wore an elegant kimono of the finest silk, blue like the morning sky, with a pattern of clouds. Her sash and inner robe were of gold. Around her, the gold of the ornate Botahist shrine seemed to take up the colors of her dress and reflect them, as though she were part of this sacred place—a priestess, an Initiate of the Way. She moved back across the floor, seeming to glide in her steps, coming to a stop in the center of a septilateral set within a circle on the floor.

“It is said that the Brothers dance in patterns such as this and that it is the secret of their power,” she said suddenly. And then she began to move—flowing, effortless movement like the Brothers performed in their defense, yet unlike this. Osha danced. She turned slowly in the half light, her hands suggesting the movements of resistance, yet they enticed, they called to Tadamoto’s senses as he had never felt before. In a final lithe motion, Osha sank to her knees, eyes cast down, and she remained thus for a long moment, unmoving.

At last she spoke in a forced calm. “I am no longer the favorite of our Emperor, Tadamoto-sum.”

The young colonel did not know what to answer. He began a step toward her, but she looked up and something in her gaze stopped him.