Cold Blood Read online

  Blue Rice cast a worried look at Nagato.

  She grinned and shook her head. “You don’t look or act much like a pirate. I do not think they will bother with you.”

  He gave a small grin in return, took another swig, and lay back down in the bottom of the boat.

  She, on the other hand, rose to her feet. Her previous passages had been on much larger craft—ones which could hold a royal carriage, its oxen, and sixty mounted samurai. Those crossings took most of an hour. On the royal journeys, it was required that a noblewoman, young as she was then, remain out of plain sight and away from the punishing sun, which in turn meant that she as of yet had never enjoyed a clear mid-channel view of the strait, the isles, or the Leeward Sea. But today in the open craft, with no reason to conceal herself, for the first time she got an unobstructed glimpse of the Isle of Unknown Fires from out in the strait. Her home isle’s snowcapped inland mountaintops shone brightly.

  Already six day’s journey from the outer edge of Great Bay Province, she strained to see any smoke from Shinmoe-dake, but found no sign of the volcanic plume. A long way from home, she thought to herself.

  The sail fluttered and flapped against the penetrating blue sky. And though the breeze was strong, moist, and cool, she remained warm, comfortable, and dry in her armor. Arms akimbo, she let the air sweep over her, her hakama fluttering, tugged by the wind, just like the sail. Perhaps it was her imagination, but the small, low-slung kobune seemed to move faster than the larger ships of previous crossings.

  Her interest flowed to the other passengers, whose conversation she could not help but overhear. From what she could gather, the two genial monks, who were about her age or slightly older, were embarked on a pilgrimage to an important temple near the summit of a sacred mountain. The fretful merchant and his apprentices were on their way north, possibly as far as the Heavenly Capital, where it was rumored that fabrics fetched higher prices. The boatmen talked among themselves, mostly focusing on keeping the kobune steered toward the spot on the opposite shore, where more passengers undoubtedly waited for the return trip. Blue Rice lay in the bottom of the boat with his cap across his face, seemingly half-asleep.

  Maybe it was because they were closer to Yamabuki’s age, or they still had the visual acuity of youth, but she was taken slightly by surprise when one of the monks said in a loud whisper to her, “A Taka warrior—and a woman, at that!”

  Twelve:

  Are My Teeth Black?

  The monk’s name was Akibō—“bō” being the suffix that monks added to their names to denote their religious status. The other monk was called Iebō. She knew monks were discouraged from discoursing with females, but these two seemed at ease with her—as if she were a sister. Yamabuki had a momentary fantasy where she, like them, had become an itinerant Buddhist. Then her name would have been Yamabukiama—Yamabuki the nun.

  “Have you been to the Main Isle before?” asked Iebō.

  “It’s been some years,” she said.

  “But that was before you were a samurai.” Akibō nodded in answer to his own question.

  “Heian-kyō is a magnificent city,” said Iebō.

  “That it is,” she said.

  “With palaces and wonders. And more people than you’d ever thought existed,” Iebō said. “Tens of thousands of people.”

  “Hundreds of thousands,” she corrected.

  Akibō cocked his head, casting quick glances at both Blue Rice and Long Sword. “You seem to be traveling by yourself.”

  “No.” Yamabuki grinned slightly. “I have my colt.”

  Iebō’s eyes sparkled as he laughed. “True. A good companion. Those born under the sign of the horse are said to be quick and smart, though sometimes so quick and so smart that people will say that such a person is hotheaded.”

  Yamabuki laughed along with him. “Then you know Mochizuki well. He is all of that.”

  “Do you know the places to stay on your way to Heian-kyō?” Iebō asked.

  Yamabuki grinned enigmatically.

  Akibō said in a friendly tone, “We know many temples along the imperial highway at which to stay, friendly to monk and warrior alike.”

  She began to wonder why these monks were seemingly asking her to accompany them, when suddenly she felt the boat slightly list.

  In an instant, Long Sword, still at the stern of the craft, was standing. “You!” he shouted almost in accusation, and again addressed her as a familiar. “A woman?”

  The boat continued listing slightly as Long Sword made his way forward.

  She noticed immediately that his field sword, along with the rest of his blades, lay next to his stacked armor. If he wanted to start trouble, he would not be using those weapons, at least not without retreating to get them.

  He scowled, stopping three steps away and pointedly looked her over as if for the first time.

  She returned a look of dead calm.

  His scowl changed into an expression which on any other face would have been haughty, but on his was more of a grimace. “Are the Taka men so short of warriors that they are training up women as samurai?”

  “Are the Ōuchi women not taught how to defend their castles when their husbands are away in battle? Does the blood of the warrior Goddess Jingū no longer flow as strongly as it once did through their veins?”

  She knew she should not have made the sly reference to the clan’s diluted ancestry, especially since it was not true, but his cheek needed to be checked.

  “Do you have a husband whose castle you defend?” he demanded, eyes narrowed.

  “Are my teeth black?” she quipped, and to prove her point she smiled broadly, though not warmly, showing her perfect white teeth. Like all unmarried upper class women, she did not blacken her teeth in the practice of haguro.

  He begrudgingly snorted a laugh. “Women who walk around with swords should not go around reciting poetry.”

  “But women who can use them can,” she said without making it sound like a challenge.

  “Better to keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.” He glared at her.

  Blue Rice stirred, looking sleepily toward Long Sword. “We both heard the Taka warrior’s poem. If someone were to judge her fighting skill based on her poetry, they would be very wise not to contest with her.”

  By now, everyone had fallen silent. The only sound was the lapping rush of waters, the cry of gulls, and the flapping of the sail.

  “So.” Long Sword quieted down, realizing that most everyone else aboard, even a crewmember, had withdrawn forward, away from him—which was not all that far given the size of the boat. As for the senchou, he stayed at his station, seemingly indifferent to the warriors’ conversation. For his part, Blue Rice was back to snoring without moving.

  “What do the Taka teach their women warriors?” Long Sword’s voice was low, almost conversational, though not quite, and this meant he had only changed tactics; whatever his goal in addressing her, she did not know.

  Yamabuki stood still, mirroring his outward pretense of calm. “We learn from our teachers. Same as you. Same as everyone.”

  “Teachers . . . ha!” He directed some latent ire toward some unnamed teachers. “There’s fencing-hall teaching and then there’s real-world experience. There’re things they can’t teach in some training hall . . . things you only know by living and fighting and killing—and you don’t get that from some old fool.”

  He took a step forward. Her pulse quickened. She remained relaxed, ready, saying nothing.

  “Like back on shore. You didn’t remove your armor like I did. If this boat were to capsize, you’d have to swim for it—and don’t look to that fancy horse of yours to save you, either—he won’t. If you were my pupil, you wouldn’t get away with that.”

  His pupil? My!

  There was what seemed like a long silence before he sniffed, “Ever been in a
duel?”

  She smiled.

  Akibō and Iebō cast uneasy sideways glances at each other.

  Thirteen:

  We Shall Fight With Sticks

  “Ever kill a man? That takes cold blood.” The samurai looked at her, his eyes searching hers, then nodded to himself, “I can see you haven’t . . . but I have . . . plenty of times. I fought in the Hōgen Rebellion—for the victorious side!—and it’s nothing like those old fools tell you.”

  Yamabuki inclined her head politely, indicating that she had heard his words.

  Why was this warrior saying all this? She knew that if she waited, she would find out, so she sat down and let him continue. What else could she do?

  And indeed, he continued:

  “It’s nothing like they have you stage in some dojo. It’s not like that. Everyone’s cutting at each other. Blood everywhere. Limbs hacked away. Screams. Oh, the screams. Screams like nothing you’ve ever heard. Anger. Pain. Fear. Despair. They cry for Buddha’s help, but Buddha doesn’t help. Better to cry for a quick death and hope your enemy listens, because in battle they’ll beg you to finish them off. Blood. Lots of blood. More than you’ve ever seen, girl.”

  Yamabuki’s mouth twisted. “A woman isn’t afraid of blood. She sees it every month of her life.”

  Long Sword snorted, his expression sour. “A girl with a tongue as sharp as her sword. Duels are different. They’re more like the fencing hall. Ever practiced with real steel against someone who’s not obliged to hold back?”

  “The Ōuchi train that way with each other?”

  At the mention of the Ōuchi, Long Sword once again darkened, and she began to suspect that he had had a falling-out with the clan. Why else would he be traveling by himself, in the opposite direction? she considered, reflecting upon the forty Ōuchi warriors who had just returned to the Isle of Unknown Fires. Perhaps he’s an outcast who no longer serves a clan. A ronin, a person of the wave. Maybe that is why he acts this way.

  Long Sword continued. “We use dull blades. Can’t really get too hurt. It’s very different from wooden swords.” He paused for a moment. “In fact I have a proposal. When we reach shore, we shall fight each other with sword-length sticks, just like you’re probably used to in your dojo. If you win, you go on your way. If I win, you become my student and learn the real art of war from someone who has experienced it firsthand.”

  “You are very kind,” she answered politely, “but I am duty-bound to reach my final destination and I cannot tarry.”

  “Where are you headed?” He grew dark again.

  She shrugged, for where she was going, or why, was not something to be shared with anyone, least of all him.

  “Heian-kyō,” he said flatly. “You are headed for capital, ne?”

  She still did not answer him.

  The seas grew choppy and the boat started to sway. “Prepare!” yelled the senchou, and indeed the boat turned, heading directly on the final leg toward the landing on the Main Isle. “Weather coming in,” the senchou called out.

  Long Sword gave Yamabuki a look, turned, and made his way back toward his gear as the boat started to jostle.

  Muted cheers erupted from the people at the shore—in both greeting and delight that the boat would be there in time to make a crossing back today.

  As the crew dropped sail, a temple bell tolled out the last quarter of the Hour of the Snake. The entire seagoing leg had taken but half an hour.

  Blue Rice sat up. If it was possible for a man to have a completely green complexion, he had achieved it; at least that is what Yamabuki thought. His saké bottle, sans stopper, lay in the corner of the deck.

  “The last bit was rough,” she said.

  Blue Rice appeared to grow more ill at the mere mention of the rough seas. He gasped and pointed over the side.

  “A water fox!”

  Yamabuki’s eyes shot to the place he pointed. Nothing. She shook her head.

  He pointed, shaking his finger at the spot. “Red! Fox face. Fox tail. Laughing.”

  She wondered if his saké had gotten the better of him. She had not only heard of, but also seen, people who were so possessed by drink, or lack of it at the moment, that they saw what wasn’t there or, rather, did not understand the things they did see.

  “Ah,” Yamabuki’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe a sea lion. They can look a bit like foxes.”

  Blue Rice snapped, “I know what a sea lion looks like! I am not some fool.” He rose to his feet. “I once was of a daimyō lineage,” he thundered, “and that was not a sea lion.”

  Fourteen:

  What Lord Do You Serve?

  The senchou guided the boat toward the dock and the shore crew pulled it in.

  Yamabuki immediately headed forward to her colt. While the fabric merchant and his five helpers scuttled about, she moved Mochizuki toward the gangplank, determined to be off the boat before the cart got in the way. Again with the help of the senchou, she led her mount onto shore.

  The horse was not pleased with the crowd. He snorted, threatening to rear as she led him through the waiting passengers. The commoners quickly parted at the sight of the prancing hooves.

  She took a quick look at the stern of the craft—Long Sword, along with his armor, was thankfully gone.

  What a strange man.

  She turned to find Akibō and Iebō waiting for her. They bowed and gave her a small unrequested blessing. Iebō said, “Maybe you should travel with us.”

  “Hai!” Akibō agreed.

  Iebō added, “That Ōuchi warrior’s looking for trouble.”

  Yamabuki inhaled. “As much as I appreciate your kindness, I believe I am not in danger.” And I doubt I’ll need the help of two unarmed monks.

  The monks shifted uncomfortably and bowed to her.

  She bowed in return. “You go on ahead. Have a safe journey to your temple.”

  They turned and somewhat stiffly headed toward the inland road.

  There was no need for wooden planking since this beach, unlike the one below Kita, was not nearly as rocky. The soil was quite sandy. Muddy. It rained harder here last night than back across the channel. Getting Mochizuki to the road would be much easier along these low bank shores. No cliff to climb, she smiled to herself.

  She looked along the coast, a series of coves. The beach close to the kobune was backed up with carts and goods, too many to fit all aboard for the upcoming departure.

  No wonder the senchou was so quick to leave Kita. He knew he had a throng awaiting. They had probably been forced to give up their places to the Ōuchi warriors who had crossed earlier.

  Meanwhile, the fabric merchants, who finally got their cart off the kobune, now struggled to get its wheels through the sand.

  Yamabuki looked above the high-water mark, where about ten Ōe sakimori blocked the path. They were dressed in black warrior-tunics, each displaying the bright orange-on-white Ōe clan emblem: a single upright arrow feather.

  The guards struck her as overly grim for merely checking people headed inland.

  A man wearing a gold medallion, the symbol of a leader, stood at their center. Two of his lieutenants flanked him, one on each side. All three carried bows, arrows, and long swords. The remaining guards carried only polearms. None of the Ōe wore battle armor.

  As she approached them, they were already busily questioning Akibō and Iebō, who held out their alms bowls. The guards promptly responded by sending them packing, empty handed.

  The sakimori then eyed Yamabuki and her mount. One of the lieutenants, not much older than she, looked her up and down, and not in the way one warrior might look at another, nor in the way a man might look at a woman that he found interesting. It was as if he were searching for some flaw in her armor in which he could find weakness or fault.

  “Who are you and what Lord do you serve?” he asked, affecting a tou
gh manner.

  “I am Yamabuki of the Taka and I serve that clan,” she said simply.

  “Where are you headed?” he asked.

  “Heian-kyō.”

  “On what business?”

  “In the service of Lord Moroto.”

  The Ōe men flashed looks to one other.

  “Beautiful mount, Taka-san,” said the leader as he let his eyes sweep over Mochizuki. “Young.”

  “Barely more than a yearling,” she said, bowing slightly in acknowledgment.

  “How long have you had him?” he asked.

  “I raised him from a foal.”

  “Great Bay District has fine horses.”

  The other lieutenant, the plain looking one, began to speak, “There is a fee for those who—”

  The leader raised his hand and the lieutenant stopped mid-sentence, stunned but obedient. The man in charge waved her on. “Have a safe journey, Taka-san.”

  They had barely exchanged small bows of departure when she heard a sudden commotion.

  The guards, as one, looked at the shore behind her. As she turned, she saw Blue Rice in the distance, his hands over his mouth, running headlong across the beach toward a clump of bushes and trees above the shoreline.

  He’s going to lose his stomach.

  “Halt!” yelled one of the guards. “Ha!” other guards echoed.

  Either Blue Rice did not hear the sakimori yelling at him, or he was too embarrassed to care. Now starting to double over in the throes of nausea, he raised one arm, waving at the shouting men, indicating that they should wait.

  Obviously his saké cure has failed, Yamabuki thought to herself, shaking her head.

  Yamabuki started to say, “He’s just seasick—”

  But before she could finish her sentence, the tough lieutenant had already drawn his bow and shot an arrow.

  Yamabuki gasped.

  The arrow lodged in Blue Rice’s ribcage. He stumbled and fell, losing his stomach. At first he vomited what looked like what he had eaten, mostly saké, but then blood. He managed to stand up, his eyes in pain, throwing his arms open as if asking, “Why?”