Ikedaya

by Mir

It was the night that won the Shinsengumi their fame, a festive scene of celebration consumed by bloodshed and disaster. This was the Ikedaya Inn affair: a nightmare come true. Complete.

2. Part 2

Title: Ikedaya

Rating: pg-13

Author: Mir

...

disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin was created by Watsuki Nobuhiro, published by Shueisha in "Jump," and produced by Sony Entertainment. All rights are theirs.

AN (2002): Again, let me reiterate that this piece is not true to either historical fact or the first OAV. It is instead a combination of both and my own imagination. This has been a while coming, but I've really enjoyed writing it. There's hardly any Katsura fanfiction, and it's great fun trying to get into his head.

...

part 2

They wove through the crowded streets, two men in dark colors with heads bowed and swords at their sides. There was nothing unusual about the sight itself -- these days, even the Shinsengumi were brazen enough to parade through Kyoto in daylight. The shorter of the two figures, his face shadowed beneath the brim of a straw hat, trailed behind the other man as pedestrians streamed by.

"The word is that Miyabe plans to burn the city to the ground. The weather's been so dry lately that the houses will ignite like tinder. Katsura's instructions are to tell anyone we care about to leave." They stopped before the familiar inn, and the speaker, as he pushed the door aside, glanced back over his shoulder with a hint of amusement in his eyes. "So, are you going to talk to Tomoe?"

Kenshin's eyes, trained on the bare ground beneath him, were hidden beneath the wide brim of the hat, but eventually his lips moved, the flat response slipped out between clenched teeth. "If she wants, she can leave Kyoto on her own."

Iizuka's shoulders lifted and fell indifferently as he parted the split curtain with one hand and stepped inside the doorway. "Just figured that since you saved her once, you might want to do it again." He turned briskly to the left, not waiting to hear a reply. Behind him the door remained open as Himura Kenshin sullenly crossed the threshold with lips pressed together and eyes narrowed in annoyance. He stared as his mentor's retreating back, his thoughts spinning in circles like the wobbly revolutions of a child's top.

It would be just his luck that as he approached his room, the rhythmic cadence of bristles sweeping across the floor clearly indicated that she was inside. Despite rumors to the contrary, after the first night, she had always slept downstairs with the other inn girls, never venturing past his door once the deep purple shades of dusk began to pour through the open window.

'I do think of you sometimes,' she had admitted one morning as she had stepped aside for him to pass on the narrow stairway. 'Whenever I serve breakfast and don't see your face among the others, I try to image where you've been the night before.' At his surprised expression she'd shaken her head, her arms full of clean white towels. 'Of course I don't know exactly where you've been... but not knowing doesn't stop me from imagining. I'm sorry. I can't help myself...' She'd paused, not eagerly awaiting a response as some girls might have done, but rather merely catching her breath with the intent of continuing on her way without a backward glance. It was the most she'd spoken to him since her arrival.

'You shouldn't bother. It's not worth the time,' he'd replied distantly. His habitual nocturnal activities were evident in the dark smudges beneath his eyes and the thin red capillaries that feathered outward from his pupils. They were manifest in the rounded slump of his shoulders and the way he leaned against the wall behind him to disguise the weariness of exhaustion. And without further comment he'd left her standing in the stairway as he half-stumbled toward the kitchen, his movements uncharacteristically sluggish but he footsteps, as always, falling without sound.

And instead of immediately ascending to the second story, she'd paused to watch his retreating figure until it disappeared around the next corner. If she was surprised that she felt concern, worry even, for this assassin, this murderer, she told no one. Because who would believe her even if she did?

"I'll be out of your way in a moment." She glanced up briefly at his entrance although the broom continued to glide across the floor. Behind her darkened silhouette, the deep oranges of the falling sun dyed the afternoon sky and traced boldly along the windowsill. The clouds hung suspended in the air like images caught forever by a camera's lens

"I'm in no hurry." There was a trace of gentleness in his tone.

"I have other chores to finish." Her face remained expressionless as she continued to sweep, her voice flat.

Looking straight ahead, he walked past her and out onto the balcony. Below, a lone man trudged wearily across the courtyard, his shadow trailing obediently behind him like an old dog, lame and half-blind. Above, the orange sun hung low in the sky, partially obscured by clouds that not even the fierce midday heat had been able to burn away. The temperature was dropping with the eminence of nightfall, but even as the swordsman reached forward and gripped the wooden railing, his forehead glistened moistly with beads of sweat.

"I -- I've been given the night off, and I would like to see the festival. Would -- would you..." Abandoning her sweeping, she stepped outside into the humid evening, broom in hand, eyes tracing the cracks that ran haphazardly across the floor. They rarely talked, rarely said more than a word or two in passing, and when they were together, by choice or by chance, neither had words for the myriad of thoughts that spun elusively though their minds.

Though he had felt her approach, his fingers curled tightly around the thin railing at the sound of her voice so close beside him, and replies like leaves caught in a river's swift current streamed though his mind in quick succession -- until he was left with nothing to act upon but instinct. "Yes." There were no regrets, no second thoughts. Time, measured by the edge of the sword, left little opportunity for the luxury of reflection.

- - - - - - - - - -

The streets of Kyoto were overflowing with visitors and pilgrims who had journeyed from far and wide for the annual month-long Gion festival, which was said to have begun in 869 to celebrate the ending of an epidemic that swept through the city. Though the festivities centered on Yasaka Shrine, located on the city's eastern side, they permeated every neighborhood and alley until it seemed as though the city was alight with noise and drunken revelry.

As night descended upon the city, the festivities were illuminated by the colored light from a sea of paper lanterns strung from house to house across the streets. And even as the unrelenting heat pressed down upon the celebrations, the air was filled with the ringing of laughter, the soft glow of fireflies, the steady beat of drums, and the sharp winding of flutes. Into the atmosphere of unrelenting excitement, the high trill of laughter blended with the tap-tap of wooden geta and the sizzling of yakitori grills.

Just before the hour of the dog on the broad Kawaramachi Road, a lone figure dressed in subtly-elegant beige silk wove its way steadily though the crowds. At his waist were the signature swords of a samurai, and although his brisk pace never slowed, he kept carefully to the deep shadows beneath the second-stories of the street's shops and inns. With so many visitors in the city, no one gave him a second glance, let alone questioned his rank or business -- which suited him perfectly, for he was in a hurry to reach his destination and was in no mood for idle chatter with strangers.

The young man who greeted him at the Inn, one Akechi Masaru, bowed deeply as he pushed the door aside. "Welcome to the Ikedaya, Katsura-san. Do you travel alone tonight?" His face, illuminated in the candlelight, was thin and marked by the dreaded teenage affliction of acne, but his voice was deep and smooth, an indication of his eminent adulthood.

"I come alone..." It was statement bound to raise questions in the boy's mind, but Katsura purposefully ignored the beseeching glances thrown in his direction. With recent events in mind, there was no need for the boy to know more than he already did. The less he knew, the less damage he could cause to the Choushuu clan if he was captured and interrogated.

Katsura waited silently in the entrance hall until Masaru had closed the door, but even with the thin barrier separating him from the city streets, he could still feel his heart beating in time with the cadence of the pounding drums, still see the strings of lights glowing before his eyes, still smell the pungent odor of human sweat as it evaporated from warm, swaying bodies. It was almost intoxicating.

"This way, then -- they're already upstairs." With a lantern in hand, the boy led his guest away from the door and through a narrow hallway. The old wooden stairs creaked in protest under their feet, and though he'd frequented the inn before, the ever-vigilant swordsman inside Katsura's head began to analyze the environment. There was nothing special to note about the halls and stairs save the unusual narrowness of the passages. 'I'd hate be caught with my back to the wall in a place like this. There's hardly room to swing a sword.'

But as the boy led him to the second-story front room, the impromptu architectural analysis was swept aside, and Katsura instead turned his attention to the words being shot like arrows across the room from one camp to the other and then back again. They were mostly youngsters, ronin fresh from the countryside with hardly anything to call their own besides their tired family names, the swords at their sides, and the worn clothing on their backs. And still they talked as if they'd just returned from personal audience with the Emperor himself. 'What imprudence.'

"Miyabe's nothing but an old fool with a loose tongue and a grudge against the world." The speaker, his cheeks flushed in both anger and intoxication leaned forward as his fingers strayed to the short sword on the floor besides him. Sake bottles, like stones freshly dug from the earth, lay scattered around the room, and it was evident from the overall atmosphere of the meeting that the consumption hadn't been limited to one or two individuals. "It wouldn't matter if he were harmless, but when idiots like you listen to what he says and--"

An eerie hush fell over the room as Katsura stepped across the threshold. Neither camp wanted to admit that they'd been drinking like merchants and squabbling like children. 'Because they know they're barely older than children and hardly better off than merchants,' he though to himself as his eyes swept carefully along the walls in search of friends and foes alike. 'Neither Miyabe nor Sugiyama are here yet. Damn them -- there's no point in staying here and listening to this riffraff drink themselves stupid and pretend to debate politics all night.'

And so with a nod to his own supporters, he leaned his shoulder toward Akechi and muttered softly through clenched teeth, "There's some business I need to attend to at the Tsushima headquarters. If Miyabe comes, tell him I am on my way back. Under no circumstances is he to leave this inn until I return. Do you understand?" In fact, Katsura had no intention of proceeding to the Tsushima headquarters... but there was no need for anyone else to know the nature and location of his business that night.

"I understand Katsura-san. He will remain here even if I have to bar his exit with my body and my sword," the young man replied in earnest... too earnestly? The thought, a mere flicker of suspicion, flashed through Katsura's mind as he nodded curtly to the assembled company and descended back down the narrow stairs. 'Is this the future of our country? Are these the men who'll continue the work when we're gone?'

He paused momentarily at the threshold, just enough time for a nod to the boy without losing step, and breathed deeply of the thick night air while a slight twitch of his mouth betrayed the thoughts that his eyes did not. 'Because we will succeed. The is only failure and ruin awaiting our country if we do not.'

- - - - - - - - - -

She floated through the crowds with her features molded into an expression of practiced indifference. Though the rhythmic tapping of her wooden geta against the rough cobblestones caught the attention of more than one male pedestrian, and the exquisite quality of her kimono was enough alone to turn heads, she'd learned to ignore their suggestive gazes long ado. Ikumatsu was a geisha, beautiful, refined, cultured... and making her way home at the end of a long day.

The men from Aizu Han, three lower samurai with money enough but no charm to speak of, had monopolized her attention for the better part of the evening. She'd suffered through their rough dispositions and uncensored conversation, all the while pretending to ignore the slander thrown unhesitatingly against the Ishinshishi. It would not have been fitting for her, a woman, to prove their statements false. They talked freely amongst themselves because of her gender, but their blind ignorance would ultimately assure their deaths.

As she approached her house, a modest dwelling on the western bank of the Kamagawa, she threw a quick glance up and down the street. It was only after assuring herself that the shadows were free of assassins that she opened the door and stepped inside into the gentle darkness. She had no reason to fear for her life, but it was certainly better to be careful than to be dead.

She pulled a folding fan from her sleeve and snapped it open in the semi-darkness, but the slight circulation of the air before her did little to dispel the lingering humidity. And walking in her tabi socks across the tatami with steps slowed by hesitation, she bit her lip and closed her eyes while lines of worry creased her forehead. Knowledge is power. It was a truism, a fact of life bestowed by parents on the disinterested ears of children. But as Ikumatsu paused mid-step halfway to the staircase she silently added her own amendment -- Knowledge is power if you're a man with resources.

She shook her head tiredly and a silky dark curtain cascaded upon her shoulders as she delicately pulled the pins from her hair. It had been years since she'd worn her hair down, years since she'd been a young girl with nothing behind her bright smile save the blissful gift of innocence. Youth, of course, is wasted on the young.

She reached for the round tortoiseshell mirror with gracefully tapering fingers. It had belonged to her mother more than a decade ago, and when she stared at the reflection washed pale in the moonlight, memories of days passed crept tentatively into her mind. They were well received in the fleeting stillness of the moment, and for just an instant she indulged herself in the sights and sounds of her childhood. The air rung with the laughter of younger siblings as snow gathered on her shoulders and melted on the tongue.

Then, with the abruptness of a sudden gunshot, the quiet tap against her doorframe shattered the stillness, and Ikumatsu's head snapped up from where it had fallen against her chest. "It's me." Her eyes widened slightly at the greeting, and in an instant she had scrambled to her feet.

"You're safe." Their eyes met, and she studied Katsura's handsome features while her hands reached for his to pull him closer. "I'd thought..."

He frowned in concern, allowing himself to be led safely inside by his lover. "Did you find something out? Is something wrong?" In the past, Ikumatsu had acted as a spy for the Ishinshishi. Her patrons never suspected that behind the painted smile and steady grace were ears as sharp as a fox.

"No, nothing." A shadow crossed her face, but she shook her head and smiled calmly for his benefit. "Are you staying here tonight?" After closing the door she reached for the nearest lamp, and soon the room was warmed by the gentle yellow glow of candlelight.

He removed his sandals and followed her with light footsteps but lips pressed together in tense contemplation. "I am not. The meeting at the Ikedaya has yet to begin, and I must persuade Miyabe to give up his foolish plans. He'll be the ruin of us all." His ears still rang with the loud clanging of brass bells, and as he sank to the floor in his customary spot across from Ikumatsu, he found himself wishing he were back in Choushuu with his own land solidly beneath his feet and the clear night sky arching from horizon to horizon above.

"Have some sake." She placed the shallow ceramic dish in his hand as he stared off into space, knowing that there was nothing she could say to persuade him to stay away from the meeting. Knowledge... is power to those who use it to their advantage, and Ikumatsu, although a woman, was certainly no fool. She allowed herself a quiet smile as she refilled the dish once, twice. And as the minutes passed by, Katsura murmured softly to himself, stifled a yawn, and at last drifted peacefully into sleep.

She knelt beside him after turning him onto his back and gently slipping a cushion beneath his head, hands resting calmly on her thighs. The Aizu samurai had discussed at length their plans for attacking the meeting at the Ikedaya that evening. Working in conjunction with the Shinsengumi, they had been absolutely glowing with the bright prospect of their assured success. They never suspected that the painted beauty playing music beside them was in actuality an enemy spy.

end of part 2

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Just for the record, Masaru has no historical grounding and is a creation of my imagination. Katsura is greeted by a sympathizer of the Ishinshishi at the Inn, but I haven't run across a name or anything about the young man... With Kenshin's actual involvement in the attack, I'm planning to began with what happens in the OAV and then branch off into new directions -- so keep your eyes open for part 3.

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