A/N: I've taken liberties with history, physics, time, and Japanese culture, politics, and economics, as well as having made lavish use of serendipity and improbability and plot holes and confusing flashbacks. Other than that, I've stuck pretty close to reality. There are some links at the bottom to pages explaining a few of the concepts I butchered, in case you want to know what's really what.
Chapter 5 – Allies & Other Hindrances
Yoshi bumped along in the cart, cursing the road and the heat and the paucity of his purse—this would have been so much nicer if I could have afforded a horse! Kentaro better have room for me…
He'd spent a full day and night on the road, but, with any luck this afternoon would see him planted more comfortably in Kentaro's digs, even though they were just two cramped rooms in Kyoto's seedier section of row houses. It had been quite a while now—what? about six months?—since he'd last seen his friend, and he was eager to catch up with him, as well as really needing his information network.
Taku Kentaro had come into his life with a bang. Literally.
The Gion matsuri had been spectacularly successful that year. At least, it had been so for Yoshi. He'd been drunk almost continuously from the first day, and, so far as he could remember, had been jailed only once, on a truly unfair charge: how could he possibly have known that that particular girl was the police chief's daughter? She hadn't looked so very official, and his inebriated state had prevented his taking proper precautions: her chaperones had him in custody before he could even finish the excellent pick-up line that had just popped into his head.
Oh, well, I only missed two days of the festival and they didn't beat me and it was good to start drinking again with a clear head…
The last day of the festival arrived, and the general atmosphere, already at fever pitch, fairly quivered with anticipation: this year, for the first time in nearly a decade, all twenty-nine districts would be entering a float, each one desperate to win one of the five prizes: this year, the prizes were worth competing for. No "fan of historical significance" or "kimono worn by the Great Shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu, himself"—this year, the prize was gold, and plenty of it!
Shogun Tokugawa Iesada, in a transparent move by his advisors to bolster his slipping power and to misdirect focus from his mental instability, was to award, in person, a standard rice measure filled with gold ryo to the ruling daimyo of the five districts entering the most beautiful floats. To a petty lord, strapped for cash by the Shogun's dictates to maintain lavish residences both in the home district and in Edo, this prize would relieve much of his burden.
In any case, the competition was great. Hopeful hands had woven dreams of respite from the yearly rice tax into each of the symbolic flags decorating the floats, and many sincere prayers went into making the three hundred and nine candle-lanterns that would form the mammoth four-sided pyramid of light to grace each float, to be shouldered with practiced precision by a team of one hundred chanting, shouting men, for the nighttime parade.
The lanterns for the float from the district of Kitakuwada—an outlying area generally considered to be "the sticks"—would turn out to be fueled with a bit more.
Kentaro and two of his fellow revelers, all natives of Miyama, the smallest village in this most insignificant of districts, knew a good idea when they thought one up. After all, how could their poor, scrubby district hope to compete with the floats from the richer areas? No, they needed something really special, something that would set their float distinctly apart from all twenty-eight other floats.
And Kentaro, the inveterate finagler and consummate barterer, knew how to get his hands on just the thing: gunpowder. The Ishin Shishi's gunpowder, in fact.
Really, they weren't going to use much—although none of them had any actual experience with what constituted "much", much less, "too much"—and it would make such an impressive display.
Yoshi had been resting against a low wall, just catching his breath from a particularly satisfying meal, when his bleary mind became aware of the soft scuffle of activity just a few feet from him. Focusing with difficulty, he recognized the furtive glances, the guilty body language, and he found himself drawn irresistibly to the small group.
It was an impressive sight: three hundred and nine large, red, still-dark lanterns, arrayed over thirty-five square yards around the float, all alone, the guards having slipped away to join in the celebrations. In the relative dark, four stealthy figures picked their way among the rows, stooping over and surreptitiously dropping something into each.
What are they doing?
His curiosity drove him incautiously right into their midst, and he slurred at them, in wobbly delight and a bit too loudly: "Hey! What's going on?"
At once, four startled faces snapped up toward him and, almost at that same instant, the fireworks began, flooding the area with garish red and green and white and blue light. In this sign from above, the five seemed to recognize kindred spirits, and a bond was formed.
Ah, that moment, that exquisite moment when their careful, excellent plan consummated. The guards returned, stacked the lanterns onto the float, and began to light them, each guard beginning at a corner. They moved rhythmically along the row, just touching long, glowing kindling sticks to the candlewick inside before moving to the next. Just as they began on the next higher tier, the powder in the first lanterns caught.
Gunpowder, when not contained or otherwise under pressure, doesn't explode—it merely burns. Just burns, that's all. Burns fizzily, sloppily, uncontrollably, popping and whizzing and scattering bright sparks wide in all directions. Including upward. Up into the bottoms of the second tier of lanterns. The paper covering for lanterns is many things—beautiful, translucent, colorful—but, curiously enough, not particularly resistant to flame.
Each new lantern, as it added its sparks and heat and light to the spectacle, set off the ones above it. The exponential growth of the massive pyre overshadowed even the fireworks' brilliant finale, and an admiring crowd quickly formed.
It was one of his prouder memories. To this day, that year's festival was talked about in hushed tones of awe and reverence.
He could never remember with any clarity exactly how he'd been scooped up along with that group—he'd thought he could run faster and look more innocent than that; perhaps the density of the crowd had hindered him—but during the subsequent week, with the four of them jammed into their dark, humid, vermin-infested cell—it was high summer, after all—he and Kentaro had cemented a friendship that would last them the rest of their lives.
And now I bring trouble to his door.
This inquiry would require some delicacy, even for Kentaro, Yoshi was certain of that. His gut told him that the miserable creature in the cave was not just a random victim of circumstance—the spirit was too strong and the wounds too bizarre—and he sincerely hoped Kentaro would know something useful without having to resort to actual, dangerous sleuthing: Yoshi was a firm subscriber to "the better part of valor".
As he languished, recuperating, impatient, he could feel time flowing past him, could practically hear the rush of it outside the mouth of his dark prison.
Time to move, time to plan, time to gather allies…
He cast about in his mind. He could, of course, no longer trust so much as a single soul with whom he had been acquainted during the past two years, no one who had assisted him in his nightly duties, no one who had plotted with him or spied for him or diverted for him.
He was alone, absolutely on his own.
Ironically, one of the faces that came to him was of that snake, Iizuka—his first assignment. At the time, he'd not inquired into the man's identity—much less the reason he was no longer necessary—but later, after Katsura had returned to some semblance of his former power, and had taken to going about under heavy guard, he'd heard rumors, snippets of conversation, hints of history, and he'd pieced it together: his predecessor had been betrayed.
He had heard about the massacre at the Ikedaya, and knew that in the aftermath the clan and its retainers had scattered, hiding among the populations in outlying villages. Apparently, Katsura had arranged false identities for some of the more valuable operatives. For this shadow assassin there had been a woman and a "profession"—a seller of medicines, perhaps?—but something had gone wrong. As with most betrayals, it was now impossible to untangle the alliances and double-crosses, but the woman had been killed, the shadow assassin had been neutralized, and enough blame had fallen on Iizuka to place him squarely into Shishio's hands.
He hadn't known what had become of the betrayed assassin, but Makoto liked thinking about it, liked flexing his certainty of how different it would have been had it been himself, liked reveling in his superior strength of character. He had known—absolutely—that he had no weaknesses, and certainly not any associated with any person, especially a woman. Even his familial ties were safe: not only were they deeply hidden, known only to Katsura and two of his closest confidants, but no one in his family—nor even in my household— would ever allow him or herself to be used against their own will: strength ran deep and pure within their blood.
…nor even in my household…
Now his thoughts ran in quite a different direction.
His father had inspired fierce and unswerving loyalty among his retainers—yes, he'd demanded it, but he'd also deserved it, had proven himself worthy of trust, perhaps even of blind faith. Many were the men who had given themselves unreservedly in his service, and had prospered by it. These men had been brought close in to the household; his father had brought whole families within the protection and purview of his authority and dominance.
One family, that of the petty samurai Sadojima, had entered the Shishio household with a boy almost exactly Makoto's age, and when they were both quite young. While they had never formed a friendship, the esteem in which Sadojima-chan held his young master had been clear; indeed, the boy seemed to live for little else than to garner favor with Makoto.
As he grew, the youth showed a remarkable drive and ability to manage, to plan, to supervise. He had sought, and was granted, permission to oversee all household matters pertaining to Makoto: he prescribed Makoto-sama's wardrobe, seeking and accepting only the finest silks and embroideries; harried the kitchen regarding Makoto-sama's favorite dishes, whether in season or not; ensured the perfection of the candles in Makoto-sama's rooms and the quality of Makoto-sama's sparring partners. In short, he designed and orchestrated every detail of Makoto-sama's daily life. Including, even, midnight trysts with girls, of which there were many willing ones—landing a prize such as the daimyo's dazzling and desirable son blinded many an unfortunate maid to what was really going on when Sadojima-kun showed up deep in the night, banging on the gates of the chosen one's household, demanding to speak to the cowering, but naively hopeful, father.
In fact, life as a hitokiri for the patriots, even as Katsura's most effective and treasured weapon, required an adjustment period for the pampered young noble. He had never let anyone see it, but arranging for his own laundry and eating whatever the kitchen put out that day had truly rattled him. Not for long, but he remembered that time with resentment—never again!—as well as the sting of humiliation he'd felt when he'd first carried his own clothes in his own hands down the back hallway to the common laundry room and had to talk with the washing women himself.
No, things were going to be different from here on out. He was rid—and well-rid!—of the Ishin Shishi, that just-too-prosaic rabble, along with any obligation of loyalty he had professed. He was no longer burdened with furthering the ambitions of others—now he felt completely free to pursue his own dreams, his own plans.
To craft his own destiny.
"All I know are a few rumors. After the big blow-up, everything was covered up pretty quickly. Lots of men just disappeared—not even their bodies were found."
"What 'big blow-up'?"
The two men were huddled over a bottle of bad sake in a dark corner of an otherwise-deserted eatery in the shabbiest part of town. They'd considered it would be the safest place to discuss their sensitive business.
Kentaro hesitated. "Look, this was a big, bad deal. Katsura nearly went off his head. I'm sure you've heard of 'The Four Butchers'?"
Breathlessly, Yoshi nodded his assent, chilled at this turn of the conversation, remembering the dread label the mere whisper of which wrapped cold fear around the heart of every person who heard it, guilty and innocent alike: "Heaven's Revenge".
"Well, there was a fifth—a sort of 'shadow assassin'—who operated even more secretly than that group. The first one of those seems to have gone off his nut at some point, and a replacement was recruited."
Kentaro paused, and Yoshi prompted, "Well?"
Kentaro took a deep breath, as if deciding just how far he wanted to go into the story he'd pieced together, then plunged ahead.
"After the Emperor was restored, Katsura found ways to use The Butchers—and I'm not going to get into that!" he shuddered, but continued: "—but the replacement was not so easily put off. Apparently, he'd had ambitions, ambitions for real power, and wouldn't be contained. The entire headquarters were terrified of him—men were simply staying away, not showing up for days on end—and some dumb-asses got the bright idea of offing him."
Yoshi's jaw dropped. "What? They were going to try to assassinate an assassin?" He shook his head in disbelief.
Kentaro smirked. "Exactly! Katsura practically took their heads off himself, and actually disowned the leaders, cast them right out into the street; they didn't last long, I can tell you that! He said he had plans to take care of the problem, and that everybody should just calm down."
Shrugging, he continued, "And that seemed to be that. For a few days."
Yoshi re-filled Kentaro's cup, then his own. "Just a few days?"
"One morning, a couple of Katsura's lap-dogs ran into the complex, flapping around and running off at the mouth about some disaster, some body they couldn't find." Kentaro hitched his bench closer to the table between them and leaned over even further. When he spoke, his voice was so low Yoshi had to put his ear nearly right at the other man's lips to make out what he was saying.
"They'd done it! The idiots had managed to ambush him. How they found enough men fool enough to go along I'll never know—personally, I think most of them were ignorant paid thugs. Anyway, here was their clever plan: they were going to shoot him in the head and then set him on fire."
Yoshi's insides began to roil with uneasiness.
Gozaemon… !
"They managed to carry out their plan, but so ineptly that the guy seems to have survived." Kentaro sat back, relieved of the heavier part of his story. "At any rate, no body has been found, even though they've been looking steadily ever since."
"Ever since…" Yoshi swallowed, his mouth dry and cottony. "And how long, exactly, is that?"
Kentaro glanced up at him sharply. "About three weeks now. Why? What's wrong?"
Yoshi leaned his elbows heavily on the table and propped his face in his hands, rubbing clammy sweat off his face and up into his hairline. He sighed raggedly.
"I think I know where he is."
matsuri : festival
ryo : an Edo-era measure of currency; a not insignificant amount all by itself
daimyo : a ruling samurai lord
Some links:
RE the festival : http/www(dot)city(dot)kitakyushu(dot)jp/english/09culture/
http/en(dot)wikipedia(dot)org/wiki/TobataGionYamagasafestival
RE the Shoguns : http/en(dot)wikipedi(dot)org/wiki/Shoguns