Disclaimer: I don't own Samurai Champloo or any of its affiliated characters, which belong to Manglobe/Shimoigusa Champloos; neither do I profit from this work of fanfiction. Nor do I own the Zen koan, 'The Tea Master & the Assassin', which more properly is credited to The Collection of Stone and Sand of Muju.
A/N: Bad languages, violence, usual Champloo stuff in this chapter.
Much love for FarStrider, without whose superbeta skills this chapter would have been incredibly sucktastic.
The Hanged Man
II. in eden
Expect poison from the standing water.
— William Blake, Proverbs of Hell
Mugen scratched himself leisurely, enjoying the feel of the sun. It probably wasn't a good idea to stay in the area much longer, not after the thing at the teahouse in Edo, but the warmth had almost cleared away the last memory of the dank little cell they'd held him in. His mouth curved upward, remembering the Yagyu masters and the fight they'd put up — now that had been worth it.
One good thing about this country, a man didn't want for entertainment if he knew how to look; too bad that was apparently the sort of thing that apparently gave bossy girls ideas.
Which reminded him. "Yeah," he said, stretching. "The smelly dude. Good luck with that."
"What?" She glared at him, the imperious effect spoiled slightly by the fact he had to look down to see it. "I broke you out of jail! And you burned down my home!"
He readjusted himself. "What, the teahouse? Thought you were working there — "
"I lived upstairs!"
"— huh." Mugen considered this briefly, before returning to safer ground. "Anyway, you stiffed me a hundred dumplings, you dumb broad. What makes you think I'd help you after that?"
The girl's arm swept back, as she pointed in the direction of Yokohama. "I set fire to my town to keep you from being executed," she snapped. "I can't go back. Do you know what they do to arsonists?"
"Just go find another town," he advised her, not unkindly. "You'll be all right."
"No." She folded her arms over her chest. "I saved your life. You owe me."
"I don't owe you shit! I saved your life."
"Nuh-uh."
He glowered at her: obviously, he was right — and what was her problem, anyway? There was no way in hell he was going to listen to some scrawny little girl no bigger than a two monme cup of sake, and why was he even bothering to argue with her — "Still not helping you."
The girl made a hmph sound, pursing her mouth. "Look," she said, fumbling a coin out of her sleeve. "I'll make you a deal."
He gave the coin a scornful look. "Ain't nearly enough. That's what, five dumplings?"
She ignored him. "Heads, you help me. Tails, I do it myself."
"How about heads, you go away, and tails, you're on your own?"
She shook her head, looking worryingly capable of following him to the next town and bitching the whole way.
He eyed the coin as he came to a decision. "Fine," he said. "But I'm flipping it."
"Be my guest." She held it out to him. The coin felt like any of the other old mainland coins when he took it, the same square hole punched in the middle; he rolled it in his fingers, not feeling the difference in weight that he would have expected if it was a dummy coin. He felt like an idiot for even thinking of it. What were the odds that she was smart enough to know how to rig a coin toss?
Fine. And even if it did come down heads, he'd just wait until the time was right, and ditch her — Mugen threw the coin high into the air.
They watched.
"Could you maybe have thrown it higher?"
"Shut up."
"Because that was my money, and I want it back."
"What, do you think it's going to stay up there?"
"If it gets stuck in a tree or something, you are so helping me — "
"Do you ever stop talking?"
"I think it's coming down."
He bit off the retort that was lurking behind his teeth, because it was: a faint glimmer of dull yellow, tumbling over itself as it fell —
She yelped, as the coin struck her in the center of her forehead. "Ow!" Her eyes crossed, trying to look up at it, as she pulled the coin away. "Oh. Oh! Hey!" She rubbed her head, grinning as she held it out for him to see.
Mugen indulged himself in the vilest, most descriptive curse he knew in the language of his birth.
(Twice.)
At the edge of the garden, there was the rustle of branches; startled, Jin glanced over to see a squirrel disappear into the spiky leaves of a maple and chided himself for his jumpiness.
Everything was still so unfamiliar here.
He hadn't expected that. Even Gojuu, as far away from the dojo as it was, had taken on the color of home, after while — there had been the same sense of a day measured out by the timekeeper, life split into an orderly progression of lessons and meals and drills and sleep — Gojuu had even smelled much the same as the place he thought of as home, though threaded through with the sharp scent of the pines that grew in the courtyard instead of the camphor trees that shaded the Mujuu; he'd realized the two were the same place at heart within his first week there.
Here, though — he stuffed that thought (and the sick ache that flowed up through his chest when it refused to go away) back down and concentrated on the weight of the sword in his hands. That, at least, was a comfort.
"Whenever you're ready." The woman held a walking staff lightly, fingers curled around the wood. It had to be a weapon; there was nothing else he saw that she could mean to use. Unless she had something else hidden? He frowned. Shishou had mentioned it in passing, a clan to the south who specialized in assassinations and unseen warfare, but what he'd said had made Jin's skin crawl. It was impossible that his shishou would have agreed to send him to a place where those were used: as likely as Yukimaru appearing that moment at the garden's edge.
Or as likely that Shishou would send you away, troublemaker. He took a breath and schooled his rebellious mind. He needed to concentrate.
"You're sure?" A guilty pang stole through him as he looked at her. It seemed shameful, somehow, to see her when she could not see him, as if he was a boy peeking into the women's bathhouse. "Perhaps the bo — "
Sara looked at him serenely then, and he remembered her pouring the tea. "We'll start with your sword," she said, then cocked her head a little to the side. "Unless you feel more comfortable using something else?"
"No," he said.
She nodded, bringing the long stick up in a half-circle as three shining blades bloomed from the end with a soft click.
A kamayari, then. It was a good choice for a woman; the longer weapon would keep him further away where he'd be unable to use his greater weight and height to his advantage. Of course, the real advantage would be in controlling the field, his mind supplied as he surveyed the garden for rises and dips in the ground that could cause a stumble. Wear her out, but keep her from hurting herself.
He let out a controlled breath, the knowledge of what was about to happen and the rightness of the katana in his palm a rolling tide under his skin; she drew back, and lunged forward.
He bobbed to his left, the sharp blade missing him by a fraction, and then to the right as she struck at him again. She was unbelievably fast; it was like a spar with Niwa-sensei, no time to think, no time to do anything but react —
— he blocked, the silver knell of metal against metal ringing through the garden.
"So." The tranquility was gone, her face intent. "You're skilled enough to have come from the Mujuu." She shifted her weight then, pressing forward, as he braced himself against the ground; he could feel the strain in his shoulders, the dull edge of the katana biting into his palm as he shoved back. "I suppose, the question is whether they'd want you back."
Jin inhaled sharply, the movement of pushing off against the kamayari happening almost before he was aware he was doing it, and this time it was her turn to dodge as the katana described a line that would have taken her head off, had she been a heartbeat slower. He sliced down as she curved away; he let the momentum carry the blade in an arc over, meaning to force her back —
— and she was there, close enough for him to feel her breath on his face.
He jerked backwards in surprise. She thrust the kamayari up, and out — there was the bright glint of sunlight off the edge, and as he twisted sideways to avoid the strike he realized she had maneuvered him so that he was fighting facing the sun. A grim humor filled him; did she really think he had never learned how to manage those little advantages?
Move, move, move: if her movement was forward, then his needed to be —
— backward. He pivoted on his foot, expecting the force with which she was pressing forward to carry her a step or two away —
— and she spun with him, breaking away only when he brought the katana up between them.
Breathing harder, he fell back into a half-crouch. What is this? She's not, she can't —
"I don't need eyes to see," Sara said, causing the fine hair on his arms to prickle, as she gripped the kamayari.
"Who are you?"
She whirled in a tight circle, the weapon held low; before he could react, the tip of the center blade raked over his leg, slicing through the cloth of his hakama and gouging a shallow furrow in his calf. He stifled a gasp, but she pulled back, cradling the kamayari in the crook of her elbow.
"You were distracted," she told him. "If this hadn't been for practice, you would have had a difficult time. Do you need to stop?"
He shook his head.
"Then — again."
The door slid closed behind Jin, the cloth of his hakama rustling quietly, with his question still as present in the garden as if he had taken brush to paper.
Not that she would, any more — Sara snorted, amused that she'd forgotten. How many years had it been, since she was blinded? It was foolish to think this much about a ridiculous question like that, from a boy who could probably still feel the planks of a dojo floor underneath his feet. Although — more fool herself, to call him distracted when she went into a sparring session with the ashes of that message from Edo still cooling in the kitchen grate.
She flexed her hands, listening to the joints cracking; for a short moment, the sound of the gravel as it was crunched underfoot blended with the noise of her knuckles popping.
"How did it go this morning?"
Even if she hadn't known he'd been watching, his tone would have been enough to tell her he was hardly asking her for an assessment of Jin's skill with the sword. "It's difficult," she said, massaging her aching hands. "He took your bait. How did you manage? An hour of that and I feel like I've been trampled by a herd of horses."
"It goes away eventually. They improve," he answered. "Or they die. He'll know what he needs to before the rains begin."
"That's less than a month."
"Mm."
"That's impossible."
"I assure you, it is possible."
"It took me nearly a year, and I did nothing but train," she objected; he had a better knowledge of that school than she did, but still — "Has he ever even used a sword outside of the dojo? If I had six or seven months, then maybe. Maybe." She grasped the kamayari, her hands gone clammy on the wooden shaft.
He raised a neat eyebrow. "You doubt him?"
"It can't be done."
"Ah." Kariya folded his hands into his sleeves. "Come at me."
" — what?" she asked, the question slipping out even though she knew it would go unanswered.
He stood quietly, waiting.
The handle of the kamayari rolled in her hand as she brought it around, and up — he stepped back out of reach of the blade, the edge passing harmlessly through the air where he had been; Sara let the momentum pull her away, moving into a defensive crouch with her weapon held in front of her.
The guard made a snick! sound as he drew the sword free of the scabbard.
She jerked to the side, but not before the edge sheared through a lock of hair that had come loose; there was a cool breeze against her throat, the shorn ends falling softly against her skin.
"Slow," he said, in the same tone he'd used when she'd first told him she was pregnant, an oh yes? sort of voice.
"Tired," she corrected, stabbing at his midsection.
He sidestepped as he moved toward her, katana held loosely in his hand.
Sara shifted back and forth, unwilling to give him a stationary target. She'd never be able to force his hand, but there was no reason to present him with temptation — "I thought we were fighting," she said.
"Hm."
She whirled the kamayari around, her lungs burning as she spun in a tight circle, the blades at the end of the staff a gleaming streak on the air impossible to dodge, she had him at last —
— he turned with her, bringing the katana up in a smooth motion to rest against her throat.
The blade at her throat pricked uncomfortably at her skin. She lifted her head higher to keep the edge from drawing blood, the tendons in her neck complaining. His breathing was even, unhurried as they stood there in the long moment; somewhere overhead, she could hear a jay crying out in a harsh voice.
The moment dragged on, and she became conscious of an emotion she had never thought she'd feel in this position: impatience. It was becoming ridiculous —
"Still tired?"
"A little." Careful not to let the weight of the kamayari unbalance her, she lifted herself up on tiptoe to ease her neck. "Are you going to continue?"
"No." There was a whisper of sound as he replaced the katana in its sheath.
Sara let out a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding, moving on legs gone wobbly to the stone bench. "Sometimes I think you will, one of these days," she told him.
"Do you?" Kariya chuckled. "You'd be impossible to replace."
She realized she was smiling. "Does this mean you intend to come to me tonight?"
"Perhaps." He sat alongside her. "We were speaking of the boy."
"Jin," she said, feeling a brief flash of irritation.
"It's difficult?" he asked mildly, picking up the conversation as if the sharpness under her jaw had never been; probably, she reflected, to him it hadn't.
Sara disciplined her thoughts, brushing hair away from her face. "He's good," she said. "His kata are flawless, but — " She yawned. "He hesitates. If I attack, he defends but only just enough to keep me from injuring him. I couldn't get him to press an attack, no matter how many holes I left open in my defense."
"Ah. The Mujuu." There was a soft grunt of acknowledgment. "It can be corrected. I have another instructor in mind."
"Oh?"
Kariya nodded. "You're preoccupied with something else," he said, frowning at a slender tree and the fallen leaves at its base. "It will be necessary to do this carefully — if your mind isn't on it, it would take time to undo." He got to his feet and went to the tree, where he reached into the lowest branches.
She took a breath, willing her hands still. He was right; there was no reason to keep it from him. As skilled as the other man was, Kariya would never allow himself to be defeated by someone so — "Yes, of course. I'm sorry. I should have told you as soon as I'd finished with the message. Shoryuu is in Hamamatsu."
"Really." The dry leaves crackled as he gathered them into his palm. "Our old friend. And what's he doing there, that made you keep this to yourself?"
Her lips were dry. "Ryujiro said that Shoryuu was killing the best swordsmen in every town he passed through."
"Mm." He paused a long moment, then brought his hands together and crumpled the leaves into powder. "That is very interesting."
" — he's coming here, isn't he?"
"No," he said. "I'll meet him in Hamamatsu."
Kawamura was teaching the class, the boys going suddenly quiet without a word from their instructor as the hachidan master came in: good. Mariya felt the corners of his mouth lift fondly, as they always did when he saw the younger man leading the boys through their drills — it was difficult not to think of him as the same homely boy who'd tripped and fallen over his own shinai in the first class Mariya had ever taught; now he was teaching his own class, and teaching it well.
Mariya shook his head at himself. Juunosuke would laugh to hear how sentimental he was growing.
Kawamura paused, his eyes alert. "Shishou?"
Mariya shook his head again, this time letting the smile broaden into a silent apology for disturbing the class. "Please," he said, settling himself unobtrusively in the corner of the room. "Continue the lesson as if I weren't here." Kawamura looked doubtful, but motioned to the boys, who began again.
The Hojo boy stood slightly apart from his fellows, as he waited his turn. It was odd — the boy bore a strong resemblance to Jin; the hair was lighter, and his skin a little too tanned, but he wore his hair pulled back at the crown exactly as Jin did, his obi tucked and knotted in identical fashion, Mariya realized, his curiosity piqued. The boy (Yukimaru, he reminded himself, he'd have to start taking over some of the lessons again if he was having this much trouble remembering a student's name) was making himself over into Jin. There were differences, of course — the boy's eyes were fixed on the lesson without Jin's comprehension, and his fingernails were bitten to the quick, flesh puffed round the jagged edge — but the similarity was so startling that Mariya wondered how he could have missed it.
The first set of sparring boys finished up — the smaller one had a tendency to lunge at his opponent in a way that left his midsection unguarded, Mariya noted absently. He'd have to mention that — and Kawamura called Yukimaru and another to the front of the room. Ah. Mariya leaned forward, as his old student gave the word to begin.
The boy wasn't bad, he saw, as the two circled round each other; Yukimaru brought the shinai up, pushing in toward his opponent's ribs, forcing the other boy to block him with a downward stroke. The other boy pushed back, hard, and Yukimaru twisted away, letting the force of the push pivot him on his heel. His opponent lurched forward, the object of the force no longer there, as Yukimaru turned — and the shinai tapped neatly against the other boy's unguarded side: a win.
Mariya watched carefully, as Kawamura congratulated the boy, and spent a moment in explaining to the loser how his own attack had been used against him; Yukimaru stood waiting, listening to the explanation as if there would be something of use to him. A boy who could think — how had he missed this one?
From outside came the ringing of the bell that signaled the end of the hour, and the swell of boys' voices as they exchanged classes. Kawamura smiled and nodded after the boys as they filed out; Yukimaru walked apart from the rest of the group, sneaking a quick glance at Mariya as he made his way past. Mariya kept his face impassive.
Kawamura was lingering at the far end of the practice floor, his eyes studiously assessing the condition of the dojo as he set the rack of shinai to rights. There were no lessons scheduled for the present time, Mariya knew; the younger man was waiting for him to approach, and ask the questions that would be forthcoming. A wave of warm affection washed through him. Kawamura was a treasure, the most competent secretary he'd ever come across, able to winkle the last bit of use out of an old gi or convince an irate father that repairing a leaky roof was work every student did; and an excellent teacher, as well.
The master of the Mujuu rose to his feet and crossed the floor worn smooth with generations of feet. Kawamura looked up, his face crinkling into a smile. "Shishou," he said, holding up one of the practice swords. "Would you look at this? It's been so long since I've handled new bamboo that I've forgotten how to take care of it. You'll have to dismiss me for my incompetence and I'll be forced to make my living as the night soil man." The smile broadened into a grin, revealing a set of prominent teeth that gave the nanadan master the look of a good-natured horse.
Mariya took the shinai, noting the way the fibers had thickened slightly. "I think that has more to do with the air here than you," he remarked. "In any event, no one else is willing to keep the books, so . . . "
"Ah. I shall keep my position for now," the younger man said dramatically, then his face smoothed over as he tapped his chin. "Have you noticed that more boys have been turning up sick with sour stomachs?"
"Have they?" Mariya raised an eyebrow.
Kawamura nodded. "I think we can assume that there are new plums in the orchard, though I haven't seen them myself."
The older man chuckled, handing the sword back. "It is a beautiful day. Shall we go together?" Still smiling, he went out into the courtyard as Kawamura returned the shinai to the rack and followed after.
The throng of boys outside disappeared into classrooms as the second bell rang, though a few stragglers gave the two masters guilty looks as they hurried across the courtyard. Kawamura stayed silent as they walked, looking around as if they were out to inspect the dojo. For what it was worth, Mariya admitted to himself, the Mujuu was well worth looking at, these days; the small pond along the side of the engawa reflected a clear sky, the dojo walls a warm ocher against the green of the moss that lined the neatly raked gravel path.
It looked like itself again, as he remembered it during the time of Master Sekiun, down to the last gleaming scale of the carp in the fish ponds. The sight should have brought him nothing but happiness, he thought; the dojo was thriving, the danger of the Mujuu dying out completely gone.
So why did it leave him with a taste like ashes in his mouth?
Kawamura held out a hand, as they reached the low wall that marked the boundary of the orchard; Mariya opted not to take it — how decrepit did the man think he was? — and instead hitched his hakama up, before carefully stepping over into the soft grass on the other side. He shook the cloth back into place, shame taking the place of spite. At this rate, the only person left who he wasn't actively trying to drive away would be in Mihara. To make amends, he said, "I remember coming here to steal plums when I was a boy. They were never quite as good as I thought they'd be."
Kawamura laughed. "I think every boy comes out at night to steal fruit from the orchard, at least once — except Jin. The only place I ever found him out after lights out was in the dojo proper, practicing."
Mariya smiled, sitting down on the wall.
"Have you heard from him? Or our lord official?" The younger man reached up into the closest tree, plucking fruit from one of its branches. He gave the largest to Mariya, before sitting down alongside him.
Mariya bit into the plum and made a face. The flesh was white and sour, under the thick green skin. "No."
Kawamura coughed. "These are terrible," he said, and took another bite. "Nothing at all? I suppose he's busy, but I miss him."
"Hn," Mariya answered. "We're all busy, these days. How are the boys? Have you had a chance to look them over yet?"
"We've had enough new ones." Kawamura grimaced, swallowing the rest before setting the plum stone on the wall alongside his leg. "There are a few who aren't sure whether they should hold a sword by the sharp end or not; I'd tell you they need to be weeded out, but I think they'll go elsewhere on their own. They'll do well enough with the Yagyu, and welcome to them. Other than that, it's what we've had in the past, except that there's more of them — I had to turn away eighteen boys for the first year class, over three times as many as we had last term. We'd never have had enough space for them."
Mariya raised his eyebrows, but left that. "The ones who were here last term?"
"Hmm." Kawamura's face lightened. "I was pleasantly surprised. They seem to have forgotten less over the break — that might just be my imagination, but they don't need as much catching up as they used to. And," he added, "the little Hojo has made extraordinary progress."
"Hojo," Mariya said slowly, concentrating on keeping his tone light. "He's the one with the terrible skin, isn't he?"
"Hojo-kun? If only he was." Kawamura sighed. "Skin like a peach — he's too pretty for his own good. As it is, half the last class can't be bothered to pay attention to the lesson because they might miss him breathing, and the other half thinks he needs to be squashed underfoot. A nice thick crop of pimples would be a blessing from the gods, in his case."
"Really. No older brother to scare them off?" Mariya set the half-eaten plum to one side; as the nanadan master gave him a startled glance, he snorted. "The Mujuu has hardly changed that much since I was a boy," he remarked wryly. "I believe even Master Ichiun took a brother in shudo."
Kawamura was silent a moment, then: "Last term, I might have told you yes, but now? " He shrugged, the lines of his downturned mouth a sketch of unhappiness.
"Now?" Mariya prompted.
"Something must've happened. Maybe he had an older brother, and they had a spat?" He shook his head. "I started wondering last term — Hojo-kun still took his meals with the boys from his dormitory, but other than that, the boys left him alone. They looked, of course, and no one spoke to him, so I thought: ah, he has someone. But he didn't act as if he did — I never saw him with anyone, and the way the other boys were around him, it was almost as if they disapproved. As if he had taken an older brother he shouldn't have: one of the masters, even.
"Which was a ridiculous thought," Kawamura said, apologetically. "He's a beautiful boy, but none of the masters have an interest in the boys that way; and I knew it wasn't you, shishou."
Mariya grunted, and Kawamura gave him a relieved smile before continuing.
"I assume he found a tutor instead of an older brother," the younger man confided. "His skills have improved tremendously: you saw him beat another boy today, as a matter of fact. He was the one at the very end."
"Ah?"
"Mm. He's started to think about what he's doing, and that — " Kawamura grinned. "Not that you need me to lecture you on what makes a good student good. But the change in him is remarkable."
"I see," said Mariya, shifting in place a little; the stones dug uncomfortably into the back of his thighs. "I was thinking he reminded me of someone." He was unprepared to hear the other man begin to laugh. "What?"
Kawamura subsided, his long face still merry. "To be perfectly honest, shishou, he reminds me a little of you, now," he answered.
Mariya blinked.
"When he first started in my class, he was a chatterer: very difficult to keep him from talking during a lesson. Now — " He flexed his hands in front of him, miming the presence of a wall. "Nothing. If he does say something, it's a question of some sort. What is the correct angle to keep the daisho when it's tucked into an obi? Is there ever a reason in which it would be acceptable to attack and mean to do harm? I was thinking of sending him to you for the last, actually. I'm a better teacher of technique than I am Sen no Rikyu."
"Ah." There was a brief glimpse of movement at the far end of the orchard; gratefully, the older man whistled toward the rustling grass. There was an answering bark, as a sleek, lead-colored shape trotted toward them from underneath the low-hanging branches.
As he'd expected, the interruption served as a distraction. "Hachi!" The younger man reached out, as the young dog came up to them with his tail wagging furiously. "Have you been chasing squirrels from the dojo? Good boy." Hachi responded by bumping his head against Kawamura's leg to encourage a behind-the-ear rub.
Mariya scratched under the dog's chin, the animal's liquid eyes closing in puppy bliss. "It's good to see a dog here again," he remarked.
"Again?" Kawamura straightened up and brushed himself off, giving the dog a mock-stern look. "Does this mean I'm not the first to have thought of using a dog in my lessons? Hachi, I told you someone had to have thought of it before us."
"It was before you were born, probably: I think it was during my last year as a student here. A good dog — he was sent as a gift to Master Sekiun from Kubota, one of the boys had family there."
"What happened to him?"
"He died. Master Sekiun believed it was a bear," said Mariya. "A terrible thing to see."
The cheerful expression slipped from the younger master's face. "Ah," he said. "But — a bear? Here?"
"Mm." Mariya stood, his knees sending up a twinge of protest over the uneven ground. "A most singular bear. Do you think you can spare the inquisitive little Hojo from your next lesson? I would like to see him for myself."
"Of course."
"Would it please his family for him to take up a position with Edo, do you think?"
"Not any more than an extra thousand of rice."
"Good."
He had a headache already, by the time they reached Kawasaki.
Mugen rolled his head on his neck, hoping to hear a satisfying crunch; there was nothing but silence, and a brief, excruciating twinge that shot up from his shoulders into the back of his head as the muscles refused to loosen.
Of course, the pain in his head was as nothing, compared to the pain in his ass.
And she was Still. Talking.
" — we could have stopped at that last place, I saw a man come out with some dango and dango isn't that expensive, we could've probably managed that; places like that don't cost that much. Except they never have enough help. I bet I could've gone in and said, 'Hey, if we work for a couple hours, can we have something to eat?' and they would've been, 'Can you start now?' unless the cook was a pervert or something because you don't want to work in a place like that," she said, without pausing for a breath that he could see. "I mean, you'd be okay, but he'd totally be after me except that I really need a — "
He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, hoping to make her disappear, but the wittering went on. Mugen opened his eyes and exhaled.
Crap: it was going to have to be the tanto, then.
Before he could use the tanto on himself or the girl, however, his eye was caught by a short man coming out of one of the roadside stands that were everywhere in this country, carrying a cup of something that looked vaguely alcoholic. Mugen brightened; he could at least trade the girl for a drink. Saved! He veered toward the stand, the girl close behind.
"You like sweet sake?" she asked, dubious.
He skidded to a halt. True, it would be sake, which was the most important thing, but — "How do you know?" he asked, suddenly suspicious.
She pointed up at the characters painted on the edge of the awning that fluttered over the top of the stand.
He cursed. So close, and yet — aaargh.
"Is it really sweet?" she asked, trotting just behind him as he strode away, the loss of the sake a horrible pain in his heart. "I've never had it, but it sounds like it would be all right because most sweet things taste good; except that if you eat a lot of sweets — "
"Oi," he said abruptly, cutting her off mid-twitter. "You read that."
She stopped talking; surprised, he turned to look at her. She was frowning at him like he'd just announced that rain was wet. "Uh, yeah?"
"First waitress I ever met who could read," he observed, plucking a long grass stem from the side of the road for something to have in his mouth. He'd hit a weakness, judging by the way her mouth had suddenly pinched shut; he laced his hands together behind his head, watching her with new interest.
"Uncle taught me at the teahouse," she said, her little fists clenched at her sides. "Anyway, lots of people read."
Not him, but Mugen wasn't about to tell her that; he made a noncommittal grunt, the grass stem bouncing as he chewed. She subsided, allowing him a moment of glorious silence as he thought.
As much as she seemed to want him to think otherwise, he'd never met another woman — girl, he amended; she was flat as a plank — that, whether waitress or whore, someone would have bothered teaching something as expensive and ultimately useless to a woman as reading. Numbers were one thing: he'd met more than one madam who would've made an abacus blush for shame over its slowness in comparison. But writing? Something else altogether. The only women he'd ever heard of that were taught to read were —
— shit, she was samurai.
The fuck was she doing in a teahouse, he wondered. And looking for another samurai?
The taste of the grass in his mouth was green and sharp, as his jaws worked. If she was samurai — and could women even be samurai, or were they just how you got more samurai? He could add that to the shitload of other things he didn't know about this place — that would make her all kinds of complicated, considering how she'd been waitressing when he came across her. She was no stranger to hard work, either, judging from her rough hands; he glanced over at her, his eyes going to the dirt smudged on the back of her wrist. Could people be made not-samurai?
The likelihood was, even if he did help her find the smelly dude in the next day or two and left her with him, she was a hornets' nest of trouble.
Really, smartest thing would be to ditch her.
He made a face, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Don't care where you learned it," he lied. "Point is, you see another sake stand before I do, tell me."
She gave him an undecipherable look. "You know, if you want something, you could ask."
"I just did."
"No, I mean you could say, 'Please, Fuu, could you tell me if you see one?' because then you wouldn't sound like a jerk."
"Why would I do that?"
" . . . you want to sound like a jerk?"
He made a sour face. "No, call you Fuu."
"Because that's my name!"
Mugen grunted. This demanding, he could think of a name for her on his own.
They walked along in silence for some time, the girl — Fuu, he'd have to remember that — following him closely with her eyes on the road.
"What?" he asked, finally.
"I don't know what your name is."
" . . . Mugen."
Text of a letter delivered at Mujuu-Shinken Dojo, Kisarazu, the second day of Satsuki, from Gojuu Hall, Mihara:
My good Enshirou,
Here in the south, we are rarely troubled by your snow and ice, but as you say, the winter wind is very cold indeed. I find that it grows colder every year, though I find it hard to believe that it is old age approaching; I was born very nearly the same year as you, as you know, and as I have never seen that you have aged, I have come to the conclusion that you and I are incapable of growing old. Still, the trees of the castle grow straight and seem to be taller from one day to the next, so perhaps time does pass, after all.
It was with great interest that I read your letter, as I remember our acquaintance very well — it's been a long time, but I suspect even you remember the boys who were in your year at the dojo; and certainly he was one of the more memorable students in my classes under Master Sekiun. I am curious to know what sort of man he has grown into, given the person he was then — one of those boys who is so firmly convinced of his own talent that he can't quite grasp how anyone could think to improve it. (You may have come across one or two of them over the years yourself, unless I have been unusually blessed by the gods above and beyond the twins — in that case, I can only assume I am atoning for several lifetimes all at once.) A bit of a bully, too, if given the chance, though I never had any direct experience of that during my stay at the Mujuu. I think he would have been hesitant to try anything of that sort with me, considering our friendship, but I remember I found the manner in which he treated some of the weaker boys to be distasteful. Still — if he kept those tendencies, I doubt Jin would be a target he would choose. Our boy is enough like you that any attempts of that sort would not be a success.
It is intriguing that he has made such an offer.
You've already asked him why he would choose your students over the Yagyu — and I agree, it seems as if they would be a more practical choice; they can produce two or three swordsmen in the time it takes the Mujuu to polish one — but our gardening friend has never been a fool who acts without reason. Perhaps it would be more helpful to ask what his purpose is, if the Mujuu is more suited to it than any other discipline? But, as I say, it has been a very long time, and perhaps as he has grown older he has come to appreciate the Mujuu for what it is: even a pine will bend when the winds tell it to.
Unclear motives aside, I am pleased to be able to tell you that I will be unable to write to you for some time, as I am required to present myself in Edo, where my Lord Asano is resident; I also, of course, intend to visit the dojo of the area, as my students would be sorely disappointed were I not to learn as many new things and leave them with the kinder junior masters as long as possible.
I have the good fortune to remain
Your devoted friend,
Juunosuke
