Disclaimer: I don't own Samurai Champloo or any of its affiliated characters, which belong to Manglobe/Shimoigusa Champloos.

A/N: Suggestive; warnings for violence; also messy, leaky death. (You may not want to read this while eating.) Lots of bad language, but . . . er, Mugen, so this should not come as a surprise. And hopefully updates will come more quickly, now that the off-Broadway production of 2008: What A Horrible Year! has closed up shop. Hurrah! (However, over a year between updates for this story does seem to result in huge chapters that require splitting into smaller chunks for the site to process. Eep.)

As always, much love for FarStrider, beta extraordinary, who turns my wittering into readable text. Thanks, Stridey; you really are worth your weight in French toast.


The Hanged Man

III. the barren tree



The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.

William Blake, Proverbs of Hell



Once upon a time, back in the days when he was fresh off the smugglers' dhow from Ryukyu, the prospect of entering a Japanese village would have been of great interest to Mugen. Everything was so tidy: the road was bordered by lines of trees like soldiers, the farm fields behind them in neat green oblongs. Even the small shrines at the crossroads with the stone figures inside were kept spotless; if he'd had a thought to spare, it would have been why people in this land felt the need to keep their gods boxed away. But today, the difference between this place and Ryukyu (where the gods would have laughed at the idea of their confinement in cramped little houses, then sent the ocean to smash them and set themselves free) was set aside in favor of a more pressing problem: the question of how he could turn his traveling companion into an ex-companion.

(The tiny part of his mind that pointed out killing her to shut her up would undoubtedly only cause her to become a vengeful spirit following him around — and that she'd really never shut up then — was still winning out, but only just.)

And the stubborn itch at the back of his mind that he'd landed himself with the biggest problem of his life by — well, not that she'd saved his life, because he could totally have taken all those guys at the execution grounds, unbelievable how slow and fat they were — agreeing to that stupid coin toss in the first place was not going away. Doing something that would send him back to prison for another tattoo, that was one thing, but this smelled like some kind of clan trouble or something, and that kind of crap?

Not for him, thanks.

She'd be fine. She'd been doing all right when he met her: place like this, bound to be some kinda teahouse around anyway.

The problem was currently walking a couple of paces ahead of him, bitching about how her last bath had been days ago, even before the escape, and how she was losing her looks as a result. She looked fine to him (if a little flat-chested for his tastes), but it sounded like she was used to bathing every couple of days or even more; which was way more baths than any person in their right mind could conceivably need. Probably best to keep that last to himself, he decided.

Still, it did sound like she was gonna insist on finding some place where she could have a bath . . . he rubbed his chin. Maybe he could work this to his advantage? Hmm.

"Yeah," he said, as she paused. "Would be good to find a place that had baths. You know how when you're walking and the dirt is really gritty and it kinda works its way in, like between your toes and — " He scratched his ass for greater emphasis.

Fuu gave him a revolted look over her shoulder.

"What? You were just sayin' you needed a bath."

"Yeah, but that's gross. I don't want to think about your butt!"

Mugen frowned, turning a little to see the offending part; it didn't look much different from any other one he'd seen. What was she complaining about? True, he didn't go around looking at other guys' asses a whole lot, but still — he set that aside, in his growing list of Reasons Why It Would Be A Good Idea To Get Rid Of Her: And Fast, and went back to the plan. "So what're you gonna bitch about, my ass or a bath? 'Cause I know which one you got a better chance at."

She was silent for a moment, then: "You'd stop for that?"

His frown deepened into an outright scowl. Did she need to soundthat shocked he'd do something like that? It was like she didn't trust him — which, yeah, but she couldn't know that already. "Maybe. Ain't like you don't stink," he lied.

"What — you — aaauuugh!" She stopped in her tracks abruptly enough that he nearly ran her over, whirling around to give him a poisonous glare. "Why are you being such a jerk?"

"'S not like I'd stop for one on my own." He folded his arms over his chest. "I'm trying to be nice here, so quit your whining. You want one or not?"

"Yes! Of course I want one." To his surprise, Fuu took a deep breath, her face smoothing out from its grumpy lines as she studied his face. "Thank you."

His frown slipped a little. "Right," he said, feeling awkward.

They set off again, this time with him in the lead, Fuu hurrying after him in an effort to keep up with his longer stride. "Um, today?" she ventured, after they had been walking in silence for longer than he'd thought possible.

"Yeah." He glanced over his shoulder at her, a snide comment dying in his throat when he caught sight of her hopeful expression. "See that?" he asked instead, pointing to the curve of a high bridge where it emerged from a riverside thicket a short way ahead of them. "Kept up too nice for it to go anywhere but a town. Cross that, you can take all the baths you want."

"Oh." She trotted alongside him in silence for the space of a heartbeat, then said, "I've never been this far from Yokohama before."

"Huh." Mugen glanced at her again; when she failed to explain — or, in fact, to say anything at all — he shrugged. It didn't fit with what he knew of her so far, but he supposed it wouldn't matter. A couple hours or so to figure out a way to ditch her, and then he could get back to whatever it was he'd been doing when he'd walked into that teahouse in Yokohama.

They clattered over the bridge, the collection of buildings that stretched out from the far side of the riverbank appearing as promised. The town was bigger and more prosperous than he'd expected; a number of side streets split off from the main road, disappearing into a maze of tile-roofed houses and neatly plastered shops that became larger and more elaborate as they walked further into the town center.

"We don't actually have money for the bathhouse," Fuu remarked suddenly, as they passed one shop with particularly ornate woodwork. "Do we?"

She had a point, he admitted to himself. Fancy generally went with expensive. He felt in the pouch he'd sewn into his clothes at the waist for money he knew wasn't there, more for show than anything. There were a couple of acorns in there that he'd been saving, but — his eye fell on a pimply kid, lurking in a short kimono the color of dried blood, a tanto that looked crappy enough to be homemade poorly hidden in a sleeve. The kid wore his hair in an exaggerated topknot, too flashy to be samurai and too carefully done to be a peasant: which would make the boy the best possible thing for them to come across right now.

Mugen grinned to himself.

"Might have something I can sell," he told the girl. "Wait here."

He sauntered over to the kid. "Hey," Mugen called as he approached the baby yakuza. "You look like the kind of guy who'd know. Where can I find some dice?"

The kid's eyes lit up with greed. "Maybe I do. You got money?"

Mugen leered agreeably and rattled the contents of his pocket together. "Nah. Acorns."

The kid snickered. "Right," he said. "There's a game a couple houses down; I'll take you there."

Predictably, the kid failed to wait until they were more than six or seven steps away from the main road before turning to face him, the tanto in his hand. The blade, Mugen noted, was slightly off-center from where it should have joined to the hilt; any kind of use in a real fight and the blade was liable to snap off in the kid's face.

"Gimme your money!"

Mugen couldn't help himself: he laughed. "What're you gonna do, clean my nails with that?" he asked, as the kid waved the knife in a manner that was as threatening as a week-old kitten. A thought occurred to him. "Don't suppose you know where there's a bathhouse around here?"

The kid stopped in his tracks, knife hand held up midflail. "What?"

"Bathhouse. You pay money, go in, and have a bath," Mugen said, then paused to root around in his ear with a jagged fingernail, a small tickle having set itself up in the canal. "I think. Anyway, where do I find one?"

The kid looked at his tanto and then back at Mugen again. "Hand over your money?"

"Yeah, covered that already. Any on that road we just left?"

" . . . yes?"

"Where?"

"Not far — closer in to the center of town. Look, I'm tryna rob you, for shit's sake — "

"Yeah." Mugen removed the finger from his ear, flicking some material away that was stuck under his fingernail. Ah, better. "Look, it ain't gonna happen. First off, you don't listen. Second, you don't know how to tell if someone's tougher than you are." He lashed out with a foot, the kid's kneecap crunching underneath the metal edge of the geta. The kid yelped and went down, the tanto slipping from his fingers. "Figure that out, I bet you get your ass kicked less. Now, you gimme your money." Mugen waited expectantly; instead, the kid moaned, gripping his knee as he rolled on the ground.

Mugen rolled his eyes. There was no way this kid would ever make it into a real gang — at most, he'd probably just chipped part of the bone. Whiner. Sighing, he reached down and closed his fingers around the kid's, closing his hand and squeezing until he heard a sharp snap! "How about now?"

The boy turned a sickly shade and bellowed like a colicky ox.

Mugen waited a moment until the green tinge to the kid's face (and, hopefully, the possibility of any chance that he'd throw up on Mugen's feet) went away, before transferring his grip to a handful of maroon cloth and gave him a shake. There was a gratifying clink; Mugen gave him a wide, toothy grin, turning the boy even paler but which resulted in a handful of monme from inside the short kimono. He gave the kid a last shake, dropping him when it became apparent there was nothing more hidden.

"You ever think maybe you should find something else to do?" he asked, not unkindly. "I got to tell you, you really suck at this."

The only response was a whimper, as the kid curled into a ball.

Mugen frowned as he started back toward the main road: some days, trying to be nice was like pissing in the ocean and expecting it to turn to liquid gold.

Fuu was still waiting where he left her — not that he would have expected she would have gotten bored and wandered off, but sometimes a man needed to cling to his dreams — and gave him a look with some of her old crankiness in it when she saw him approaching. "What took you?"

"Asked about the bathhouse," he said, and jingled the coins at her.

Her face brightened.

As it turned out, the kid had been correct; they had passed two brothels (Mugen made a note to himself of the second, liking the look of a doe-eyed woman sitting in a small courtyard in front) and a fortuneteller's before Fuu tugged at his sleeve. "It's right there!" she chirped in a tone normally reserved for the discussion of food, walking faster toward a white building with a high bamboo fence emerging from its side. "Oh, I am going to soak for a week."

"You're gonna be as wrinkled as an old woman." Mugen pulled the red gi free of her grasp, but followed her to the bathhouse door. He winced as he handed over two monme to the hatchet-faced woman sitting at the entrance; it'd be worth it, but. Two monme.

Still, he consoled himself as he watched the coins disappear into the recesses of the woman's clothing, a town this size was bound to have a thriving population of other aspiring yakuza and, therefore, a supply of ready cash for the taking.

Fuu paused at the door, a crease between her eyebrows. "Aren't you having one?"

"Don't smell that bad — maybe after some food."

She rolled her eyes, but the crease disappeared and she looked like she was trying to hide a smile. "One-track mind," she said, adding, "There's a sake stand just across — I wouldn't mind, if you wanted to wait there."

He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest as she went in. She wasn't so bad, but . . . yeah.

Mentally, he began ticking off each item as it would be removed so he'd get the timing right: obi first, then kimono, then juban — he couldn't remember if there was anything after that, based on the times he'd visited brothels since coming off the dhow. His memory supplied a hazy picture of the last girl he'd been with, juban slipping off one coy shoulder, a smooth arm flowing into a creamy shoulder and up into a delicate neck, rounded cheek like a peach —

— before his mind gave the girl Fuu's face.

Mugen choked on his own saliva, as the sound of a small splash came through the bamboo slats just in time to save him from the crazy.

. . . obviously, he needed to get laid in a very serious fashion, if his own mind was screwing with him like this.

"Hey," he called over the fence. "Fuu?"

Very faintly: "What?"

"I was just thinking. That was pretty smart to figure out that thing with the firecrackers," he said. "Back in Yokohama. You're really on the ball, ain't you?" He rolled his head to the side, loosening his shoulders.

A pause, in which he could hear suspicion and pleasure in the compliment at war in her head; suspicion won out, of course. Give her credit, the girl was not completely dumb. "What?"

"No, you're really something."

" . . . thanks?"

"I bet, a girl like you, you could do anything."

On the other side of the wood fence, something splashed closer. "Um, that's nice of you to say, really, but it's coming out kind of, er. Creepy?"

"What I'm trying to say is — " — he stretched up on his toes one last time — "— see you around, baby," he called over his shoulder as he bounded away, ignoring the strangled shriek of "Mugen!" that came from the women's side of the bathhouse.

Aaaaaah. Sweet freedom. His problems, he decided as he vaulted over a low wall into a garden and out into another street, were over at last.


That was the problem with problems, Enshirou Mariya told himself, eyeing the young man seated on the other side of the low table Mariya used as his desk: begin with an error the size of a speck of dust, and end by being a thousand miles off the mark.

Going by the Mujuu's meticulously-kept records, the Hojo boy was an unexceptional student from an unexceptional family, progressing neither more quickly nor more slowly than the others of his age — family in Izu, considered sound but dull by the local han, minor retainers of the main clan who spent more time taking inventories of armor than with the sword. A scrawny boy with a tendency to attach himself to his more glamorous fellows, he read in Kawamura's cramped writing, followed by a heartbreaking addendum: a natural follower, not a leader. And then, the recent improvement reduced to so many lines in ink, without explanation.

Mariya had a dim recollection of the father — a man running to fat as he aged, fussing over whether the Mujuu was a practical field of study for his boy, and what sort of opportunities would be available to him once he had finished. The man had possessed a pair of beautiful eyes, dreaming and dark and at odds with a self-indulgent mouth: eyes like those of his son, if memory served.

Kawamura had been in the right of it — a good crop of pimples would have been a blessing from the gods for Hojo Yukimaru.

"I've heard you've been doing very well in your studies," Mariya began. "Kawamura-sensei is particularly struck by your improvement over the last year."

"Thank you, master, but I still make too many mistakes. I hope to do better."

The right response. Mariya felt an odd surge of distaste, but squashed it in the next moment. It was so perfectly something that Jin would have said in the last few years — the boy was harder on himself than anyone (and why is that, a sly little voice whispered in the back of his mind, harder than anyone? Really?), a tendency which only became more marked as the boy grew older — that hearing it from that exquisitely shaped mouth felt like mockery.

— which, of course, it wasn't.

Mariya rubbed the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he needed to sit through a lesson on the sword of no-mind with the smallest boys, if he could not discipline his thoughts to this extent. "I saw one of your lessons," he went on. "I'm inclined to agree with your teacher. Have you given any thought to your future?"

The boy's hand clenched. "A little. My family wants me to come home and marry a girl from Sagami."

"And you? What do you want?"

A pause, then: "This is all I want."

"I see." The inkstone had a chipped corner, the slate rough under his fingertips; he should do something about that, it was unseemly — Mariya caught himself fidgeting, and folded his hands securely in his lap. "If you're willing to work hard, I don't see why you shouldn't be able to become a teacher here." He kept his voice mild. "You have brothers?"

The boy nodded. "Two. But they went to a dojo in Odawara when I was a little boy."

"Mm. You wouldn't rather go back to Izu?"

The boy shook his head and looked demurely down at the top of the table. "There's nothing for me there."

Mariya felt his eyebrows lift, and schooled his expression hastily. A dramatic creature; not that that was any sort of bar. Kawamura did well enough, and this boy was still absurdly young — "Well. I'll write to your family. In any case, you're qualified enough to learn from another master who I believe would be willing to take you as a pupil. But," he said. "These are advanced studies, so you would need to be certain that this is truly the path you want to take."

"Another master?" For the first time, doubt flickered in the beautiful eyes. "I'd have to leave?"

"It would go a long way toward assuring your place with the Mujuu in future."

Fascinated, Mariya watched as Yukimaru shifted in his seat; the tip of a pink tongue peeping out as the boy licked his lips nervously: oh, that hadn't been what the boy had been expecting, no, not at all.

Mariya was reminded of a rangaku mechanism he'd seen years ago, back in the time before he'd come home again to the dojo. A timepiece, the foreigner had called it: a complicated assembly of gears and pins and strange ticking parts — some grit had found its way into the machine despite all their care, and it had shuddered and ground fruitlessly against the obstacle until it locked into motionlessness, unable to find its way past.

"Where is it?" Yukimaru asked at last.

"Not far from Hakone."

"I hadn't — but surely the Mujuu — "

"The Mujuu is not the only school of the sword," Mariya said. "Master Ichiun once told me that, to know the shape of a bird, the great ink painters paint the world around it. Most of the great teachers the Mujuu has produced have studied at other dojo at least once in their lives. And this master has spent some time here as well: he will not be entirely unfamiliar with what you know."

"I — " The boy bent his head. "I will do my best, Mariya-dono. I hope I will be able to return here some day."

"I'm sure. And you won't be the only one from the Mujuu studying with this master," Mariya said slowly, deliberately. "Jin is there. He's a few years ahead of you, I know, but perhaps you know him already?"

This time, there was no mistaking the fierce joy that suffused the boy's face: he gasped, the sound harsh in the quiet of the room, and his hands flew up to cover his mouth. His eyes were bright over the mask of his fingers. "Yes. I do know him. Thank you, Mariya-dono."

"Shall I write your family, then?" Mariya asked, voice dry.

The boy nodded, his hands falling to his lap to twist together into a knot. "Please."

"Good."

"When — "

"Tomorrow, or the next day." Mariya picked up his brush, suddenly feeling very tired. "Do you have a daisho of your own?"

"Yes, Mariya-dono. Kawamura-sensei's been keeping it for me."

"I'll let him know you'll need it. For now, you're excused from lessons, so I suggest you decide what you want to take with you. You may be there for some time." He gave the boy a nod, and slid a piece of paper out of the fresh stack that Kawamura kept on the table for him; Yukimaru, correctly, took that as permission to leave and stood, the tail of glossy chestnut hair rustling against his white haori as he sketched a bow and shot out of the room.

As soon as he heard the sound of the boy's feet hitting the gravel of the courtyard, Mariya set the brush back down with a sigh. Being right, he decided, was a very tiring experience; he should have been pleased that someone believed Jin would make a fine older brother (the little voice pointed out with some indignation that it was about time that someone realized Jin's good qualities), but he could not help wishing that it had been anyone but the little Hojo. Excellent student the boy might have become, but it was worrying that the boy spent so much time on turning himself into the object of his affections — focusing on externals was an easy way to turn the object of one's affections into merely an object, which never ended well for anyone.

Of course, he was one to talk, when it came to shudo. Mariya made a face and rubbed the back of his neck, careful not to disarrange the topknot he had so painstakingly pulled his sparse hair into this morning. Hopefully, Jin would turn out to have the Suwa hair instead as he grew older.

He corrected himself: hopefully, Jin would be able to grow old enough to have the Suwa hair.

A noise from the engawa caught his attention. Mariya looked up, his eyes catching those of Kawamura, who hovered with his foot just inside the room. "Shishou?" the other man asked. "I just have the accounts for the quarter, I can come back later — "

Mariya shook his head. "No, come in. I was sitting here feeling very old. And stupid. That's all."

"Ah." The younger master smiled, walking up to the headmaster's worktable to set his papers down. "I thought I saw Hojo-kun coming out. He has that effect, doesn't he? Even when I was his age, I don't think I was that young."

"He'll grow out of that quickly enough, with Kariya. I need you to write his family. And he'll need his daisho."

"Oh, I see." Kawamura paused, hand halfway to his topknot and the ink brush stuck haphazardly into it. "Yes, shishou, but are — is he really the best choice? In a few months, perhaps, but now? He's still so — "

"Young? There is no suitable other boy to send. Besides," Mariya added wryly. "Jin will make sure no harm comes to him."

The younger man sighed. "I just wish it was possible to make sure no harm comes to Jin."

"Mm." There was no sense in burdening Kawamura with what he thought, not until after he'd spoken to Juunosuke.

Juunosuke

Ruthlessly, Mariya squashed down the brief warmth that had kindled inside him at the thought of that name; he needed a clear mind. "Yes. But if we can't keep Jin at the dojo, then perhaps we can keep the dojo with him. Hojo-kun aside," he said, changing the subject to something that would occupy Kawamura's thoughts for days. "I also need you to find space for guests in the next month, if it's possible to squeeze them in somewhere."

Kawamura gave him a reproachful look, fishing the ink brush from his hair. "Of course, shishou. Do you know how many we should expect? I'll inform the kitchens."

"Three — and possibly another man; I don't know if they'll be walking or on horseback."

The other man nodded. "So four at most. That shouldn't be a problem."

"Nothing that you can't deal with, I'm sure."

Kawamura scribbled a note on the corner of his ink blotter. "Any special requirements?"

"No. Master Niwa won't expect us to stand on ceremony for him."

"Master Niwa! Oh, that is good news." Kawamura's face brightened. "Will he be staying long?"

"Perhaps. I don't know."

"It'll be good to see him again. I've been meaning to write and ask him the name of that bookseller in Edo: such cheap makurabon. I've been kicking myself I didn't buy more the last time I was there. I think he likes them for — " The sunny smile faltered. "Ah, these other guests, they wouldn't happen to be — "

"Yes," Mariya said, stifling a pang of guilt. "He'll be bringing the boys with him."

Kawamura whimpered.


From a swordsman's standpoint, the Tokkaido Road was a nightmare.

It was as busy as Jin remembered: schools of merchants like brightly colored carp set against a backdrop of pilgrims in drab and farmers with carts, a hundred conversations rising and falling like the tides, his ears straining to catch everything.

The first time he'd come this way, he'd been on his way to Mihara and Master Niwa, and the sheer number of people — so much noise, how could anyone think — had very nearly overwhelmed him. This time was better; he was more practiced at shutting the world out, now, but still he had seen more people that morning than he suspected had been to Kisarazu in the past ten years.

He took a breath, let it out.

It was easier if he pictured the crowd as a river and himself as a stone within it; Master Niwa had taught him how to manage, almost as soon as he'd stepped into the courtyard from the road. Let the world pass around you, he'd said. Let it wash away from you. And once it is gone, there you will remain. See the world for what it is.

A warm tide of homesickness crept up from his belly as he thought of the Mihara dojo. If Master Niwa was there, he'd be able to tell —

— what? Jin had no idea.

The truth behind what Kariya-dono had said, possibly. From the way his shishou had spoken of him, the man had to be, if not as skilled, nearly his equal at the sword; and from the way the woman looked at him, he had to be very good indeed. Jin knew that look. It was the same way Kawamura-sensei looked at Shishou, probably the same way he looked at Shishou.

Well, almost.

There was a something, in the way Sara looked at Kariya-dono. As limited as his experience with women was — even Jin knew that the thick-necked laundress who came to the Mujuu on a regular basis was probably not what he should expect of women as a whole — it didn't have the feel of the pillow to it; though that was there too, he felt sure. But it was not the whole of what there was. Fear? Longing? Anger? Shishou and Master Niwa both would counsel patience, but it was frustrating not to be able to see it.

Or to see what Kariya-dono was.

He stepped around a new-made ronin (frayed edge on the hakama, still using expensive oil on his swords, his mind automatically supplied; hands further away from his swords than mine are: minor threat), setting aside that line of thought to study the back of the man walking a pace ahead of him.

"We aren't going far," the older man said, as if in answer to the question that had been on the tip of Jin's tongue to ask since Sara had brought him his swords that morning. "Hamamatsu. Have you been to the temple there?"

Jin shook his head.

"A shame we won't be here long enough. I've been intending to visit a monk there for some years now, but there never seemed to be enough time. Still, we make time for what's important." Kariya slowed, falling into step beside him. "Your dojo, for instance. A single peony. A fine Kunishige — not that many have the ability to appreciate that, these days." He paused.

Quietly, Jin waited.

The other man chuckled as Jin failed to rise to the bait. "One might even consider the man we're going to see as akin to those things. Though not a Kunishige; a Muramasa, perhaps.

"He is called Shoryuu." Kariya let the name linger on the air for a moment. "Not the name I first met him by, years ago, back when Mariya and I were in Nagasaki. Although — " he said, tipping the kasa back slightly to regard Jin. "Forgive me. I'm sure you've heard the story many times from your shishou; I find I tell the same stories, over and over, as I get older. You're very good to listen to a boring old man like me."

"You were in Nagasaki together?"

"He didn't tell you?" Kariya made a small sound of astonishment. "Hn. Like him, I suppose. He was never one to brag about what he'd done."

"No." Absently, Jin pushed the spectacles back into place, noticing what he was doing only as his fingertip touched the metal frame; it was becoming a habit, a silent invocation of Mariya's presence. He tucked his hands into his sleeves. "What was he doing there?"

The kasa sank back down to cover Kariya's eyes. "Oh, this and that. He should be the one to tell you, I think. We should discuss Shoryuu instead," he answered.

Jin gave a reluctant nod. "Who is he?"

"Mm." The older man looked down at his feet as they walked. "One of the Imagawa, originally. Very promising; he did well at his dojo — not the Mujuu, but not a bad school for all that — and had all the marks of becoming one of Edo's great ornaments. What do you know of them?"

"The Imagawa lost Sumpu," Jin said. "After Tenmokuzan."

"After defeating the Takeda," Kariya agreed silkily. "Very good. Then you know the Imagawa have had a special place in Edo's regard since the time the country has been at peace. Shoryuu was to have been one of the ways in which the government made up for the loss of Sumpu to his clan, when he was chosen to travel to the mainland as part of a group that was negotiating greater trading rights in Ryukyu." His expression turned wry. "Edo had some concerns that sending a party made up completely of the Shimazu might not adequately preserve its interests in the south.

"It would undoubtedly have been a brilliant start to Shoryuu's career, if the ship had not gone down at sea.

"By his account, he was the only survivor, washing up on the mainland far from where they were to land. He was found by a monk, who took him back to his temple and nursed him back to health. Once Shoryuu had regained his strength, though, he did not return here as you might expect, but lived with his monks as an acolyte for the next ten years, learning what they would teach him. He claimed that the monks had a fighting style unlike anything he had ever experienced here, a style so remarkable that no man could withstand it; if a monk struck with his bare hand at the hardest rock, the rock would shatter.

"As if that was not enough, Shoryuu also claimed that, using their techniques, the monks who were most advanced could kill a man without touching him."

Jin was unable to keep a flicker of astonishment from his face. "But that's impossible." He increased his pace to keep up, as Kariya went around an oxcart and a merchant who carried a tanto in his sleeve. "Unless — they used poisons?" he asked, when the merchant was out of earshot.

Kariya shook his head. "No poisons. He called it kacchuu kudaki; they call it by another name on the mainland, but his name is as good as any. It's a technique by which one focuses the . . . chi, he said, but I've always preferred to think of it as focusing one's will," he said, his face tranquil as Jin gave him a skeptical look. "Which is not the whole of it, but I assure you, it can be done."

"Have you seen it?"

"I have done it."

"He taught you?"

"Yes. It is," said Kariya, "very difficult to learn. Impossible, for someone who has not already gained perfect control over their own will." He sighed. "The technique will probably die out here, once he and I are gone; for a while I thought that Sara — but her grasp is imperfect. She allows her mind to become cluttered with thoughts of other things. Really, the only person who can master it is someone who has the ability to clear his mind of everything but the sword."

Jin digested this in silence for a moment, then: "How did he teach you?"

Below the brim of the kasa, the ghost of a smile touched Kariya's mouth.


He never learned. Never.

From now on, he was avoiding teahouses of any shape or form, Mugen decided, one foot inside the door as he paused underneath a giant crab attached to the front of the building. One bad teahouse could be chalked up to bad luck, but two in a row — clearly, the gods were trying to teach him something, and the thing about the gods teaching something was that they never taught anything anyone would want to know, like women will let you see their breasts sometimes if you tell them you think they look nice or carp tastes like shit unless you cook it with a ginger-plum sauce; no, it was always stuff that sucked.

He let out a resigned breath as he pushed the awning out of the way, all motion in the teahouse coming to a halt as yakuza eyes fixed on him.

Fuck.

Still, maybe a little pre-meal exercise would help take the inexplicable bad taste out of his mouth, after leaving the girl at the bathhouse. Which had been the best thing to do. The smart thing.

Really.

A man, ancient enough to have fought with the Taira, tottered forward as Mugen walked up to the first table. "Welcome to this humble place, sir," the old man said over the soft click of chopsticks, as the men resumed their meal with their eyes on the stranger. "You are clearly a man of some importance; let me show you to a table where you can enjoy the sound of the birds outside." He gestured toward the back of the room, his wrist a dry stick in the light filtering through the awning; well away from the other patrons, Mugen noted with no real surprise. There was already some poor townsman already there, quietly watching the steam rise from his tea through his glasses while the yakuza ate like starved dogs.

Ignoring the old man, he stopped in front of the upended kegs that were being used for seats. "Here's good." He wedged himself between the two biggest gang members at the table, the rich smell of the meat making his mouth water as he sat with a thump. The men shifted unwillingly; one gave him a hard look, his eyes narrowing in a manner that was probably meant to have him screaming like a little girl as he ran away.

Mugen snorted, picking a fat scallop off the platter in front of them and popping it into his mouth. Maybe to the people in this town, this gang was an object of fear, but back in Ryukyu they would have laughed themselves silly. Fuu had probably been capable of producing a better glare when she was a little girl, but this bunch — ? Even for yakuza, they looked like they sucked.

The old man drew in a wheezing breath, his face gone gray. "But, sir!" he whispered hoarsely. "These men are Nagatomi."

"What? Yakuza, you say?" Mugen swallowed, pretending to think. "Aren't those the guys who can't take a piss without the rest of the gang there to hold their dicks for them?"

The old man made a thin sound, wobbling backwards as the yakuza stopped all pretense of eating their meal. Shame to let it go to waste; Mugen reached for one of the skewers of meat that had looked so intriguing since he'd walked in —

— as one of the yakuza plunged a long knife through the meat and into the tabletop.

"Oi!" Mugen said, annoyed: pissing contests had their place, yeah, but the guy was screwing around with meat. Meat. "Stingy fucker. Hell's the matter with you?"

The yakuza — who, Mugen saw with a twinge of envy, had a moustache any man could respect, as thick and black as a crow's tail — smirked at him, his hand resting on top of the hilt.

Mugen rolled his eyes — stupid, stupid, stupid — and did the only thing possible in the circumstances: he pulled one of the wooden skewers out of the meat and stuck it through the man's hand.

The yakuza squealed and staggered back, cradling his wounded hand; the rest of the gang shoved their seats away from them in the heartbeat between intent and action.

Which, Mugen decided as he dropped one of the yakuza by booting a handy keg into his midsection, the man wrapping his arms around his gut as he collapsed, went a long way toward telling him what kind of town this was; unimaginative fighting was easy fighting.

Two left;one of the remaining yakuza was finally making his way around the table, charging toward him with a drawn knife. He waited until the man was a moment away from sticking him with it, before darting to the side; the man slid past him, momentum carrying him forward, leaving his side unprotected — Mugen reached out and snagged the man's obi, spinning him around with the force of his own attack to send him flying into the table next to the man in glasses. The table broke underneath him, loud crack of wood splintering punctuated with a groan.

One left — this one smart enough to hang back, knife (better quality than the kid's, he noted) held low at his side, blade turned out and slightly up. Mugen approved. It was the right angle to stab into the belly and disable an opponent; it wasn't going to help, but still, it was always nice to meet a craftsman.

The yakuza tossed the knife lightly in his grip, fingers loosening and tightening around the hilt to secure their position. Mugen grinned. The man lunged forward and he twisted away, the blade a streak of metal in the air.

Another feint, this one to the other side, and he shifted like water around a rock. It was good tactics, he thought; keep him off balance, drive the fight by making him react rather than act.

Shame the guy was about to meet the business end of that knife, but Mugen figured at least the yakuza could make a good accounting of himself to his ancestors when they met.

Next lunge, this one a little nearer; he ducked, weaving underneath an arm, and came up, his fingers locked around the wrist of the man's knife hand. The man slowed, eyebrows flying upward in surprise, and Mugen yanked the yakuza around, bringing the blade up to the throat, edge ready to shear into soft flesh —

"Stop."

The yakuza froze; Mugen turned his head toward the quiet voice from the corner and found himself looking at the glasses-wearing townsman who gazed back at him, as relaxed as if he were watching a not particularly exciting game of go. "Eh?"

Glasses-man's eyes moved over him, considering. "You're strong," he said, at last. "You've got some balls, too."

"But, boss!" The yakuza with the knife to his throat leaned away from the edge.

Glasses-man snorted. "Don't you get it? You aren't going to beat this man." He turned from his squirming underling, eyes interested as they traveled over Mugen's face. "You said you were hungry. When you finish up there, how about something better than what they've got there? My treat, of course."

"Yeah." Mugen watched, keeping a light pressure on the blade as the man slipped his feet into a pair of plain straw sandals. "What's the best thing they got here?"

The man's eyebrows drew together above the glasses, the corners of his mouth quirking upward. "Crab."

"Then I wouldn't mind some." Mugen stepped back; the yakuza relaxed with a sigh, letting his chin flop onto his chest.