The Initiate Brother Duology (92 page)

Was it true that Toshaki’s fool of a son was innocent? Perhaps. Certainly Toshaki Shinga was party to this plot—there could be little doubt of that. But Toshaki Shinga had chosen to stay in Rhojo-ma—where he commanded the garrison. That was a life put to better use than his lord’s! The fool should have stayed alive long enough to die slowing the barbarians’ advance.

Shonto rose from his position and returned inside. He had shed the official
robes of the Governor of Seh that morning and was dressed more comfortably now—ready to travel. Prodding the coals of a charcoal burner to life, the lord went to toss Toshaki’s letter in but stopped himself. No, he would save this—it might be of interest one day—historically at least.

*   *   *

The last inhabitants of Rhojo-ma trickled out of the gate and set out across the bridge. Bells rang from many towers throughout the empty city—the gates were about to be shut for the last time. Shonto stood on a quay that would soon be on the lake bottom—such was it designed. Far off he could see men beginning to work on the single bridge that spanned the distance to shore. It, too, would be under water within the hour.

Toward the north end of the quay, Shonto could see Lord Toshaki’s son surrounded by his retainers. Word had spread about the old Toshaki’s suicide—a plunge off the battlement into the depths of the lake. The lord had worn full armor. It was an odd suicide—one that indicated great shame. Nonetheless, Lord Toshaki had been a man respected in Seh and there was obvious concern for his son among those present, though, as northerners, they were equally concerned with his pride. All expressions of concern were therefore kept within bounds strictly defined by an unwritten code which said:
young Toshaki is a warrior and lord of Seh, therefore he is strong. All expressions of regret will be offered formally—the Toshaki do not require comfort. This is a matter of respect only.

Shonto’s senior staff continued to work nearby, attending to the thousand details that would allow an army of thirteen thousand, plus a few thousand others, to move south at speed. The barbarian army could travel five rih in a day, but the canal would carry Shonto much faster than that.

Men cut away the branches of an ancient lintel vine that clung to the stone around the city’s gate. This seemed like a sign of things to come to Shonto, and he looked away.

A delegation appeared at the gate. Guards pushed through, heavily armed and bearing banners. The lords of Seh had arrived—the lords who would remain behind. Most of the older generation had chosen to pay their penance by defending Rhojo-ma—an endeavor whose outcome was as certain as the night following day. Five thousand warriors stayed with these men, chosen for this great honor: to die with their lords in a battle that could not be won.

A crier preceded the fated warriors.

“Make way! Make way! Make way for the lords of Seh. Make way!”

The fools of Seh, Shonto thought, brave fools.

As the senior member of the most important House, Lord Ranan led the delegation. He bowed as he approached Lord Shonto and the lord returned this with a deep bow of respect rather than the nod his position allowed.

“Our preparations go as planned, Lord Shonto,” Ranan said with an air of importance. “We will be ready before the Khan’s outriders appear.”

Fool,
Shonto thought,
arrogant fool!

“You are to be honored, Lord Ranan, as are all who prepare for Rhojo-ma’s…defense.”

Ranan bowed again. “It is our intention to slow the barbarian force by as many days as our strength will allow. May those days be well used, Sire.”

Everyone on the quay bowed to those who would remain.

Shonto was about to step back toward his boat when a tunnel opened up in the crowd and the young lord of the Toshaki stepped forward. Bowing quickly to Shonto and Lord Ranan, the young lord turned to Komawara whom Shonto had not seen arrive. Members of Komawara’s guard stepped closer to their lord—the Hajiwara men, Shonto realized. Though they wore the Komawara colors, deep blue and black trimmed in gold, the former residents of Itsa retained a length of shoulder trim in Hajiwara green. “Lord Komawara,” Toshaki began with great formality, as though he repeated a speech carefully rehearsed, “I once suggested that you would need a proper weapon to fight barbarian hordes.” He reached his hand back to a retainer who laid a sword in a scabbard across the lord’s palm. Bringing this around, he held it in both hands as though it were a treasure. “This blade belonged to my father, Toshaki Hirikawa. It was made by Toyotomi the Younger and gained great renown in the Ona War. This blade has been in the Toshaki family for seven generations and has proven its worth in many battles against the barbarians. It is my hope that you will accept this as a mark of my respect. Among the lords of Seh you were the first to realize our position though so many of us argued against you.” He offered the sword now with a slight bow.

Komawara seemed frozen in place and for a second Shonto thought he would refuse it. But then Komawara bowed and reached out, taking the blade from Toshaki in a gesture almost equally reverent.

When he spoke, Lord Komawara’s voice was tight as though he choked back emotion with difficulty. “This is a great honor, Lord Toshaki. I hope
that the hands of the Komawara will wield this with even half the skill of your ancestors. If so, it shall be a blade of great fame indeed.”

Toshaki bowed again, and at a gesture from Shonto his senior staff began retreating to their appointed boats. We are at war, Shonto thought, there is no time to sit and drink wine and fabricate lies about the great esteem our ancestors felt for each other.

As the boats pushed away, Shonto walked back to the quarterdeck. Sails were raised, luffing and snapping, until the helmsmen fell off the wind and the sails were sheeted home. Shonto saw Nishima wave from a nearby boat as did Lady Okara and Lady Kitsura. A sailor pointed, and Shonto looked up in time to see the Shinta blossom at Rhojo-ma’s high tower quiver and then come down. Seconds later it was replaced by the Flying Horse of Seh.

A line of boats tacked into the breeze, heading toward the mouth of the Grand Canal and the first set of locks. Shonto’s boat found a place near the end of this line, for in the campaign to come the command would need to be in close contact with the retreating rear. A strange thought.

*   *   *

Lady Nishima leaned against the rail, glad of its support, for she felt a weakness in her will that was disturbing. Despite all of her prayers, war had come. As they cleared the end of the city, she looked off toward the north. Barbarian armies would appear there in only a few days. All of her other concerns seemed petty and trivial now. People would die—and not just from battle.

She thought about the people of Seh setting out south and toward the sea. Not all of them would escape, nor would they understand their danger. They would try to hide themselves, hoping the storm would pass by without harming them. Her father had left a small force behind, hidden somewhere in Seh’s hills for this very reason. Its only purpose was to be sure nothing would be grown where the barbarians could find it. They would raid upon and quite possibly be forced to kill their own people.
Leave nothing for the enemy,
her father had ordered. Which meant nothing for the peasants.

A report like strange thunder echoed across the lake and Nishima turned in time to see the first span of the bridge collapse into a cascade of white. For the briefest instant a rainbow appeared in the spray, but then the waters rushed back together like a healing wound. Rhojo-ma’s tie to the land was gone.

Around the south end of the city a funeral barge appeared, covered in the
white flower of the snow lily. The light breeze picked up the petals, strewing them like a wake on the calm water. Lord Toshaki, Nishima realized. The barge set off with purpose toward the lake’s southwestern end as though its destination had never been in doubt. Nishima raised her hands to cover her face but realized what she did and stopped herself. Instead she made a sign to Botahara and offered a silent prayer.

The boat suddenly began pitching in the waves created by the falling bridge. Nishima clutched the rail until the water was calm again and then made her way quickly below. In the privacy of her small cabin Nishima took out her writing implements and prepared ink in what was almost a ritual.

A
N ABANDONED STABLE, recently refurbished for the presentation of plays, had been commandeered by Shonto’s recruiting officers. The thatch leaked in places when rain and the west wind joined forces and there was still an unrecognizable odor in one corner, but otherwise it suited well.

Two officers sat behind a large, low desk upon what had been the stage. On three sides men knelt in more or less straight rows. In the light from hanging lamps they seemed to be of one type, but upon closer inspection it became apparent that they were of all ages, sizes, accents, experience, and temperament.

Despite this, they had one thing in common. They were warriors without Houses and though some had actually been raised to the way of the sword, many were the sons of merchants or farmers who had broken with their families to take up this life. The men who gathered in the hall had all passed a test of skill with both sword and bow. Those who failed had been sent elsewhere—all men would find a place in the war to come.

Of the hundred or so who had passed the test of arms, most seemed to be without serious criminal records. The senior recruiting officer, a Shonto sergeant, looked at his list and pointed to a name which his assistant called out. A man of perhaps forty years rose and crossed the room to kneel before him. Like most of the men in the hall, his clothes were rough, though, unlike many, his were clean and bore the marks of expert mending. He was a large man, well formed, his face hidden by a dark beard. What wasn’t hidden
had been darkened by time in the sun and lined with deep creases, especially across the forehead and in the corners of the eyes.

“Shinga Kyoshi?”

The man nodded, a half bow.

“Your weapons are in order?” the sergeant asked.

The man nodded again. “Complete armor and sword. I-I have no bow.” A deep voice.

The sergeant nodded. There was a note by this man’s name—he was very good with a sword, apparently. “Your sword,” the sergeant said holding out his hand.

The kneeling man hesitated for a second, as though not sure of the request, but then drew his blade and handed it to the officer, pommel first.

It was a fine weapon, beautifully balanced and honed to a perfect edge. The sword guard was a small work of art—a lacquered scroll of sea shells over polished bronze. The maker’s name on the blade was
Kentoka,
undoubtedly a forgery, but it was a well crafted weapon nonetheless—not what you would expect from a wandering soldier. The sergeant fixed the man with his gaze—a gaze that melted strong young men. “It says here that you are from Nitashi.”

The man nodded.

“I’m from Nitashi,” the sergeant said. “You don’t have the Nitashi way of speaking.”

“It has been many years, Sergeant.”

The officer continued to stare. He would wager that if he looked in the man’s armor chest he would find new lacing in some neutral color.

He returned the man’s sword. Stared for a few seconds more, then looked back to his lists. He pushed a scroll across the table and held out a brush. “See the quartermaster,” the sergeant said. The man signed his name, bowing low and hurrying off.

Looking at the man’s signature, the recruiting officer hid his reaction. That was the third man the sergeant had seen in the last two days who he believed had served the Hajiwara—and this one had been an officer! He shook his head. If there were too many more, he would have to consider turning some away. There were the Butto to consider.

“Ujima Nyatomi!” the officer’s assistant called.

Another bearded man hurried up and knelt before the sergeant who leaned over his reports.

“Ujima Nyatomi?”

The soldier nodded. If the sergeant had looked up, he would have noticed that this one was older than the last, and less powerfully built.

“Your weapons are in order?”

The man nodded again.

“Your sword.”

The man placed the pommel in the officer’s hand. The sergeant looked up from his list, eyes widening. This was a sword indeed! It came into the hand like a dream. The handle was covered in the skin of the giant ray, then wrapped in blue silk cord, and the sword guard, the sergeant suddenly realized, was formed in the shape of a shinta blossom!

The sergeant looked up at the man kneeling before him. Before he could begin to react the man spoke. “My armor is of similar quality, Sergeant, and I have bow, lance, and horse as well.” He shook his head almost imperceptibly.