The Chrysanthemum Seal (The Year of the Dragon, Book 5) Page 6

“I don’t know. Three, four days, maybe? I got here as soon as I could.”

  “Are you… in trouble because you came here?”

  He grinned, his dark teeth showing.

  “You could say that. I don’t believe I’m welcome in Kagoshima anymore.”

  She stood up shakily, supporting herself on the Fanged’s shoulder.

  “My sword — my things — … ”

  “It’s all here,” he pointed to the saddlebags hanging over the dragon’s side. “Luckily that man was still here — watching you die I guess.”

  Master Yukihige... How quickly you gained my trust, and how quickly you betrayed it!

  She staggered towards the dragon and the Qin man. He didn’t move when she bowed slightly and said her greetings, unsure about his role. She looked to the magnificent golden creature. The beast stared right back at her with curious, wondrous eyes.

  Unable to withstand that gaze, she turned back to Dōraku.

  “I came to Satsuma to help fight the Taikun,” she said. “To avenge my father. I… don’t understand.”

  “You’ve become too much of a burden for Shimazu-dono.” Then after a pause he added. “You knew too much… you knew about me. You knew about Bran.”

  Bran…

  “But why now…?”

  He shrugged. “Even I can’t pierce Nariakira’s thoughts. We must be going now,” he added.

  “Go? Where?” she asked, angrily. “I can’t go back to Kagoshima; I can’t go back to Kiyō… I’m wanted everywhere else.”

  “You are going to Chōfu. There’s an opening for a teacher of Ice Wizardry.”

  She looked and him and blinked.

  A teacher? Like Snow Beard?

  “But I can’t… I’m just a student…”

  “I’m sure you’ll be more than perfect for the job. Didn’t you use to teach in your father’s school, in Kiyō?”

  He’s right. I was a teacher!

  It seemed almost like some previous life now.

  “Chōfu is so far away…” she said, her will slowly breaking.

  “The dragon would get you there in no time.”

  I’d get to ride the dragon…?

  She reached out to touch the scales of the long. They were warm and soft under her touch, and yet firm, like cloth made of the purest silk. She felt the body underneath vibrate gently with each of the beast’s breaths. A spark of static electricity struck her fingers. She jerked back.

  “Chōfu it is, then,” she said, and laughed.

  The morning sun was reflected in the steel-blue sea below the hill. Funai harbour was waking to life.

  Master Dōraku helped Satō dismount. The Qin man, who had kept morbidly silent all through the ride, remained on the dragon, staring at the sea in the distance.

  “A ship goes out for Chōfu at noon,” the Fanged said. “Do not linger too long. This is Ogasawara land, the place is brimming with the Taikun’s spies.”

  “You’re not coming with me?”

  He shook his head.

  “I have to be somewhere else, as usual. But,” he reached into his sleeve, “I have something for you.”

  He handed her a ball of crystal the colour of fresh blood and the size of an orange. She touched it carefully; it was warm and perfectly smooth.

  “It belonged to Ganryū — well, ever since he stole it from somewhere else, that is. He was using it to control Emrys. Bran-sama wanted you to have it.”

  “Bran… wanted me…”

  She took the orb and held it in both hands. It grew hot and bright, almost too hot to hold, like a piece of cinder.

  “I was hoping to ask the Daisen to research it, but that is no longer possible. You may have more luck.”

  “But what is it?”

  “This is a Tide Jewel.”

  “Eeeh…a Tide Jewel? You mean like in the legend…?”

  The kagura dancers of Kirishima Shrine flashed before her eyes, but she struggled to remember the details. She hadn’t exactly been paying great attention to the performance that night.

  “In every legend, no matter how embellished it is, there is a grain of truth,” said Dōraku. “There used to be more than two of these. Always came in pairs, too — a white one and a blue one.”

  “This one is red,” Satō pointed out, raising the stone to the light.

  “It was corrupted by Ganryū’s blood. It was originally white.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  He smiled. “If you could see its magic glow, you’d understand. I’ve seen the blue one of the pair before — just a shard — and the energy signature is unmistakable.”

  “The blue shard… you mean Bran’s ring.”

  “Shimazu-dono’s ring now, I’m afraid. The boy got back the copy.”

  “Does Bran know?”

  “He does now.”

  She rolled the orb in her hand and put it into her own sleeve.

  “You know where he is, don’t you?”

  He grinned and got on the dragon’s back.

  “The war will come to Chōfu first,” he said. “It stands between Edo and the South. Make sure you are well prepared. Goodbye, Takashima-sama.”

  He patted the Qin on the shoulder and the golden beast shot into the air like a striking viper.

  Satō stood in front of the sand-yellow gates of Chōfu Castle holding a bundle of her few belongings, wearing a freshly cleaned and mended set of the Rangaku vermillion-and-black clothes and a nervous smile. The townspeople passed her by in a hurry, giving her curious looks; the guards watched her with bored interest. Once more, she made sure her breasts were wrapped flat, her jacket clean, her male haircut in order. A lonely female on a ship was asking for trouble, and in Chōfu she couldn’t count on the protection she had enjoyed in Kiyō or Satsuma.

  For the first time in her life she had nobody to help her, to guide her or to put in a good word for her. She was all alone.

  But it felt good to be dressed as a samurai again. Almost as if the woman’s body had been the disguise all along. She shifted her Matsubara sword and stepped forward.

  “What do you want, boy?” asked one of the guards, bored at last to irritation.

  She bowed. “I… I request an audience with the daimyo.”

  The guard chuckled. “Mori-dono is a busy man. What clan are you from? I don’t recognize the crest.”

  “Takashima, of Kiyō.”

  “Never heard about you.”

  Satō tensed. He was more of an usher than a guard. No mere soldier: he was a retainer, a vassal with a high position at the castle. His entire behaviour — the words, the posture — was an insult, and she had a good mind to teach him some manners. But he was right: she was a nobody. She had to earn her respect the hard way.

  “I’m here to ask about the Rangaku job at the Meirinkan School.”

  The samurai looked to his companion with a raised eyebrow, and then spat at Satō’s feet.

  “The barbarian school is up there,” he pointed with his thumb to where a street branched off the castle approach and wound up a dusty slope.

  Satō bowed. As she walked off, the man mumbled, just loud enough for her to hear:

  “Another dirty half-barbarian. Send someone to clean the spot where he stood.”

  “…and finally, here is the onmyōji class. They are researching how we could bind the old Yamato magic with Rangaku.”

  Shōin opened the door to a small room where two older men in silk robes were leaning over a pile of yellowed papers. He smiled apologetically, they nodded at him, and he closed the door.

  This finished the brief tour of the school. Shōin stood with his head slightly bowed, the smile of apology still on his lips.

  “This is very small,” said Satō. There couldn’t have been less than thirty pupils in the entire school; in Kagoshima, this would have been just a single class.

  “There aren’t many in Chōfu who are interested in anything Western, sensei,” the boy explained softly. Apart from bags under his eyes and a
pale, worn face, he didn’t seem any different from the eager pupil she remembered from Kiyō. He was now wearing nobleman’s clothes, marked with the Mori crest — three circles under a line — and they fitted him badly, hanging loose on thin, narrow shoulders.

  “You are now a Mori clansman, are you not?”

  “Yes, sensei. A minor branch adopted me last month. I could not teach the samurai sons otherwise.”

  How come he’s the headmaster here…?

  They headed back to the small garden at the back of the school. The veranda looked out on the castle town below, neat, straight lines of sand-yellow walls and grey slate roofs of the residences of the noble-men, all built in a very traditional style she had rarely seen further south.

  That’s right; I’m not on Chinzei anymore.

  “On the ship, I overheard that even the daimyo hates the West. The people on the streets here despise us.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Then why have a school at all?”

  A sparrow landed on the wooden veranda’s edge. Shōin sat down on the floor and gestured to her to do the same. Outside, he seemed even more frail.

  He bit his lip.

  “Mori-dono believes it’s the only way to stop the Westerners from coming to Yamato.”

  “Stop them…? But that would mean — ”

  This was not what she wanted at all.

  “They call it jōi,” Shōin continued, “‘expelling the barbarians’. This is what the daimyo wants. Mori-dono thinks not even the Taikun is forceful enough — and now with all those rumours from Edo…”

  What rumours?

  “I haven’t come all this way from Kiyō to help enforce the Taikun’s laws,” she said.

  “I know, I’m sorry,” the boy replied with a wince. “I don’t think I agree with it myself. After all, in Kiyō… But he is my liege and I have to obey. And for now, there aren’t any barbarians to expel, so I can simply focus on my studies. I’m really glad you’re here, Satō-sensei,” he turned to her, his eyes glinting. The sparrow fluttered away. “There’s nobody here who would know even half as much about Rangaku as you do.”

  She felt herself blush. “I will do my best, but in Satsuma — ”

  “But this isn’t Satsuma. Or Kiyō. There are some decent onmyōji here, but with the Western magic I’m all alone. I’m stumped in my research. I really hope you can help me.”

  “Well, as soon as I get the job…”

  He winced again. “There is a small problem.”

  Another sparrow landed on the gravel below Satō’s feet; it started a fight with a stubborn worm.

  “A problem? Why?”

  “I’ve mentioned you to Mori-dono yesterday. It was all going fine, until, well…”

  “Until what?”

  Shōin crumpled the hem of his kimono in a gesture which reminded Satō of Nagomi.

  “Until I mentioned you’re a woman.” He bowed his head. “He almost threw me outside. I’m afraid he’s rather conservative in these matters. He doesn’t believe in women teaching men.”

  “Bastard,” she hissed.

  The boy gasped. “Sensei! He’s my overlord!”

  Satō glanced at him coldly. “I don’t care. He’s exactly the kind of man I always despised. It looks like this isn’t a place for me after all.”

  She started up, but Shōin grabbed her by the hand. She looked down at him in shock. He released her immediately.

  “I’m sorry.” He stared at the cedar wood floorboards again. “There is still one option…”

  “What option?”

  “I pleaded with the daimyo… He understands the need of the school. He knows I can’t cope with it myself. He agreed on one… one condition.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “That you marry.”

  She laughed out loud.

  “Well that’s not going to happen. I’m not marrying some fat old samurai just to get a job. Thanks, but I’ll manage just fine. Take care, Shōin.”

  She cast one last look at the town below.

  What was Dōraku-sama thinking? This place is terrible.

  “He doesn’t have to be…” Shōin’s voice trailed into bashful silence.

  “What did you say?”

  “It wouldn’t have to be a fat and old samurai.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She waved her hand and prepared to leave. “I’m not marrying anyone.”

  “You could marry me, sensei.”

  She stopped with one foot on the veranda and one in the door. She turned slowly around. “Shōin… you’re just a boy…”

  “I’m of marrying age,” he replied quickly. “You’re a noble woman, so you may see it as an insult of course…but since I am Mori now…and this job is…”

  Avoiding his worried eyes, she looked at the sparrow in the gravel, that finally tore the stubborn worm in half and jumped away with the rear part of it in its beak.

  “That means Mori-dono would have to approve of this marriage.”

  “He already has.”

  She looked at him sharply. Already — !

  She noticed Mori’s guards standing in front of the school gate. She felt dizzy; blood rushed from her head to her feet, and back again.

  Why were things in her life always happening so fast?

  Not even two months had passed since she’d had to leave Kiyō forever… a month ago she had burned her father… a few days before coming to Chōfu she had been betrayed and buried alive, forgotten and alone… and now she was being proposed to by her own student!

  “Isn’t becoming a Mori a far better option than staying an exiled Takashima?” the boy asked in a whisper.

  This would solve all my problems with one strike of an official’s brush. Position, protection, power… This was almost too ideal.

  And what would I tell Bran…?

  She remembered the green dragon disappearing into the clouds. She shook her head.

  He’s never coming back. Forget it already. It’s time to move on.

  “It would just be for show, you understand,” she said at last, biting her lower lip.

  He beamed at her and then prostrated, showering the veranda floor with thanks and apologies.

  The stubborn worm’s upper half slithered away into the shadow.

  CHAPTER IV

  “This looks like it,” said Azumi.

  The steep road winding up the mountain between small shrines built of withered grey cedar wood in a sequence of stone stairs and slopes slippery with mud ended at a blind torii gate, leading nowhere; a few feet beyond it rose a sheer wall of volcanic rock, like a frozen waterfall of lava; pillars of black obsidian blotched with light grey and yellow-green veins. Above, the mountain rose tall and bald; no trees grew around its summit, not even the hardy spruce.

  Near the top, bathed in mists and rising clouds, a slate-gabled temple-like building perched over the slope. Its jutting balcony was supported on a lattice of thick pillars. There was no obvious road leading to it, almost as if the only way to reach it was by flying.

  “It sure does,” agreed Ozun.

  She tied tighter around her waist the rope holding the basket with his head, spat into her hands, and started to climb up the pillars of lava. The rock was smooth and polished with very little hold. At times she had to leap from one hole to another. Her toes slipped, leaving her hovering over the precipice by just her fingers, the muscles in her limbs tearing apart from the strain. The cold, wet wind tore at her clothes, piercing her with a thousand ice needles and bringing down mist from the top to moisten the grips even further.

  “You’re almost there, love,” Ozun encouraged her.

  “I know.”

  Her fingers bled and her feet swelled up with blisters. She felt she could not climb any longer. And just then, her hand seeking another hold point found nothing but air. The rock ended. She’d reached the top.

  There was a path here, a narrow and precarious shelf, but good enough to rest awhile before walking further. It climbe
d up for another hundred feet before reaching a gateway arch built of great black boulders.

  Two guards, each dressed in armour of black lacquer adorned with polished emeralds, spotted her as she reached the last bend, and jumped up in surprise. One of them pointed a spear at her; the other drew a short-bladed sword, of the sort used by the assassins of the Iga province.

  “Go back where you came from,” ordered the swordsman. “There is nothing for you here.”

  Azumi put the basket with Ozun’s head on the ground, and slowly pulled the chain-sickle from her belt. She swept it a few times from side to side with a swish, to show she knew her business. The swordsman narrowed his eyes and stepped forward.

  “You wield the weapons of the shinobi,” he said, “but do you know how to use them?”

  “Do you want to know how many men like you I’ve killed to get here?”

  She spat and covered her face with the ashen-grey mask of her uniform.

  “Koga.” The swordsman recognised it. “You were all destroyed.”

  “And yet here I am.”

  She whirled the sickle in a complex pattern and stepped closer.

  “Hey,” the spearman shouted, “that’s enough talk. Either get out of here or die.”

  “Aren’t you at least interested why I’m here?” asked Azumi.

  “There’s only one reason,” replied the swordsman, “and for that, you’ll have to pass through us.”

  “So be it.”

  As she spoke the last word, Azumi let the sickle fly. It bounced off the swordsman’s short blade with a soft chime. She followed the momentum and struck again from the same direction, faster and stronger this time. The chain whirled around the sword, and the swordsman jerked it forward to tear the weapon from Azumi’s hands, but she held fast.

  She swivelled her hips to dodge the spear point thrust towards her, and leapt up, bouncing lightly from the shaft, over the spearman’s head, behind the swordsman, pulling the chain with her around the swordsman’s neck. The swordsman rolled back and around, releasing himself from the chain, and, reaching into his belt, threw a volley of poisoned darts towards her. Azumi dodged one, parried another, and caught the third in flight, then threw it back; the swordsman barely managed to reflect it aside.

  The two men got serious now. The initial bout over, they circled her slowly, looking for an opening in the whirlwind wall she formed around her out of the chain and blade. They struck at the same instant from opposing directions, the spear slashing at her legs, the sword aiming at her neck. She jumped up and twisted her body in the air, for a brief, gravity-defying moment suspended horizontally between the two blades. Looking straight in the eyes of the swordsman behind her, she cast the sickle forward and felt the chain slacken when the blade hit its target. She made a half-roll and landed on her hands and legs, letting go of her weapon; the spearman staggered and fell forward, clutching the sickle embedded in his neck.