Clockwork Samurai (10 page)

“You took over your father's trade after his death?” I asked.

“This wasn't his trade. My father was a scholar. A statesman.”

“A samurai?”

She looked up sharply at my question, then nodded. “Yes. Samurai.”

Lord Sagara was well respected, which is why my father had made contact with him. The two had likely exchanged ideas, traded knowledge. It must have seemed like the dawning of a new age of discovery—yet shortly after my father had left this world, Lord Sagara was soon to follow.

“These weapons you make. I can't see how they're not of great value to your empire.”

“There was a time when guns were highly prized.” Satomi lifted the pistol to look down the barrel, as if sighting a target. “The warlords equipped their armies with firearms, and battles were fierce. But once those territorial wars were settled, once the Tokugawa reigned supreme, and peace came to our land, such weapons were not as necessary.”

“But that's a good thing, is it not?”

“Peace is a good thing,” Satomi agreed soberly. Setting down the pistol, she reached for a sander and began to file down the edge of the stock. “My father was a scientist. He loved knowledge for knowledge's sake. I imagine yours was the same.”

“He was.” I came closer so only the workbench separated us. My throat tightened hearing her speak of her father and of mine in the same breath. We were still strangers to each other, yet sisters in spirit.

“My father was also practical,” she continued. “He knew the Western armies continued to use firearms, and that their weapons and ships were growing more powerful. Yet the
bakufu
—”

“
Bakufu
?”

“Our government,” she explained. “The shogunate. The feudal lords were insistent that we had protected ourselves by closing our borders. With peace within and foreign influences kept out, it was easy to be lulled into a sense of security. We didn't need the brutality of firearms. Perhaps that is true, but my father continued to study them, and continued to study Western sciences as well.”

“And the shogunate didn't approve of his studies.” I imagined a country that would shut out all foreigners must have been similarly wary of foreign ideas. Our empire was no different.

“The
bakufu
values tradition and the ways of the samurai, which have become legendary. There is a romance to it, the rule of the sword and the samurai code of honor. There is no romance to the way a firearm kills.”

Absently, she ran her fingers along the stock of the weapon, feeling each curve. Satisfied, she reached for an oiled rag and began to polish the metal. “You haven't asked why my father was assassinated.”

“It is not my place to ask.”

“But you want to know.” Satomi set the pistol down and the rag beside it. She braced her hands against the workbench and drew in a deep breath.

“I want to know because I have questions of my own,” I admitted.

“We have tradition here called
katakiuchi.
Legal vendetta. One can petition for vendetta on behalf of someone who has
suffered a wrongful death. Once
katakiuchi
is invoked against someone, his life is forfeit. He can be pursued openly and killed in broad daylight without fearing repercussion.” Satomi looked directly at me, her jaw set in a hard line. “There was a dispute, and one of my father's rifles was used to kill a ranking samurai. A sword maker is not held responsible for the lives his blades might take. But in the case of a firearm, the traditionalists believe, since there was so little skill required to pull the trigger, that the death was in part caused by the maker. But the truth is there is a faction within the
bakufu
that hates foreigners. My father was outspoken in defending outsiders and foreign ideas, so he had to die. It was a pointless death.”

She bit off the last words as fire flashed in her eyes. This was a wound that hadn't healed. I felt the echo of my own wound deep in my chest.

“My father was killed for declaring the Western forces superior to ours,” I told her.

“When my father was put to death, many thought I would take my own life and follow him. Cleaner for everyone involved that way. But I didn't,” Satomi declared defiantly.

“We were destitute,” I commiserated. “It was thought that my mother and I would have to sell ourselves into servitude, yet no one came forward to help us.”

It was strange to be speaking so openly to a stranger, and a foreigner at that. But the smallest crack showed in Satomi's hard exterior. “But I am not dead, and you are not a prostitute.”

“There was a time I wanted to disappear. I wanted to withdraw from everything. From Peking and its politics. From this war with the
Yangguizi
. Anything to keep my family safe. But now I realize this fight is the only way to ensure our future.”

I let the words sink in. It wasn't until I spoke them out loud that I realized I truly believed it. Emperor Yizhu was flawed, a young man pulled in many directions. And our empire was fighting for survival. I was part of that struggle now.

“My father used to believe that Western science applied with Eastern ethics would prevail. They called such thinking treason,” Satomi recounted sadly. She picked up the pistol and held it before her in both hands. “Engineer Chen. He thinks the same way, doesn't he?”

“He was my father's pupil.”

“And what is he to you?”

The bluntness of her question took me aback. Even worse, I didn't have an answer. “He's . . . he's a friend,” I replied, feeling tongue-tied.

“A good enough friend to risk your life for?”

“Our empire is worth the risk.”

“The empire that put your own father to death?” Her eyebrow raised once more, aiming the question like a knife at my heart.

“Yes.” A sharp pain struck me as I said it. Perhaps that pain would never go away.

Satomi measured the weight behind that one word. “Here,” she said finally. “This is for you.”

She held out the pistol to me, and I reluctantly took it in my hands. It was heavy, yet sleek in appearance. The barrel
was shorter than the length of my palm, and the metal was etched with an elegant design. It was a weapon that could easily be hidden within the fold of a sleeve or beneath a broad sash. Beautiful, despite its deadly purpose.

“I'll teach you how to use it. You'll need protection for your journey.” The corner of her mouth lifted in not quite a smile. “And I'll accompany you tomorrow, if you'll permit it. You might need me as well.”

Makoto was waiting for us at the foot of the mountain early the next day. He had secured a wagon and a team of mules, and by midmorning, we were trudging along a dirt road headed east. Yoshiro sat up front beside Makoto, who took the reins. Chang-wei and I tucked ourselves in back with Satomi.

“Hard to pass ourselves off as peasant farmers with an armed warrior guarding us,” Makoto said dryly.

Yoshiro turned in his direction but said nothing. He wore his suit of armor and mask as always and conducted himself with the same rigid silence that I was coming to associate with the samurai class.

“I'm well-known among these parts,” Satomi insisted. “There's no use in hiding.”

“We'll be taking a less-traveled route. If we come across any patrols, the two of you remain quiet.” Makoto directed a look at Chang-wei and me. “I'll do the talking.”

The area we traveled did appear secluded. There were no other wagons or travelers on the dirt road.

“Is there danger out here from bandits?” Chang-wei asked.

“This domain is very secure, the roads and cities well protected. No honest work for mercenaries,” Makoto said with a laugh. “Which is why I'm forced to find work among the
Shina-jin
.”

The mule team fell into an easy pace. The surrounding hillsides were green and lush, and occasionally we passed through patches of farmland. I saw a few farmhands working the fields, but they paid us little attention, and we were left to our journey unmolested.

“I meant no insult, what I said yesterday,” Chang-wei said to me in the middle of a long stretch of silence. His voice was lowered, meant for me alone. “I respect what you do.”

“But you think it's all folk remedies and old superstitions,” I countered.

He sighed. “I never said that, Soling.”

Maybe I did want to pick a fight. We had gone to sleep last night barely speaking to each other. I told myself it was because Chang-wei had been absorbed in his new project with the
elekiteru
. He never did get the thing working.

“It's just frustrating sometimes. Hearing educated men speak of elixirs of immortality and forbidden points. Feeling my pulse and telling me my disposition based on every tick.”

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. “Give me your arm.”

He looked at me warily.

“Your arm,” I insisted with a curt nod.

Chang-wei let out a long-suffering sigh and folded back his sleeve, exposing his forearm. With a roll of his eyes, he held it out to me.

I bit back a smile. His display was somewhat endearing. He glanced over at me as I took hold of his wrist. The muscles
of his arm flexed as I placed two fingers over his pulse point.

“The patient is irritable. Imbalanced,” I diagnosed. “An excess of male pride.”

I caught a smile from Satomi before she averted her gaze to the hillside.

“Is that so?” Chang-wei asked haughtily.

I switched to the pulse at his neck, just below his jaw. When he tilted his head upward to look at me, my own pulse jumped. When he was this close, it was impossible to deny how handsome I found him. How I was teasing him now just as an excuse to touch him.

“Definitely too much yang,” I continued, my breath thin. “Prey to mood swings.”

His throat moved as he swallowed. “And the cure?”

My gaze latched onto his mouth. It was finely shaped. Stubborn at times, but also clever and expressive. He often showed so little emotion that I'd learned to read his mood from the tiny quirks of his mouth. At that moment, I really wished we were alone.

“A good knock to the head,” I prescribed.

He gave a short laugh, and my chest warmed. As my fingers slipped away from his neck, a thread of unease wormed its way into me. I had only been playing, not truly reading Chang-wei's condition, but for one second, I had sensed something strange. A skip in his pulse that seemed out of place.

“Soling?” he asked when I remained silent for too long.

I willed my shoulders to relax as I leaned back in the wagon beside him. “You're forgiven.”

“How gracious.”

I nudged him with my foot. It was childish of me, but I hadn't felt young and childish in a long time. His foot stayed close to mine, stroking a line against the arch of my slipper before falling away.

I was probably making too much of the gesture, but maybe I wasn't.

* * *

We made it through the first day uneventfully and set camp as the sun started to set. Makoto unhitched the mules to feed and water them while I rummaged through the supplies. There was millet and rice and a few jugs of wine.

As I gathered water from a nearby stream for the evening rice, I took a moment to look over the land. I was in a strange land with different customs and laws. Yet here, among the tall grass with the sunset painting the sky, I could have been back in our village, at the end of a long day bringing remedies to the farmers who lived out in the fields. There wasn't a quiet place like this in Peking. There was always noise from the street, from the city drums, from the temple gong signaling the hours.

I finished filling the iron pot with water and returned to camp to start the rice. At the edge of camp, Satomi sat with her bodyguard. He was turned away from me, but for once he had his helmet off. His head remained bent as she knelt beside him with her hand against his chest.

The tenderness of the moment made me uncomfortable. It was a private exchange, not meant for prying eyes. I forced my gaze away and saw Makoto, who'd come to stand beside me.

“Lady Sagara's bodyguard is
rōnin
,” Makoto said.

“What does that mean?”

“He's been cast adrift. When Lord Sagara was killed, his retainers immediately became masterless, prohibited from swearing loyalty to a new lord. The others likely drifted away to find work as hired swords, but this one stayed.”

“She treats him as more than a servant.” I glanced back to see Satomi placing Yoshiro's helmet back on while he remained on one knee before her.

“They're both outcasts.” There was no condemnation in his tone.

“Are you
rōnin
as well?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Plenty of us no-good drifters about.”

I started to ask him about the favor he wanted from us, but Makoto was already gone, moving to get supplies from the wagon. I returned my attention to the rice.

Chang-wei knelt to start the cooking fire, and I positioned the rice pot over it. Together we sat back.

“Did you ever imagine we would travel the world together?” Chang-wei was looking in the distance. I followed his gaze to the orange glow that surrounded the hills. My breath caught at the flood of color. At the beauty of this particular moment in time, knowing it would soon be gone.

“We haven't traveled so far,” I remarked. “The island empire and ours are close neighbors.”

He smiled faintly. “Perhaps we'll journey farther next time.”

It was rare to find Chang-wei in such a whimsical mood. He was always so serious.

“All the way to Bangkok,” I suggested, drawing from the first name that came to mind.

“I would like to show you London one day.”

“London?” I stiffened. “Why would I ever want to go there?”

“It's a great city, Soling. Grandiose in its own way.”

I grew quiet. “We're at war with the
Yingguoren
.”

“That doesn't mean I hate everything British.”

“Don't you remember how they imprisoned you? They forced you to serve on their ships.”

“But I learned so many things,” he countered. “Saw a place and people and wonders I never knew existed. We want to be rid of them, but the world has changed. The steamships won't disappear. The
Yingguoren
won't go away.”

He seemed so earnest. Chang-wei really did believe he could embrace Western ideas while fighting against the invasion.

“You know there are those in the imperial court who hear the way you speak and doubt your loyalty, Chang-wei.”

“But you don't doubt it, do you?”

I met his gaze, my heart aching. No one was more loyal to the empire than Chang-wei, but I knew the most loyal and dedicated of men could still be executed for treason. Imperial loyalty required a degree of forced blindness. Or at least silence.

“I suspect Headman Aguda may have had a motive for putting me on this mission,” I confessed.

Chang-wei's expression became blank. “To report on me.”

“I wouldn't do that. We're friends.”

“We're more than friends.”

The quiet certainty in his reply made my pulse skip. This was more than we typically admitted to each other. I could feel my skin warming under his gaze.

If he meant to say anything more, he didn't have the chance. Makoto had returned from the wagon with a jug in hand. Chang-wei moved to the cooking fire to check the rice, and I was left to wonder and fret.

I should have said something back to him. Something clever or heartfelt, instead of sitting there with my tongue frozen.

By the time Makoto seated himself, Satomi had come to join us as well. Yoshiro remained at the perimeter to keep watch. He was always vigilant.

“We'll be in Saga domain the day after next,” she said, unslinging the rifle from her shoulder to set it beside her in the grass. “Takeda Hideyori will be surprised to see representatives from the
Shina
imperial court at his gate.”

“Is Lord Takeda sympathetic to foreigners?” Chang-wei asked.

“Takeda-sama is a man of science,” Satomi replied. “I am confident he'll welcome your arrival. He also has a special interest in foreign studies. After my father left us, Takeda-sama became my guardian.”

Yet now she was out in Nagasaki alone with only one bodyguard, haunting her father's domain like a ghost. Sometimes I felt that way in Peking, traveling down the corridors of the Forbidden City as my father had done.

“Why is Lord Takeda known as Karakuri Giemon?” I asked.

It was the same word the proprietor had used at the teahouse with the puppets.

“
Karakuri
is mechanical trickery,” Satomi explained. “Takeda-sama's automatons are known throughout Edo.”

We ate our rice mixed with dried fish and pickled radishes. Simple fare, but filling enough. Makoto poured the contents of his jug into several cups.

“ShōchÅ«,” he told me as I sniffed at the clear liquid.

I imagined it was from the same distillery we had tunneled into to sneak out of the Chinese quarter. Makoto raised his cup to make a toast.

“
Kanpai!
”

We echoed the sentiment, which happened to be one of the phrases that translated easily between the two languages.

I took a tentative sip and found the fermented taste sharper than wine but not unpleasant. Chang-wei had already drained his cup in proper fashion. A glance to the edge of the camp revealed Yoshiro in silhouette as he leaned against a
tree, peering vigilantly out into the darkness. I considered extending an invitation for him to join us, but the former samurai appeared to follow a strict code of conduct. On top of that, he intimidated me with his plated armor and face shield. His eyes constantly watched us from behind the mask.

Makoto, however, cast off all sense of formality. “Everyone is still alive,” he concluded, refilling his cup and raising it for another toast. “This is a good day.”

* * *

That night, Satomi and I retired to the back of the wagon while the men made their beds on the ground beside it. For propriety's sake.

“I should tell you something, Soling-san,” Satomi said, the moment I found a comfortable spot among the supplies. I had one of the sacks of grain as a pillow.

I couldn't see her on the other side of the wagon, since we'd extinguished the fire to avoid alerting any wandering patrols.

“What is it?”

“When we reach Takeda-sama's house, it may be an uncomfortable situation, one I must apologize for.”

“There's no need to apologize for anything.”

“There is. I ran away from Takeda-sama's household three years ago. I didn't want to owe him any more than I did. You shouldn't be dragged into such personal matters.”

I understood completely. “You didn't want to be a burden.”

“I also left because it was assumed he would one day take me as his wife.”

“Oh . . .”

“Not that there was any sort of scandal, though all of Takeda-sama's acquaintances assumed I was his mistress already. I was too old to be a foster daughter, and, though he was old enough to be my father, Takeda-sama was unmarried. After a year under his roof, he did ask me to be his wife. I don't know if it was out of obligation or because of the rumors, but I left the next morning.”

“Just left?”

“Without a word of farewell.”

And without remorse as well, it seemed.

“Was he cruel to you?”

“No, Takeda-sama was always kind.”

“Then why?”

“So I wouldn't have to suffer the awkwardness of having to reply.”

I bit back a laugh and heard Satomi chuckling softly in the darkness.

“He had the look of one hunted when he came to ask for me,” she protested. “I couldn't subject him to such torture.” Her tone became more serious. “I think being alone suits me. Or at least it suited me at the time. Yoshiro is my constant companion, but he's unable to speak.”

So her bodyguard was mute. I wasn't surprised to hear of it, considering how he'd said nothing from the moment he joined our party.

“I haven't spoken with Takeda-sama since,” she told me. “But I don't believe he holds a grudge. He sends people once in a while to see that I'm still alive and well. They always come and go quietly, leaving me to my life in the hills.”

I had to admire her independent spirit. Satomi was so comfortable in her skin.