Clockwork Samurai (9 page)

Satomi let out a sharp laugh at Chang-wei's request, while Makoto was much more direct. He reached for his sword.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Seeing his movement, the bodyguard Yoshiro reached for his sword as well. I threw myself between Chang-wei and the Japanese swordsmen, though my weapons were useless in this standoff.

“There's no need to fight.”

Chang-wei alone remained levelheaded. “I'm proposing an exchange, Lady Sagara. For the sake of our two nations.”

“For a thousand guns that can be turned against us?” Makoto spat. “You're no merchant trader,
Shina
.”

“It hardly matters.” Satomi regarded them both, bemused. “I craft each of these weapons by hand, as my father did. I could not create a thousand of them in my lifetime.”

“We don't need the guns. We need the knowledge of how to make them.”

Satomi regarded him warily. “Who are you?” she asked, echoing Makoto's earlier question.

“Engineer Chen Chang-wei, of the Ministry of Science in Peking.”

She looked to me. “The same Ministry your father once served.”

“I serve the imperial court as well.”

“The Chinese imperial court.” Her mouth quirked. She looked to her bodyguard. “How important we must be, Yoshi-chan, to warrant such a visit.”

The bodyguard did not appear amused. His eyes gleamed from behind his war mask, and his hand refused to relax from his sword.

“With your knowledge and expertise, we can send the foreigners from our shores,” Chang-wei proposed.

Satomi smirked. “The guns are for sale; I'm not. If you are not here to buy, then we have no further business.”

A muscle ticked along Chang-wei's jaw as he measured his response. “An alliance would benefit both the empires of China and Japan, Lady Sagara.”

“Engineer Chen, is it?”

I considered it some progress. At least she was no longer referring to him as
Shina-jin
.

“I am no lady. To the
bakufu
, I am nothing, so it serves you no purpose to negotiate with me.”

“Then who can we make an appeal to?”

She remained skeptical. “Your presence here puts me in danger. Why should I help you?”

“Because our fathers respected each other,” I interjected. “Lord Sagara believed in collaboration between our nations.”

Satomi regarded me for a long time. “I am not my father,” she said quietly. “He was not born samurai, nor was he from a wealthy family. It was only through diligence and ingenuity that he was elevated to the rank of the samurai. He believed
in learning from others, even if they were outsiders.” She bowed her head in reverence.

“Seek out Karakuri Giemon,” she said finally. “He may be sympathetic to your cause.”

* * *

“Karakuri Giemon is the mechanical wizard,” Makoto translated for us. “He's a famous inventor who resides in the Saga domain, at least two days by foot.”

Satomi had allowed us shelter temporarily before retreating into the schoolhouse. We were left to debate our next course of action.

Chang-wei looked to me. “Two days there, two days back. Every day we're away, we risk being caught.”

“Do you want to go back?” I asked him.

“No, but—”

“Neither do I,” I interrupted.

“If we're imprisoned by the shogunate, the imperial court won't be able to help us. One of us should return to Nagasaki.”

Which meant me. “We go together or not at all.”

Yelu, Lord Sagara, Satomi and even this inventor were somehow connected to my father. And to me.

“We'll go and meet this
karakuri
master,” I said, daring Chang-wei to object. “If Makoto-san will take us.”

Our gazes locked, and I could see the arguments brewing beneath Chang-wei's cool demeanor. Eventually he said nothing.

Small victory.

Makoto listened to our conversation with great interest. “As long as your silver is good,” he replied, but there was something hidden beneath his casual tone. “And one small request.”

“What request?” Chang-wei turned away from our battle of wills.

“Once my part of the bargain is done,” Makoto dismissed.

He descended back down to Nagasaki to prepare for the journey while we stayed hidden and explored the
Rangaku
school.

The building had been left as it was when Lord Sagara was assassinated. Tools remained on the benches inside a workroom. A wooden box painted with a cloud and lightning design sat gathering dust in the corner. Twin coils of wire rose from it, and there was a wheel attached at the base with a foot pedal. Chang-wei pushed the lid back, and we both peered at the smaller wheel structure inside.

“An
elekiteru
,” Chang-wei observed. “I wonder if it's operational.”

There was some resemblance to the device we had found in my father's Japanese puzzle box, though on a larger scale. Chang-wei seated himself at the foot pedals. With some creaking, the wheel started to turn. I waited, watching with
anticipation, but nothing happened.

“Maybe I can get it working again.”

“Have you ever seen one of these before?” I asked him.

Chang-wei was undaunted as he removed the lid. “What one man can do, so can another.”

From his absorbed expression, I knew he would be in another world for the next few hours.

I wandered to a yellowed volume left on the shelf and flipped through it. One of the prints showed a man in Western clothing, flying a kite with lightning flashing in the background.

“This is interesting.” I held up the book to Chang-wei, who only spared it a cursory glance before returning to the
elekiteru
.

“He's a famous scientist from
Měiguó
,” Chang-wei said dismissively. “He lived a hundred years ago.”

Měiguó.
The beautiful country on the other side of the world. America, they called it. I had met a merchant from this place once. Dean Burton had been an associate of Chang-wei's. Mister Burton was fair skinned with yellow hair and eyes that were disconcertingly blue. This scientist had been drawn with similarly pale hair. A key hung cryptically from the end of a long kite string. I pondered that for a moment before turning the page.

Reading Japanese script presented an endless puzzle. Some of the characters were similar to Chinese ones, but other than a few words here and there, I couldn't make sense of it. The pictures themselves told a story of mysterious devices and wires and energy flowing between them.

“There is a branch of study using electricity to treat illness,” Chang-wei commented from the corner. His arms disappeared into the wooden box as he tinkered with the device. “They believe
elekiteru
can be used to stimulate the organs.”

“Like our concept of qi,” I suggested. “Our medical practices are based on redirecting internal energy to specific points to stimulate organs and promote balance and healing.”

“It's possible. I haven't given it much thought.”

Chang-wei's quick dismissal stung. I frowned at him, but he was too immersed in his machine to notice.

“Electricity comes from lightning,” he explained. “It can also be generated through motion and travels along copper wire.”

“Qi is generated through breath and meditation,” I argued. “And travels along nerves and blood vessels. Doesn't that sound similar?”

“Symbolism can be found anywhere, Soling. It's for poetry, not science. When one looks carefully, much of what we consider learning is merely based on symbolism. Yin and yang, light and dark. Balance.”

Chang-wei worked the pedals, and the wheel inside whirred to life, spinning for a time before gradually winding down. From his dark scowl, I assumed this latest effort was unsuccessful.

“What is wrong with yin and yang and balance? These forces are universal.”

“They
feel
right to you. Because you look around yourself and you see men and women and light and darkness, so it's
easy to see the world in such opposing contrasts. But other than the sense of comfort it gives you, how quantifiable is it?”

My skin prickled at his use of
you
. As if this were my own personal ignorance.

“I'm not saying there are not remedies that, for reasons unknown, are effective,” Chang-wei continued. “But how often are they effective? Why does acupuncture sometimes cure a man and sometimes do nothing?”

“Because everyone's energy flow and imbalances are different.”

“Ah, see?” Chang-wei looked up then, triumphant. “Qi defies measurement. How do I know if something inside me is due to an imbalance of qi or simply indigestion because I ate spoiled meat?”

I was ready to throw my book at him, but I didn't want to damage the book. “You seem to imply that Western learning is better than ours. While our findings are merely based on symbols and poetry.”

Chang-wei must have detected the sharp edge in my tone. His argument became more formal, academic, as if debating his colleagues in the Ministry. “From what I can see, Western learning is based on measurement. Definitive rules and observations.”

“What about cutting into a body that's already sick?” I challenged. “Bleeding out bad humors? Destroying the body to heal it? Is that measurable?”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“We mystics in the Court of Physicians aren't completely ignorant. When we're not reading tea leaves, we do read a book or two.” I laid the book open on the lid of the
elekiteru
before turning on my heel. “There's a diagram of your precious box.”

I left him to his tinkering. It was the first time Chang-wei and I had clashed like that. On the surface, it might have sounded like a scientific debate, but my chest was tight, my throat constricted with anger.

At the heart of his logic, something else seemed to lurk. The insinuation that Western thinking was not merely different but somehow superior to Chinese beliefs.

Many whispered that Chen Chang-wei was a Western sympathizer, which was a more polite way of insinuating that he was a traitor. In thought if not in action. Could someone who thought Western thinking was superior still remain loyal to the empire? Emperor Yizhu hated the
Yangguizi
and everything that had to do with the West.

I didn't know the answer, but Chang-wei's attitude didn't sit well with me. I knew he was inventive and open to new ideas. The way his mind worked left me confounded. Much like how my brother could break anything down to its parts, and from the pieces its essence. The soul of it and what made it work.

But Chang-wei's talk of mysticism, symbolism and yin and yang left a bitter taste in my mouth.

I wandered to the rooms toward the back of the courtyard, our argument hanging over me like a black cloud. My logic wasn't as precise and clear-cut as Chang-wei's, but what came to my mind was the memory of the first time I had tried to measure someone's pulse.

“What am I looking for?” I had asked Physician Lo.

The old man shook his head. “Just feel. Observe.”

So I felt for the patient's pulse. I noted the strength of it, the rhythm of each beat. And then I did the same for another patient. And another. Some who were sick and most who were well. Over days and weeks and months, I learned the heart rhythms of the villagers we served. Learning whose pulse might skip, gauging what sort of conditions would cause an irregular or weakened pulse.

Chang-wei might call it meditation or mysticism, but I began to get a sense of a person's individual energy. His wellness. His qi.

Qi wasn't pulse. Or breath. Or heat. Or the beat of one's heart. It was all those things, together. Immeasurable, but not unknowable.

I'd reached what looked like a sleeping room. It was a long chamber lined with a single mat. A layer of dust clung to the floor, and cobwebs hung in the corners. During its time, the school had space enough to house fifteen to twenty students. The disciples would have slept here in the communal room, then awoken to prepare for lessons in the main room.

But this thriving environment had been ended by a single assassin's blade.

I couldn't ignore the similarities between my father's death and Lord Sagara's. Both were men of science and engineering. They were scholars more than politicians, yet they'd been executed for treason when their countries needed them most.

I left the sleeping quarters to go to the rear of the compound. A building made of stone and brick stood apart from the other chambers. Satomi's bodyguard stood at the door. As I neared, he moved to block my path.

“Yoshiro, let her pass,” came the command from inside.

The warrior's black eyes peered at me from behind his mask, but finally he stepped aside. My shoulders tensed as I moved past him. His steely gaze followed my every move.

Inside, Satomi stood at a workbench with a pistol in one hand and a hammer in the other. Around the shop were metal and wooden parts. At first I said nothing, content to just watch as she worked. Satomi tapped iron pins in place on the stock, her movements practiced and efficient.

“My father taught me,” she said between hammer strikes. “He was interested in the making of firearms using techniques that he learned from the Westerners.”

She continued assembling the weapon as I ventured closer. “My younger brother is like you.”

“Oh?” Satomi raised an eyebrow while her focus remained on the work in front of her.

“He has a talent for knowing how parts should fit together to make a working whole. And for making new creations.”

“No talent here, Miss Jin. I just repeat what my father did before me. Over and over until the knowledge sinks into my bones.”

Satomi paused to wipe her brow, and I looked to the diagrams tacked onto the walls. Some were old and worn, but many were newly drawn.