Sword of Honour (39 page)

‘You have your mother’s hands,’ said Tadanari, watching him. To him it sounded profound.

‘You’re drunk,’ said Ujinari.

Tadanari shook his head dismissively, and then gestured for the longsword before his son set it upon the nearby stand. Took it with no decorum, pulled the blade out of the scabbard a
hand’s breadth and stared at it through one eye. He twisted it back and forth and the steel shimmered in the golden light. He remembered the moment he first saw it in the hall of the Forger
of Souls. He remembered the joy of bestowing.

‘This serves you well?’ he asked his son.

‘Flawlessly,’ said Ujinari. ‘I still cannot thank you.’

‘Have you cut with it yet?’

Ujinari did not answer.

‘Four years, and still the edge has not tasted blood. Men would argue whether that was the finest of swords, or the very worst.’

Tadanari meant it as no more than a statement to himself, a drunk reaffirmation of the state of things, and yet Ujinari took it as criticism.

‘It would be inauspicious to cut simply for the sake of cutting,’ he said. ‘A bad omen, no?’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Tadanari, nodding vaguely. ‘Wise.’

Ujinari calmed. Tadanari held on to the sword. He looked down upon the flat of the blade at the image of the sword of Fudo carved so masterfully there. Single-handed, double-edged, a bulbous
pommel and an eldritch guard. Perfectly weird, befitting the otherworldly.

Houken, it was called. The Cutter of Delusions.

Ujinari saw his father’s fascination with the engraving. ‘I had a question about that, if I might ask it of you.’

‘Ask.’

‘I have heard say that swords so marked with Fudo’s symbol are conduits, that men wielding them can call down his strength or his protection in battle. Do you know this to be
true?’

‘The only men who could answer that truly are those that have claimed to have felt it. I have not experienced such myself. Perhaps such a thing has occurred, but I would express
scepticism.’

‘Then why . . . ?’

‘Why did I have it put upon the blade?’ said Tadanari.

Ujinari nodded. Tadanari smiled at his son.

‘Fudo is the patron saint of swordsmen, a manifestation of the Buddha’s wisdom and wrath,’ he said. ‘He takes the form of a pale ogre that burns constantly with the
flames of mankind’s suffering, which he bears out of love and his duty to free us all from that which misleads us. His sword is the implement of this, and, when the saint passes the celestial
blade through a mortal, the mortal is thus cleansed of his mire of delusions and enlightened.’

‘Delusions,’ said Ujinari. ‘Greed? Ego? Lust?’

Tadanari nodded to each, and then he added, ‘Permanency.’

Ujinari reached down to pat the tortoise as he thought. ‘So the wielder of the sword is to act as Fudo, cutting such delusions where they find it?’

‘It would be a rash and arrogant man who sets himself as the divine, compelled to cast judgement on other mortals just as flawed as he. A more humble and righteous goal would be to look at
the image of the sword there upon that blade, and strive to cut these things from oneself.’

‘Permanency,’ repeated Ujinari.

Tadanari nodded. ‘You and I, Tadanari and Ujinari, are fleet things. If we are extremely fortunate, we will see nine decades pass before us. Tell that figure to the trees, to the
mountains, see how it compares. When you draw that sword forth and see the Cutter of Delusions, remember that it is not your sword alone. That there many of the bloodline Kozei yet to be who hold
equal possession over it.’

‘And that is why you deigned to give the sword to me?’

Tadanari did not answer. The sword of Fudo had driven his thoughts deeper, and he spoke of what truly occupied his mind: ‘I want you to be honest with me,’ he said. ‘Do you
think Denshichiro can beat Miyamoto?’

‘He should be able to,’ said Ujinari. ‘But I did not see Miyamoto fight, so I cannot say for certain.’

‘Seijuro was a finer swordsman.’

‘He worked harder on his technique, but Denshichiro is stronger and faster, and will be prepared for trickery.’

‘Trickery,’ pronounced Tadanari, curling his lip. ‘Do you know, I read about Miyamoto this afternoon, of what the Foreigner thought of him. Do you know what it is he hates
above all things?’

‘What?’

‘Seppuku,’ said Tadanari. ‘Seppuku, if you can believe that. Let that tell you the sort of man he is. Opposed to the ultimate dignity. Men like that, you cannot reason with.
Predict. And I saw him at the garrison of the Tokugawa. He is a giant. Slender and half-starved, but I do not think Denshichiro will have strength in his favour. Definitely not reach.’

‘Tall trees fall the hardest.’

‘Is he focused?’ asked Tadanari. ‘Is Denshichiro focused on the duel?’

‘Yes,’ said Ujinari. ‘Yes.’

‘You are making sure he is focused?’

‘Of course I am—’

‘You shouldn’t have to be,’ snapped Tadanari, suddenly angry. ‘He should be preparing of his own accord. Rock-headed fool. Your “friend”. Why are you friends
with him?’

‘That’s an odd question to ask someone.’

‘Why?’

‘Why were you friends with Naokata?’

‘Naokata and Denshichiro are different. Naokata had focus, knew the Way. But Denshichiro . . . With his . . . Attacking Mount Hiei and . . . All his bravado unearned and . . . Why do you
copy his ridiculous hair, that little sliver of scalp? You appear as some prostitute whoring himself out upon a theatre stage.’

Ujinari said nothing. He took up what was left of the spinach and held the leaves directly to the tortoise’s mouth, its hard beak mashing away. Tadanari watched him, felt the bubbling
encroachment of shame.

‘I apologize,’ said the father.

‘I am not one to be offended over my appearance, and you are not yourself when you drink,’ said Ujinari. ‘What has set you in this black mood?’

‘Getting old. Becoming a miser,’ he said, trying to joke, but the sword of Fudo there in his lap, scything away to the truth. ‘There is the third brother,
Matashichiro.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘You sail away from the tempest, you do not set course after it.’

‘I do not like the implication of that, Father.’

‘Denshichiro, as the head of the school, cannot lose to Miyamoto. Cannot. We have already lost more than enough face with Seijuro . . . With this scandal upon Hiei, and the enmity of the
Tokugawa . . . To lose again to a masterless man of no school, of savage technique . . . No. Irrecoverable. Which Lord would want to learn those methods? Where the renown then? Fading out like some
sputtering lantern devoid of oil. This school to which I have given my faithful decades of service, to which I have sworn you willingly, my son, I will not . . . I cannot let that come to pass. I
refuse.’

‘But you cannot simply pass him over to give the leadership of the school to Matashichiro.’

‘“Pass over”.’

The words were growled, and the tone of it set Ujinari looking around as though he were hunted: ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I think only of the school.’

‘Father, are you mad? Is he not the son of the man you took as a brother?’

‘Barely,’ said Tadanari, ‘I’ll—’

‘Have faith in him. He is preparing properly. He will defeat Miyamoto. Have faith.’

‘The only man I have faith in is you, my son.’

‘Then have faith in me. I vow it to you, when he takes the field at the Hall of the Thirty-Three Doors, Denshichiro Yoshioka shall make the school proud.’

Tadanari looked at Ujinari for a long time. Then he slid the sword back into its scabbard, handed it back to his son.

‘I believe you,’ he said.

The tortoise looked up at the pair of them. Spinach had ceased; no more manna from heaven, yet the abeyance of divine favour did not set its slow-beating heart to quailing. Off it walked on its
even exile across the barren bed of sand, footsteps left dark.

Chapter Twenty-five

The calluses upon Musashi’s palms were raw from training of the sword, and they burnt as he hauled himself up onto the roof.

It was broad and sloped and tiled with curved clay slabs that were warm still from the day. What lay beneath the roof he did not know. Some kind of store or artisan’s workshop perhaps. He
had picked it simply for the shadows that lingered in the alley beside it. The tiles sounded hollow beneath him, and he spread his weight and moved as quietly across them as he could, ruing every
stumble and heavy misstep. The waxing moon was bright above, all but full, and he kept his body low to avoid silhouetting himself to any who might be watching from below.

Kyoto at night was quieted, but never silent. There was a mandated curfew upon all but a few designated wards and those venturing out upon the streets were scarce. Musashi heard the murmur of
voices through paper walls or doors cast wide open in attempt to catch a breeze that wasn’t there. The roof was alive with the vivid pleas of insects, lonesome and beseeching.

He had scouted his prospective path from the ground in the day and he moved quickly. His swords were at his waist and across his back hung an empty rice-straw stack. He passed from roof to roof
easily, buildings built as tight as they could be in the confines of the city. A dog barked in his wake, no hiding his scent. Somewhere a baby cried out in response, once, twice, and then was
silenced by the smothering of a breast.

Ahead of him rose the vast swell of a warehouse or a brewery of some sort. It was easily a hundred paces long, and its roof lay higher than the ones he was currently on. He stepped out and
braced his weight with his foot on the wall and then scrambled upwards to grab for the edge above. The cut upon his leg protested, his ascent frantic and graceless, and when he had made it he lay
sprawled upon the tiles feeling the throbbing of his calf beneath his sutures.

The injury worried him.

He had spent the day assessing himself, trying to think of some way that he might stand against the numbers of the Yoshioka. All the things unfelt in the wake of his victory were now felt, the
grazes on his arm and face hot, one ear raw, knees swollen. He found, however, that he could move through the patterns of the sword well enough, that his forearms and wrists were fine, and that his
legs were strong enough to brace him in the stance of combat for as long as he needed.

He could not run, though.

Walking was possible with but a slight limp, but running, true running, was denied him. The best he could muster was a lopsided lunging gait that would surely not outpace the Yoshioka should
they choose to swarm him. He knew it would not heal in a fortnight, and so if he went to the duel he would be committed to facing however many of them that chose to attack.

There were no methods or techniques he could recall to aid him. His father Munisai had taught him mostly individual duelling form, and had spoken of the chaos of the battlefield as something
survived through sheer physicality and luck; the man himself crippled in testament to this. No wisdom or technique there. Everything else Musashi had learnt for himself, or observed from others,
and what he had learnt was that against multiple opponents the longsword was a desperate thing. His survival on Hiei and in the streets had been frantic and barely won. One edge, one point upon the
weapon, to attack or to defend with it to leave your back exposed. A whirling flurry where surely his luck would expire eventually.

After twenty heartbeats the leg felt as good as it ever would, and he rose and crossed the expanse of the great roof, advanced half-crawling, straw soles spattering thuds upon the clay and hands
grasping at the serried ridges of the tiles. The higher vantage afforded him a view across the city, and he saw the warm glow of a thousand lanterns light up the towers of pagodas and the tops of
trees a hundred years old and the forms of crows alighted for the night.

Musashi swung himself down back onto the lower roofs of humbler structures. Ahead was noise. Ahead was Yanagi, the quarter of the licensed illicit, where men and women came in the evening to
satiate whatever lust they so desired, be it flesh or drink or food or song or poetry.

He skittered along the rooftops of the quarter and he cast his eyes down to the street as he passed. He saw silhouettes lithe upon silk screens enticing, heard a miasma of wild delight, of
voices joined in discordant but joyful song, of hands clapping along, of the deftly slapped twang of shamisen strings, of epicene poets eulogizing violet morns of spring, of a sudden boisterous
cheer as a drunk man burst onto the street stripped to the waist and his nipples painted with ink, one red, one black. The drunk danced a dance of no pattern at all and his friends laughed and
spurred him on, and if any of it had any meaning it was lost on Musashi.

Bamboo scaffolding encased and supported a building gutted by a fire. Musashi clambered around on the matrix of the lashed green trunks, swung his body out over the street and moved sideways,
hand to hand and foot to foot. He smelt the stench of charcoal and ash mixed with the tantalizing grease of fish fat cooking elsewhere, and beneath him erupted the excited shrieking of women as a
rising actor appeared upon a balcony.

The actor’s face was white still from that evening’s performance, streaked where his sweat had run across the hours. He had ventured out on a measured foray, designed to enhance his
aura. He wore a broad-shouldered parody of a courtly robe, and he stood with one fist on his waist and the other holding a pipe to his lips in mock pompous pride, and as the women laughed he wiped
his brow with a silken kerchief and then threw the paint-smeared garment down to them. The actor retired inside as the clamour for his token raged, and in the darkness above them all Musashi
dismounted unnoticed from the scaffold.

On like a ghost, balancing on beams and the scabbards of his swords rattling where they glanced and twisted. On the edge of the ward he halted for a moment to catch his breath, checked the sack
was still across his back and that he had not lost it to some unfelt snag. Over the raucous revelry, he heard a lower rhythmic noise. Not music, not song, caught his ear in its insistent
steadiness.