Sword of Honour (45 page)

‘I hate it all, everything you stand for.’

‘Hate is a very short and sad thing to live your life in thrall to.’

‘In this world it is necessary.’

Tadanari said nothing for a while. One of the owners was lashing a whip, cracking it down on the dais beneath him again and again as though his rooster would understand the threat and throw
itself forward. ‘You will think as you will think,’ he said. ‘But I do not believe that we should be enemies. Duly I have come to negotiate an ending to our feud.’

‘Negotiate?’ snorted Musashi. ‘Where were the negotiations when you sent Akiyama on my trail? Or on Mount Hiei?’

Tadanari ignored the question. ‘We are both disciples of the blade, are we not? It is evident you are a man of rare skill. Our school is always searching for exceptional talent. Your
ability and our renown together could be a formidable combination.’

‘Are you offering me a place amongst you?’

Tadanari looked at him earnestly. In the ring wings were thrashed wide to intimidate, to boast, yet the roosters circled still. Musashi laughed bitterly.

‘If the thought of working with us in particular has grown too distasteful,’ said Tadanari carefully, ‘we have fine relations with Lords the length of the country. There are
always positions as swordmasters available somewhere, not necessarily in Yoshioka colours. We could recommend you thoroughly to one of them, far from Kyoto if you so desire. Honshu, Kyushu, Shikoku
. . . Wealth and prestige on all of them.’

‘I have no desire to serve.’

‘I see,’ said Tadanari.

‘From where has this urge for bargaining sprung?’ said Musashi. ‘It was Denshichiro who demanded the coming duel. Adamant upon it. Does he even know you are here?’

‘I speak on his behalf, whether he is aware of it or not.’

‘Then why do you want to bargain now?’

The bald samurai was spared answering by a flurry from within the ring; the owner of the red rooster hooked a staff under the body of his champion and flicked it towards the white. The two
creatures engaged in another frantic exchange, squawking and thrashing as the pair of them climbed up each other, and then upon the earth amidst the shed feathers a spatter of blood fell. The crowd
roared, even though they could not tell from which cockerel it had fallen.

‘Sir Miyamoto—’

‘Stop calling me “sir”,’ spat Musashi. ‘I don’t need it. I don’t need to be meaninglessly flattered to know my own worth. Do you, Kozei?’

‘Musashi, then,’ said Tadanari. ‘Where do you see this ending, really, should you pursue it? What do you stand to gain personally from, say, killing Denshichiro? What do you
think that would prove?’

‘That you, and all that think like you, can be beaten. That this world made in your despicable image is finite – can be finite. The perversity of the Way, which is a cult of death,
which swallows all hope and goodness. Nebulous and foglike and corrupt to the core. But my way! I show my way, which is as light. Is not codified, not taught and driven into unwilling skulls but
felt. Known. True. All these things beating in the hearts of all men. That the reason I fight, I speak, to show that if it is believed it must be dispelled. If it is written it must be unwritten.
If it stands tall it must be burnt low. This the only recourse for your world, and then the world will be as it ought. Living. Alive. Honest.’

Oh, the saying of these words, of words like these at the times they conjured themselves, felt so wonderful to Musashi. The heat that burnt in the throat, in the heart, it was the absolute
perfect certainty of youth. When he spat them everything was clear, explained, elucidated by their very being. He did not need to consider their meaning or ponder the depths of himself: all he
needed was to say and to find his vindication.

Tadanari heard these words, and said, ‘But are
you
honest, Musashi?’

‘What?’ said Musashi, unsettled for a moment, pierced, and then a sneer deflected the spoken blow as surely as a sword against a sword. ‘Of course I am. Counter to you, to all
of you.’

‘Honesty is purity,’ said Tadanari. ‘Purity is focus. You, however, set your rage and your enemies as broad as the sky.’

‘Nothing easier to read than the sky. Nothing more honest.’

‘Indeed,’ said Tadanari. ‘Then would your true satisfaction lie in killing every last man of the Yoshioka? There is a third brother, too, a child. Would you kill him also on
account of his name? You who speak so passionately of the abomination of seppuku, of the sanctity of life? Are you at your base a charlatan bent on nothing more than selfish murder?’

The white rooster suddenly dashed and soared through the air, too quick for the red one, clawing fierce at its eyes. Its spur gouged deep, bursting, and the red rooster shrieked and bolted half
blinded. It skittered and leapt in a mad flapping of wings, vaulting the boundary of the ring, and then it was amongst the spectators. Men staggered back and fell over one another in a mess of
limbs and feathers as the rooster thrashed frenzied over all their prostrate forms, scrabbled until it found earth beyond the bodies and then gone, out of the hall and out of sight.

In the ring the white rooster shrieked and bristled triumphant, and then from the mess of men somebody uttered, ‘Frost of hells, what just happened?’

‘That bantam’s got a tiny arsehole is what.’

‘Coward,’ agreed another.

‘He wouldn’t have fled if you fools hadn’t fallen over,’ said the owner of the red rooster. ‘Anyway, the match is postponed. An impasse. All wagers are
quashed.’

‘To the hells with you, an impasse!’ said the owner of the white.

‘These bouts are to the death, are they not? Your bird was unable to kill mine. So – a draw.’

‘What’s the ruling?’ said the bookmaker to the umpire.

‘I . . .’ said the umpire, his crude fan now a ridiculous mockery in his hand, he searching in his mind for some form of precedent that he could draw upon. ‘It’s . .
.’

‘It’s victory for the white!’ shouted someone in the crowd.

‘Impasse! Impasse!’ shouted another.

The hall erupted in noise once more. A lot of shouting that grew uglier quickly, men suddenly remembering the tools at their waists, things of common labour like hammers or pry bars or razor
strops had other, more primal uses. Fingers jabbing into chests, noses pressed into the sides of faces, phlegm brought forth from old sinuses. Around the feet now in the ring the white rooster
capered, ignored.

‘Dignity!’ bellowed Tadanari.

He was shorter than most of the men there, swordless and wearing the garb of some old fop out for a summer afternoon of fun, but his tone was obeyed, had to be obeyed. All turned to look at him,
found his posture regal, his eyes deadened into perfect objectivity.

Nevertheless, someone spat, ‘Who are you, old man?’

‘I am Tadanari Kozei,’ he said, no trace of anger in his voice, ‘swordmaster of the school of Yoshioka. All of you will cease this shameful outrage immediately, and behave as
citizens of Kyoto ought.’

The silence manifested freezing in the hollows of chests as he was recognized, verified. The man who had questioned him threw himself to his knees and drove his face grovelling into the
dust.

Tadanari ignored his prostrate form. He pointed a finger at the umpire. ‘You, are you not in command? We shall resolve this civilly. Make a ruling.’

‘Sir,’ said the umpire, stared at the ground sprent with feathers.

‘I would suggest,’ said Tadanari, seeing the futility of waiting, ‘that victory be given to the white rooster. He is, after all, the only one left standing in the ring of
combat.’

‘Sir.’ That meant he agreed.

‘Declare the red rooster killed.’

‘It was killed,’ said the umpire, swallowed. ‘The red rooster was killed.’

‘So it shall be,’ said Tadanari, but even with a samurai present a shout of protest began. Before it could devolve entirely once more, Tadanari held up his betting chit for all to
see: ‘In case any of you doubt my impartiality, look at this.’

Money on the red.

‘The red rooster was killed. There shall be no challenging of this, no repercussions,’ said Tadanari. ‘The rooster died within that ring.’

There was a low mutter of agreement. Those that collected winnings collected them without gloating, and those that had lost began to leave sullenly. In the gathered hearts the rooster was
slaughtered in a multitude of ways, and any actual breath it might yet continue to draw counted for nil.

The master of the Yoshioka turned to Musashi. ‘Do you see?’ he said. ‘Left to themselves, blood would have been shed. But no – here now, life and civilization.’

A curl on Musashi’s lips. ‘This is your conception of honesty?’

‘What of yours?’ Tadanari said.

Again he probed, and again Musashi was taken back to the village of Miyamoto and to Dorinbo, to what he aspired to be.

After a moment he said, ‘I offer you this compromise. First of all, you will take the head of Akiyama, wherever it is now, and return it to Mount Hiei to be cremated and interred in full
propriety with the rest of his remains. Secondly, in place of duelling at the Hall of Thirty-Three Doors, Denshichiro must apologize to me. He must get on his knees and beg forgiveness for himself
and his brother and for the entire school instigating this, in front of all in the city who would care to witness it. Then it will be over, and I will leave Kyoto. Bloodlessly.’

Tadanari sucked air through his teeth as he considered the likelihood of it, and after a moment he nodded a nod that started tentative and grew definite.

‘Thank you, Musashi,’ he said. ‘I should truly like to see your style of swordsmanship one day, regardless.’

‘I’ll await your word. You know where I am.’

They stood looking at one another for a moment. Neither one of them bowed. Tadanari turned and left the hall, began to head back towards the city proper. After a moment Musashi followed, called
to him outside amongst the dissipating crowd. Tadanari stopped and looked back.

‘Your man at Sekigahara,’ Musashi said. ‘I beat him fair. He was wounded but the duel was of his urging, not mine. I offered no insult to the body.’

The Yoshioka samurai gave no reaction. Soon he was lost amongst the bodies and Musashi was left in Maruta, simmering still.

Chapter Twenty-nine

The tortoise advanced one ponderous foot after the other through the halls of the school. Though it was well cared for and could not remember the sensation of hunger, the drive
for food was perpetual and it headed now to a place where it knew sustenance was always plenty. Unneedful of the light, steady through dark corridors and hard floors treading a route decades
familiar, it came now to the room it sought and found two shadows splayed across the glowing paper.

The tension and posture in them was warding even at a primal, reptile level. The tortoise fled at its torpid pace for somewhere calmer.

Inside that room, Denshichiro all but paced in his rage: ‘You mean to strip me of the glory? This past week of which I have devoted myself, my spirit to the thought of felling Miyamoto?
Seen it in dreams with such clarity? All that tossed away on your whim, that potential majesty wasted. Your decision, old man, with neither my knowledge nor my consent, to annul this.’

‘You have heard me wrong,’ said Tadanari, his arms crossed and his hands up the sleeves of his kimono. ‘I have annulled nothing. You will still attend the Hall, as will
Miyamoto. There you will bow to him and you will apologize to him on behalf of the school regarding our attempts to assassinate him.’

So levelly spoken that it took a moment for Denshichiro to understand.

‘No!’ the young samurai said, so shocked he could only snarl the thoughts as they came to him. ‘How can you . . . ? How can you even have considered that? In the name of
Yoshioka you sanctioned this? That’s not your name, old man! You may have seen the beams of this building being raised but that is not your name! My name! My name! No! Unthinkable! Miyamoto,
that . . . I will not bow to the low son of a whore that felled my brother!’

‘You must.’

‘No!’ said Denshichiro. ‘How will the people ever respect us again, if they see me bowing to him?’

‘The tide will cover the sand,’ said Tadanari. ‘Do you not understand this? We have been here a hundred years. Miyamoto a handful of weeks. There will be scandal and rumour and
low jokes for a few months, but when they have exhausted themselves things will resume as they have always been. Consider Mount Hiei—’

‘Cease wielding that as a weapon against me!’

‘I speak not of your actions. Consider the Lord Oda, who wanted Hiei eradicated. He succeeded, until he was betrayed and killed, and now monks inhabit the slopes once more because all
remember that monks always inhabited Hiei. I went and spoke to Miyamoto, listened to him speak. He is nought but meaningless rage, all of what he says no more than ranting. Do you know what he
stands against the most, what he waves before all as proof of the world’s wrongness?’

‘What?’

‘Seppuku,’ said Tadanari, and he repeated it once more shaking his head in disgust. ‘I could hardly believe Akiyama’s missives, but it is true. That propriety to him is
an affront, and do you not see that that is the kind of man with which we are engaged? Base lunacy, he no more than a maddened dog, and no sympathy will be given to him – he’s merely
abnormally good with a sword. And when he is gone everything he did here will be forgotten, and everything we are and everything we have been will be remembered.’

‘Why not you that goes and bows to him, then?’

‘Because,’ said Tadanari thinly, ‘I do not carry the name Yoshioka.’

‘I will kill him,’ said Denshichiro. ‘I’ll take his head, and there will be no need to wait for any tide of any kind to restore any . . . I will kill him. Of this there
is no doubt. I will not be bested by tricks like Seijuro was.’

‘Miyamoto is skilled,’ said Tadanari. ‘Your brother’s humiliation and the ten other men he killed beside stand in testament to that. You are skilled also, but not
overwhelmingly so. The match would be an even contest. This is fact. Admit this. Through your pride, admit this. Either of you could prevail. If you win, we gain what will be ours anyway, what we
already have. You lose, and not only do you die—’