Author: Adam Baker
Date: 2016-09-26 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Historical; Fantasy; historical-fiction
Description: One rogue Samurai will sacrifice everything – apart from his honour As Japan’s factions head to war, this extraordinary new historical fiction series takes us into the heart of life as a Samurai Japan’s warlords are on the march and nothing is as it appears. After a failed assassination attempt on the Emperor, an anonymous samurai is coerced into a suicide mission that will test his skills to the limit. He must face this challenge for his young charge, a girl who is the last remainder of his duty. The samurai and the girl must journey to a far and impregnable mountain fortress, fighting off th
Publisher: Canelo

Winter Raven

Table of Contents

Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Japan, 1532
Map
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Glossary
Further Reading
Copyright

Guide

1. Title Page

Winter Raven

Adam Baker

For Ed-san, Gareth-san

And everyone at the dojo.

‘The way of the Samurai is found in death.’

Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai – Yamamoto Tsunetomo

Japan

1532

Sengoku Jidai, Age of the Warring States

Japan is riven by war.

The Emperor, previously an all-powerful god-head venerated as The Son of Heaven, has been reduced to a ceremonial irrelevance. The young Emperor, Go-Nara, lives in genteel poverty rarely venturing beyond the high walls of the Imperial precincts. He is nominal ruler of Japan but spends his days composing poems while his ornate Kyoto palace succumbs to neglect and dereliction. It is a place of cobwebs and shadow. The gardens are overgrown. The paper screens are mottled with mildew. The ceilings drip rain. Courtiers are forced to sell palace furniture and porcelain to buy food.

Within the Imperial compound Go-Nara is treated as a deity. Servants prostrate themselves in his presence and are forbidden to meet his gaze. He issues orders to his ministers regarding the governance of the realm unaware these edicts go nowhere. Each decree is solemnly transcribed then filed in a vast library where countless scrolls crumble to dust.

Supreme military power should lie with the Shōgun, commander of Japan’s warrior caste. Shōgun Ashikaga Yoshiharu and his counsellors are based in a fortified compound a few streets away from the Imperial palace. Each morning Yoshiharu wakes in his spartan, unadorned chamber, kneels before a chart and contemplates the nation’s disparate provinces while a maid combs and ties his hair. To his great shame, Yoshiharu has failed to win the loyalty of regional warlords. The country has fractured and innumerable clan wars have broken out in rural provinces far from the capital as local Daimyō battle for territory. He plans to negotiate a series of strategic alliances and reassert control of the nation’s rival clans. It will be his life’s work. Until then, despite his martial training, despite his fierce ambition, the Shōgun remains as impotent as the Emperor himself.

Meanwhile, in the cities and provinces beyond Kyoto, the old aristocratic order has been overthrown. Ambitious generals depose regional nobility and seize control of their lands, a phenomenon known as Gekokujō: low conquers high. These new lords make their own treaties, set their own laws. Many soldiers have lost their master. Some become bandits. Some become monks. Some walk town to town looking for a new sponsor willing to utilise their lethal skills. There will be no peace until an ascendant warlord subjugates his rivals and unifies the nation under his rule. Until then, anarchy reigns.

It is a time of high culture, rigid honour codes and bloody civil strife.

It is the age of the samurai.

Two great samurai battled for control of the province of Etchū.

General Akitane and General Motohide were twin brothers. Their military careers had followed parallel paths. When they were young they frequently found themselves training in the same dojo. They duelled with wooden swords. They competed on the archery range. They challenged each other to feats of horsemanship, each more daring than the last. Later, as they rose through the ranks, they supervised manoeuvres which became a battle of minds as the twins tried to out-think each other. They directed opposing troops on the agricultural plains of Etchū as if the battalions were counters on a giant game board.

Akitane and Motohide loved and respected one another. They understood each other better than their respective wives. They were garrisoned on opposite sides of Sekino, the provincial capital, so rarely met. But they each knew at any given moment, whether they were eating, reading or practising sword-strikes against a bamboo mannequin, their twin would be mirroring their actions.

They hoped, like any samurai, to die in battle but they were cursed to live in a time of peace. They were destined to maintain the army of the Daimyō at fighting strength and thus deter aggression from adjacent provinces. They had studied the works of Sun Tzu and understood the supreme art of war was to subdue an enemy without drawing a sword or firing a single arrow. Nevertheless, as men who had dedicated their lives to the perfection of martial skills they couldn’t help but feel diminished by the knowledge they would never see combat.

But then, one morning the Daimyō died while kneeling at prayer. He had no son, no rightful heir. Akitane and Motohide understood this was their chance to seize power and carve their names into history. They each recruited talented commanders with promises of preferment, and mustered an army. Then the brothers went to war.

Their armies fought a succession of skirmishes throughout the summer.

General Akitane was a romantic. He had sworn an oath of loyalty to the Emperor. There was no strategic value in aligning himself with the Imperial House. He received no additional troops or funds. But he had read the ancient Heike Monogatari as a child and been captivated by tales of chivalric valour. He wanted Etchū to be a land of lords and heroes. He would make the province a bastion of honour and nobility in a corrupt world.

General Motohide, on the other hand, was a pragmatist. He signed a treaty with the Shōgun. He wanted control of the northern harbours so he could collect tax revenue from trade with China. He wanted to set up checkpoints at bridges and major intersections and tax overland trade routes. He wanted power.

The decisive battle between the two men took place on the banks of the Kurobe River as the weather turned cold and the rains began.

General Motohide’s forces had been routed from a stronghold in the hills and a quarter of his remaining men had been struck down by typhoid. He was losing the war. He was a better tactician than Akitane, but it seemed the gods were against him. Attrition had left him leader of four thousand demoralised troops. He was outnumbered three-to-one. But then scouts brought word his rival had made camp in a wooded valley by the banks of the Kurobe. Akitane had, in a moment of hubris, forgotten the advice of Sun Tzu’s Art of War and every other treatise on generalship. He had boxed his troops, positioned them with no avenue of retreat. Motohide understood this might be his only chance to turn the course of the campaign. If he couldn’t exploit Akitane’s error in the coming hours, he deserved to lose.

Motohide had his men circle the enemy camp using dense pine trees for cover. They crept, careful not to frighten birds from the branches. Then, as night fell, they beat war drums and loosed a hail of humming-bulb arrows which screamed out of the undergrowth and set Akitane’s men in a panic.

Motohide positioned his headquarters in a clearing a quarter of a mile away. Once the order to attack had been given he sat outside his tent in full armour alongside his lieutenants and waited for messengers to relay news of the battle. He couldn’t see the action. There were too many trees. But he could hear conch blasts trumpet the alarm, the shouts of terrified men and the screams of stampeding horses.

His cavalry were dispatched with the ritual command: For glory.

There was nothing he could do but wait for the gods to decide his fate.

His men rode headlong through dense undergrowth with sashimono pennants fluttering behind them. The horses thrashed through bamboo thickets as their riders bellowed a murderous war cry. They were each anxious to be first to engage the enemy, knowing a moment of conspicuous heroism on the field of battle could win them some kind of preferment, perhaps even a fiefdom.

Akitane’s forces were unable to rally. They tried to build a shield-wall and fend off incoming cavalry with naginatas but they were hit from all sides, cut down by arrow strikes. Motohide’s riders staged a series of lightning assaults. The mounted archers repeatedly struck in waves of five and ten, retreated into the treeline, then attacked once more from a different direction. Akitane’s men had no time to regroup.

The terrified men were herded towards the river. They tried to ford the Kurobe en masse. They waded chest deep in fast-flowing water. They got half way across the river, holding on to each other as they fought the undertow, then archers hidden on the opposite bank started to pick them off.

Some of the soldiers had the presence of mind to draw knives, cut their armour lose and swim downstream. They escaped the mêlée and survived. Most were killed when close-range arrows pierced leather armour and punctured their hearts and lungs. The air was filled with spluttering screams as injured, flailing troops submerged. The water was clouded by blood and frothed by the throes of drowning men. In days to come their bloated bodies would wash up downstream. Fisherfolk who worked the alluvial plains would retrieve weapons and armour. They would wonder what savage battle had taken place in the hills, what upheaval had occurred in the affairs of great men, and how it would affect their own circumscribed lives.

Next morning the sun rose over the banks of the Kurobe. The churned mud was littered with bodies, broken spears, collapsed tents and ripped battle standards. Crows pecked at blade wounds and tore strips of carrion. The stink of shit and blood hung over the carnage. Maimed men called for a mercy stroke. They longed for a swift coup de grâce, a needle-knife driven into the back of the neck.

Motohide’s infantry used bear-claw rakes to drag the bodies from the field and mound them high ready for incineration. Monks prayed for the dead before setting them alight.

Motohide despatched Commander Raku, his trusted aide, to retrieve Akitane.

Raku found the vanquished general sitting on a footstool outside his tent. He wore blue armour and held a war fan in his hand. The crescent of vacant stools around him were testament to the dozen lieutenants who chose to die in battle rather than be taken alive.

The game was lost. Victory had slipped from his grasp but Akitane looked calm. He looked like he’d found dark humour in his recent reversal of fortune. He got to his feet and gave Raku a curt nod of greeting.

The general had a sword tucked in his obi. Raku could have ordered the man disarmed but felt there was no need for the discourtesy. He led the general from his tent and marched him across the battlefield under guard.

Akitane strode across the killing ground with no regard for the carnage around him. He paid no attention to the broken bodies and disembowelled horses. He gave no thought to the hundreds of men that died to serve his vaulting ambition. Some men were born to lead and some were born to be led. It was the natural order of the world.

Raku led him through successive clearings. They marched past the ranked tents of General Motohide’s troops. Soldiers bound their wounds and convalesced after the previous day’s desperate conflict. Cavalrymen used upturned helmets to bring water to their horses.

The troops watched Akitane pass. They had fought the man for a full year but this was the first time they had seen him in the flesh. As he walked through the forest he moved from life into legend: each man added their brief glimpse of the defeated general to the war stories they would tell their children when they returned home.

‘… Yes, I saw General Akitane after The Battle of Kurobe River. He walked past me, close enough I could reach out and touch his armour. He seemed proud. Resolute. Ready to meet his end like a true warrior …’

‘… Next morning they marched Akitane across the battlefield. They marched him past my tent. I saw him. Saw him with my own eyes. He was a broken man. His shoulders were slumped, his head hung low. I swear, as the gods are my witness, tears ran down his cheeks …’

Raku and Akitane walked along an avenue of severed heads set on poles. The heads were trophies claimed by Motohide’s cavalrymen. The jaws of each decapitated head had been pulled open to show teeth blackened with gallnut dye: the mark of a samurai.

Motohide’s tented enclosure was surrounded by a high curtain of canvas supported by wooden stakes. A nobori standard flew over the temporary compound bearing the general’s black sun heraldic device.

Raku conferred with sentries guarding the bivouac.

Akitane stood straight-backed, head held high. He was prisoner in an enemy camp but refused to show fear.

Raku pulled back the tent flap. He instinctively bowed as Akitane walked past.

The antechamber was lit by oil lamps. The floor was carpeted with tatami mats. Motohide’s private quarters were hidden behind a curtained partition.

There was a small table in the centre of the room with a bowl of water, soap and towels.

Akitane nodded grimly to himself. He was, as befitted his status, to be granted seppuku. He suppressed a brief flutter of fear almost before it began.

An adjutant helped lift his helmet clear and unlace his cuirass.

Akitane looked at Raku.

‘See that my son receives my sword and armour.’ He spoke loud and clear. He didn’t want there to be the slightest hesitancy, the slightest edge of apprehension in his voice.

‘Your body and effects will be returned to your family.’

Akitane washed, then wrapped himself in a crisp white robe. He stepped into zōri.

The toiletries were replaced by a writing table. A blank sheet of paper and a calligraphy box had been placed at the centre. A jug of water had been set to the left, and a tantō in a black lacquered sheath to the right.

He knelt at the table. He poured a cup of water and drank. He prayed for the courage to rip open his abdomen with a clean stroke and the strength not to cry out in pain.

He ground the inkstone and wet the powder. He dipped his brush and began to write.

Motohide was still agitated from battle, still euphoric from victory. He understood the war for Etchū had been little more than the prelude to the true struggle: the fight to retain his territory in the face of incursions from rival Daimyō. As his father once counselled him: When the battle is over, the real battle begins. The Shōgun would be little help. He would see Motohide’s struggle to consolidate his rule as a test of strength. If the general couldn’t subjugate Etchū, the Shōgun would have him replaced.

Motohide was still dressed in armour. He wore a carapace of black lacquered plates laced with silk braid. His cloak was the glossy black pelt of a bear. His helmet and jaw-guard formed a snarling bear’s head and framed his eyes with iron teeth.

The armour was ceremonial garb. He hadn’t led the charge. His horse had remained tethered to a tree throughout the battle while he remained in his tented enclosure tormented by inaction as the conflict played out behind a screen of trees. He had planned the strategy, set it in motion, but the battle raged out of sight. They saw no signal flags, received no coherent reports from the field. There was no way to tell who won the day until a messenger brought news of victory or defeat.

His hands trembled with adrenalin as he unbuckled his helmet and handed it to an adjutant.

He called for his priest, a Zen monk seconded from the temple at Daitoku-ji.

Prior to the battle, Motohide had prayed to Hachiman, the Shinto divinity of war, protector of warriors. He asked the god to speed his horsemen and guide arrows to their target. But now the slaughter had ended he felt a need to pray to Buddha and be absolved of the blood spilled in his name.

The elderly monk bowed. He stood and discreetly studied his master’s face as Motohide was stripped of his armour. He was attuned to his master’s moods and could read them like the weather. He knew without being told that Motohide needed to be soothed.

They knelt side by side facing the Amida Buddha, closed their eyes and the monk began to chant. He sang The Mantra of Light pitching his voice low and smooth like a lullaby.

On abokya beiroshanō makabodara mani handoma jimbara harabaritaya un.

Motohide focused his breathing and blotted all thought but slow inhale/exhale. Gradually his galloping pulse began to subside and he slowly re-established his equilibrium. His clenched muscles slowly relaxed.

Praise be to the perfect, all-pervading illumination of the great mudra. Grant me the jewel, the lotus and radiant light.

Motohide reminded himself that life is over in an instant. We are all dust. Our triumphs and defeats are a cosmic joke.

He should have joined a monastery. Spent secluded days exploring the texture of consciousness rather than riding to war to please his ambitious wife.

He heard the rustle of fabric pulled aside. He opened his eyes. Raku stood at a respectful distance.

‘General-sama, your brother wishes to see you.’

Akitane finished writing and set the brush aside. He watched the ink slowly dry. The prospect of death put him in a strange, dissociative state. His hands seemed to belong to someone else.

Raku pulled the curtain aside and Motohide emerged from his private quarters.

Akitane got to his feet. The brothers faced each other. They were small men, conspicuously shorter than the officers around them. They each gave a stiff bow. There was no enmity. They had gamed for the province, each with dynastic ambitions, each vying to establish their branch of the family as a dominant clan. It was a calculated power-play. Nothing personal.

They knelt. Four soldiers stood over them. Like most great men they had no private moments. Advisors attended them in the bedchamber, attended them as they used the toilet. There were not self-conscious in the presence of underlings, regarding them as little more than furniture.

Motohide tried to think of something to say. He could assure Akitane his family would not face persecution. His young son would be allowed to live if he were stripped of his title and family name, and given over to the care of a monastery. But it would be a redundant exchange. It was well understood that, in this contest for regional supremacy, the loser’s household would be treated with leniency.

The two brothers knelt in silence a long while. These would be their last moments together. Both of them were stoic, refusing to show a trace of emotion. But each of them ached for childhood afternoons when they had played together in the courtyard of their parents’ house, long before territorial ambitions pitted them one against the other.

Akitane wanted to deliver a warning. His brother had conquered the north of Etchū. His territory now extended from the mountainous interior of the province to the coast. His grasp encompassed lucrative trade routes to China and gave him the chance to expand his military forces using tax revenue from the import of porcelain and raw silk. News of his victory would reach Kyoto within hours and the plotting would begin. The Shōgun might fear Motohide’s newfound strength, might see him as a rival rather than an ally. The battle of Kurobe River had been a minor skirmish, comparatively few troops involved, but the outcome had the potential to break the delicate web of alliances which determined national power.

The words died on Akitane’s lips. There was no point warning of the Shōgun’s schemes. Motohide and his advisors would already have plans to consolidate their hold over the province. There was nothing Akitane could say that would not have already occurred to his brother. These struggles belonged to a future he wouldn’t live to see.

Motohide eventually forced himself to bring the silence to an end. They both got to their feet and bowed once more with the brusque formality of men suppressing strong emotion. Motohide turned his back on his brother and left the room.

Akitane knelt and resumed his position at the table. He picked up the sheathed tantō. Raku stepped close with a hand on the tsuka of his sword ready to draw and strike.

Akitane settled his breathing. He steeled himself to slit open his belly then hold his head erect for the decapitating death blow. He took a last glance at the paper in front of him. A poem left for his brother.

Wait a while

Traversing together the road of Shideyama

Let us talk of the transient world

Wait a while
Traversing together the road of Shideyama
Let us talk of the transient world

He unsheathed the knife.

Motohide’s men marched back to the provincial capital of Sekino. The endless column of troops trudged single-file down a narrow mud track in time to the drummers’ beat.

The injured were carried on litters or sat roped to a comrade’s back. The lame limped along on crutches. Some died along the way and were quickly buried by the roadside with a rock to mark their graves.

They were drenched by relentless rain. Infantrymen walked with their heads bowed, water cascading from their conical jingasa helmets.

Cavalry and officers rode ahead of the infantry. Motohide took the lead flanked by his bannermen. He wore full armour and sat straight-backed and proud, as befitted a victorious general. Rain dripped from his visor. His bear-skin cloak hung heavy with water. He tried to think of anything except his dead brother.

The standing army would camp outside Sekino. Conscripts would be paid off and return to their villages. The coopers, carpenters and farmers who had marched to war would arrive home and impress their neighbours with tales of their accomplishments during the great campaign. They would recount their exploits and show their battle scars, relive the brief moment their insignificant lives had intersected with history.

General Motohide chose not to enter the capital. Instead he and his praetorian guard journeyed deeper into the hills to Nakatomi Castle, the mountainside redoubt he had made his seat of power during the military campaign.

They spent a further day marching along a road that wound through a deep wooded gorge.

The troops were well-trained and masked their fatigue, marching boldly behind banners bearing the general’s family insignia. But the adrenalin of battle, the euphoria of survival, had worn off and been replaced by exhaustion and debilitating trauma. General Motohide was aware that the Daimyō of the adjacent provinces of Kaga or Shinano might choose such a moment to attack, anticipating that the ranks of his army were depleted and his surviving troops were in a weakened state. His first order of business once he arrived at the castle would be to replenish materiel and bolster troop numbers. He would order each military unit drilled and brought back to battle-ready status.

They entered a steep valley tiered with dormant paddies; valley walls patchworked with plots of wheat and sweet potatoes. The plots were bordered by an elaborate network of irrigation channels fed by spring water from the mountain. Village huts dug into the precipitous slopes were roofed with turf.

There were ramparts on the mountainside high above the village. The sheer granite walls of Nakatomi Castle, half-hidden in cloud. A baleful citadel.

The crude foundations had been laid during the nation’s dark prehistory. A square rubble base with dove-tailed cornerstones had been constructed on a natural plateau. Granite blocks had been hauled up the mountainside to build what must have been a magnificent temple or mausoleum. An earthquake had toppled the original structure, but the foundations and outer walls remained. New quarters had been built on the remains of the old, turning the ruins into an unassailable fortress. Modern barracks, stables, kitchens and stores. At the centre of the compound stood a high white tower.

Some of the troops left the column and headed for the valley floor. They would camp beneath the village and put their horses out to graze.

General Motohide and his remaining guards laboured to climb a precipitous track which wound up the mountainside to the castle gates. Their approach was observed by archers manning the ramparts. The archers rang a brass bell to muster the castle guard.

The great doors were hauled wide. The warlord and his battle-hardened men entered the castle precincts. The moment he crossed the threshold his black sun nobori was raised above the battlements to declare the general was in residence.

Liegeman hurriedly mustered in the cobbled courtyard and lined up at attention. The general dismounted and stretched. He looked around. Months earlier he had climbed into the saddle, taken a last look around the castle precincts then rode out knowing he might never see his home again. He strode across the courtyard towards the keep while a groom led his stallion to the stables.

The tower had a pine beam superstructure, plaster walls and sweeping cypress bark gables. Gilded dolphins had been set at the apex of the roof to guard the castle against evil spirits and fire.

Sentries, Motohide’s trusted clansmen, guarded the tower entrance, pulling the door wide as he approached.

The general’s son rushed to meet him. The boy ran like he expected to embrace his father, before registering the soldiers around him. He slowed and gave a formal bow.

Asaji, his wife, glided down the steps, the skirts of her crimson jūnihitoe hiding her feet. She was ten years his junior. He gazed at her exquisite porcelain perfection. She held back out of modesty, but Motohide could see by the almost imperceptible clench of her jaw she was exhilarated to see him return triumphant.

‘Victory,’ he declared, as if he were offering his military accomplishments for Asaji’s approval, his voice echoing harsh and metallic from the high walls surrounding the courtyard. He said it again, softer, more hesitant, as he contemplated the hollowness of the word.

‘Victory.’

The general’s private apartments were at the top of the tower. The sword room adjacent to his bedroom was a small vestibule with an altar at one end. He unhitched his sword, glimpsing his reflection in its polished steel. The sword hadn’t pierced flesh but at the commencement of each battle he’d raised the weapon and brought it down, giving the signal to attack. That single, bloodless stroke sent thousands of men to their deaths.

The general set the sword on its altar stand and bowed before it. The weapon had belonged to both his father and grandfather. When he rode to battle with the sword strapped to his hip, they rode with him. Later, an attendant would remove bamboo pins from the tsuka and strip the sword of its decorative fixtures. He would spend a day sharpening the blade on a fine whetstone then sheath it in a nurizaya sleeve for storage and then the weapon would sit dormant, ready for the next war.

The general visited the household shrine. He knelt, lit incense and prayed for Akitane’s forgiveness and blessing.

‘I’m sorry, brother,’ he murmured. ‘But help me. Help me now. Stand by me in the coming days.’

Motohide returned to his bedchamber. He held his arms cruciform while manservants unlaced his armour. Segmented leather shoulder-plates studded with iron bolts were unbuckled and set aside and he sighed with relief as his breast plate was lifted clear. His undergarments were mottled with sweat.

The armour was carried from the room to be sponged, oiled and boxed while a bath was prepared in an adjacent room. A couple of logs were lit in a brazier beneath a copper-bottomed tub. A maid added scented herbs to the water.

‘So what now?’ Motohide asked his commanders as they stood to attention while he disrobed. They towered over their diminutive lord. ‘What is my next move? What is your counsel?’

‘General-sama, you should proceed with the chain of fortifications you intended to build bordering Hida and Shinano. It will discourage incursions.’

‘But in the short-term?’

‘You should send an ambassador to Kyoto. Assure the Shōgun you will not raise an army against him. Assure him you will be his hand in Etchū.’

‘Yes.’

‘A trade treaty might also help. We have Toyama Bay and the overland trade routes. That offers us an opportunity to be generous in victory. We could make an annual tribute to the Shōgun.’

‘Yes,’ mused the general. ‘No doubt the best way to secure our position is to become a regular source of revenue.’

‘You have a son. Send him to Kyoto for training. The Shōgun will appreciate the hostage.’

Motohide nodded. It would break his heart to send the boy away. He dreaded the day he would stand in the courtyard, watch his son climb aboard a palanquin and be sent on his way to a distant city, but the moment would inevitably come. His son was a strategic asset. Motohide couldn’t allow himself to be ruled by sentiment. Both he and his son served a purpose greater than themselves: the advancement of their family name.

‘Make enquiries.’

The general pulled off his shirt, stood naked and stretched, relishing the absence of armour, the sudden lightness and freedom. He used a stepping stool to climb into the bath and sank chin deep. He addressed Commander Raku, his most trusted advisor.

‘If you were Shōgun, how would you respond to our overtures? What would be your next move?’

‘General-sama, I would accept your professions of loyalty. The Shōgun is preoccupied with subjugating the western lands. He won’t send an army against us. We are far from his mind.’

‘Good.’

The maid brought a tray with a towel and razor ready to shave stubble from the top of the general’s head. Motohide waved the commanders away.

‘Drink some wine. Get some rest. You deserve it.’

He lolled in the bath a moment, eyes closed, then heard a screen pulled back and the rustle of Asaji’s kimono as she entered the room.

‘You were listening?’

His wife stood demurely in the corner of the room.

‘Go on,’ he sighed. ‘Speak.’

‘Akitane is dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘His wife? His children?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘If you had died in battle, if I were your widow, I would do anything in my power to avenge your death. I would dedicate every waking moment to the pursuit of my revenge.’

‘That’s the nearest you have come to a profession of love,’ said Motohide. ‘I’m touched.’

‘What is your command?’

‘His wife will enter a convent. His sons will enter a monastery.’

The general held his head still as the maid turned up her sleeves, leant over him and, with an almost imperceptibly trembling hand, began to shave his scalp.

‘I won’t execute his family, if that is what you are asking,’ said Motohide. ‘I’m a samurai. I’m not a monster.’

‘You can’t leave the task unfinished,’ said his wife. ‘You have defeated Akitane. His family will seek retribution. Not immediately. But later, when his children are grown. Think of all you have accomplished. You can’t jeopardise your legacy.’

‘No. I won’t do it. He was my brother. I won’t slaughter his family. I won’t descend to the level of a beast.’

‘Consider your position, that’s all I ask,’ said Asaji. ‘Consider what is best for your son.’

She bowed and backed out of the room, drawing the screens closed. She was confident that, having planted an anxiety in her husband’s head, the fear that his son would one day fall victim to revenge from Akitane’s family would goad him to action.

An Imperial ambassador visited at the castle six days after Motohide declared himself unopposed ruler of Etchū. The ambassador was carried in a silk palanquin surrounded by twelve Imperial guards. Motohide stood at a high balcony and watched his guest arrive. The bearers set the palanquin down in the centre of the courtyard and pulled back the curtain. The ambassador got out and looked around with disdain at rain-slick stonework and an unrelenting mountain wind. His lip curled in disgust to find himself in such a wretched provincial backwater. He drew an embroidered cloak tight around his body and hurried towards the tower entrance. His wooden sandals clacked on the cobbles. Motohide guessed his visitor would not stay long. The ambassador would politely decline the general’s hospitality. He would conclude his business as quickly as formal courtesy would allow, then be on his way back to Kyoto.

Later, when the ambassador left, Asaji joined Motohide in his reception room. She knelt beside him, and looked at the scroll resting on his table. The scroll bore the Emperor’s chrysanthemum seal.

‘Is that it?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘The Imperial blessing,’ he said. ‘I am now the acknowledged ruler of this province.’

‘Etchū is finally yours.’

‘Yes.’

Asaji opened her mouth to speak but Motohide cut her off:

‘Let me enjoy this moment.’

He sat looking at the scroll a while. He stroked the Emperor’s seal, felt the physical presence of the living god. Eventually he said:

‘Speak.’

‘This paper means nothing. The Emperor will kill you. Akitane was his man. You have robbed him of a useful ally and he will want revenge.’

‘I’m not going to march on Kyoto, if that is what you are implying. You will never be Empress. Put it from your mind.’

‘You don’t have to defeat the Emperor. But your life will be under threat until you prove you cannot be deposed. You must demonstrate you can survive anything he and his bitch of a mother might throw at you. Only then will he be forced to accept you as Daimyō.’

‘You think they will raise an army?’ asked the general. He felt weary. The gift of the Imperial mandate was the culmination of a lifetime of struggle. He and his brother had worked their way through the ranks. Motohide had bought the loyalty of his fellow commanders, unifying and conquering the province by force of will. He had finally seized the throne, but there was no sense of fulfilment, no sense he could finally rest. He wanted to ask his brother’s advice, but Akitane was dead. He was alone and facing a lifetime of fear.

His wife, on the other hand, seemed euphoric to find herself the wife of a Daimyō. She seemed to relish the endless intrigue, no doubt looking forward to establishing herself in Kyoto among the other viciously competitive aristocratic households. It was as if her entire life had been a rehearsal for the power games that were about to begin.

‘No, they won’t raise an army,’ said Asaji. ‘It would be too costly, too uncertain. If I had to speculate, I would suggest the Emperor will send one man. The most experienced, lethal samurai at his disposal.’

‘The Imperial household is decadent. Effete courtiers more concerned with palace intrigue than war. They have no such man.’

‘They’ll find a killer,’ said Asaji. ‘He won’t come from the ranks of the Imperial guard. He’ll be an outsider. Expendable. Deniable. They’ll need a man of unshakable will, a man schooled in the arts of ninjitsu. I imagine the search has already begun.’

The general thought it over.

‘I’ll speak to Raku and ask his counsel.’

Raku had, days earlier, been dispatched to kill Akitane’s wife and sons. Motohide had given the shameful order one night after fortifying his nerve with three bottles of saké. He told himself that Akitane would enjoy the company of his family when they joined him in the after-world. The dead man would be a husband and father once more. He had, in a way, done his brother a service.

‘There is not time for debate,’ said Asaji. ‘Send him to Kyoto. Tell him to find out what he can.’

‘I’ll tell Raku to leave at dawn’ he said.

The general’s wife bowed and left.

Nara. The old Imperial capital. A city of temples.

The samurai walked through the market. His hair was tied in a topknot and he wore a blue hakama, a blue kimono and a quilted hanten. His sword was tucked in the cotton obi tied round his waist. The sword had a plain, weathered sheath. It was a sturdy, unpretentious weapon which had clearly been by the man’s side for years.

The market was an assault upon the senses. The samurai found the bustle of town overwhelming – the crowds, the noise, the smells. He craned to see above an ocean of straw hats. The harsh cacophony of clogs on cobbles hurt his ears.

He patiently side-stepped milling pilgrims apologising each time he bumped shoulders. There were other samurai among the throng, proud men carrying swords and naginatas. They strode down the street expecting folk to clear a path. The samurai did his best to shrink into himself. He didn’t want to cross one of the ronin. A lingering stare might be perceived as an insult and an insult might lead to a fight. He averted his gaze, relaxed his shoulders and passed through the multitude as if he were invisible.

Cart-stalls either side of the street sold pots and textiles, charms and amulets. He passed spice stalls loaded with sweet-smelling bowls of saffron, coriander and turmeric. Dried herbs hung by the bunch. He passed a tobacco vendor shouting for trade. A peddler tried to sell him a grilled eel.

He scanned the row of storefronts until he found what he was looking for – the weathered sign of an apothecary.

The samurai stepped in from the street, let his eyes adjust to the gloomy interior of the apothecary and surveyed the racks of bottles – roots and herbs grouped by genus. He inspected a maple wall-chest with countless labelled drawers and studied an anatomical wall chart detailing meridian lines; the longitudinal and transverse pathways of ki.

‘Ohayo,’ he called. He was answered by a voice from out back:

‘One moment, please.’

The samurai stroked the yellowed chart. Man, and his position within a harmonious Chinese cosmology.

A physician emerged from a curtained back room. An old man with a white beard wearing a black silk jacket and a black skull cap gave the samurai a welcoming smile. He noted, from the subtle grey pallor of the samurai’s skin, that the swordsman was almost certainly dying.

They bowed. The physician gestured for the samurai to sit in light thrown from the window.

‘Please. Make yourself comfortable.’

The samurai knelt on cedar boards setting his pack on the floor next to him. He pulled the sword from his belt and laid it on top of the pack, tsuka within easy reach.

‘So. How can I assist you?’ asked the physician.

The samurai hesitated. He was ashamed to admit he was in pain and, on some deep level, terrified. He wasn’t frightened of dying in battle. He was a warrior. He expected to die from a sword stroke, or the thrust of a naginata. There was little to fear. It would be quick. It would be easy. He would experience an instant of pain, then oblivion. But he was frightened of terminal sickness. He didn’t want to succumb to a flesh-rotting affliction that would strip away his dignity, his identity, and leave him a helpless, incontinent bag of bones.

He pointed to the right side of his torso just below the ribs.

‘A stabbing sensation. Here. It comes and goes.’

‘How long have you had the pain?’

‘It started late spring. Slight, at first. Intermittent. Then, as summer wore on, it got worse. Almost constant.’

The apothecary nodded. He assessed the timbre of the samurai’s voice. He suspected an imbalance of water.

‘Could you stand and take off your shirt?’

The samurai took off his vest and kimono. The physician showed no reaction at the sight of a torso criss-crossed by battle scars. There were blade-slashes to each shoulder and a deep gash carved across the swordsman’s chest. They seemed to be old wounds. Pinched and puckered skin like the man had been injured during late-childhood, before he was fully grown.

The physician probed the right side of the samurai’s chest, just below the ribs. The samurai flinched as the old man continued to probe as if he were trying to judge the dimensions of something beneath the skin. The physician held the samurai’s wrist a while and assessed the quality of his pulse. He had the samurai throw back his head and open his mouth so he could examine his tongue. The man’s teeth were dark near the gums suggesting he had used to blacken them with gallnut, but not for a long while.

He pulled down one of the samurai’s lower eyelids and examined his eyes.

‘Look left. Look right. Thank you. You can put your shirt back on.’

The samurai dressed.

‘You’ve lost weight?’

‘A little, I think.’

‘How is your sleep?’

‘Good enough.’

‘Your bowels?’

‘I pass water a lot. Especially at night.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Thirsty. I’m thirsty all the time.’

The physician nodded sympathetically.

‘Please sit down.’

The samurai resumed his position on the floor.

‘You have an excess of water, and an imbalance of earth. I will treat you and then I suggest you leave the city for a while. Monastic seclusion would be best. You need to restore balance to your mind, your body. Then, perhaps, your symptoms will diminish.’

The samurai shook his head. ‘A man knows when he is dying. Tell me: how long do I have?’

The apothecary looked away. He stood at the window and surveyed the street crowd.

‘How long do any of us have? I can see you are an intelligent man, so I won’t lie to you. Everyone who walks in that door is sick and looking for a cure. They want some potion that will help them defy nature. The maimed want to be whole and the old want to be young. Often, they find something better. They find understanding. They find acceptance.’

The samurai took a slow, deep breath as he looked at a wall chart on the other side of the room. A circular depiction of the five elements. He experienced a moment of painfully heightened awareness. He could see, with febrile clarity, the brush strokes, the fine weave of the silk banner, threads hanging from the frayed hem. The child in him had wanted the physician to say: You are ill, but I have the cure. Take this preparation and you will be well again and live a long life. But there would be no reprieve. His time was done.

He slowly exhaled.

‘I help people live well,’ said the physician. ‘But I cannot prolong life. No one can. There are people out there in the market who will sell you charms and trinkets to ward off illness. It’s all nonsense. Let me treat you. Let me alleviate your pain. Then follow my advice and find a monastery. You need peace. You need people who will look after you.’

The physician unwrapped a packet of moxibustion sticks. He took a lacquered case from a shelf and lifted a lid. The samurai glimpsed rows of acupuncture needles laid on a silk bed.

‘No,’ said the samurai. ‘Thank you, but no. I don’t have time for elaborate therapies. What can you give me? For a journey?’

‘There is no herb that will instantly transform your health. Please. Listen. You need peace and rest.’

‘I have a task to accomplish. Just give me a few more weeks of health. That’s all I need.’

The physician reluctantly closed his needle case and mixed a preparation. He ground roots, stalks, leafs, flowers and seeds in a pestle. Medicinal herbs collected from the apothecary’s garden behind the store. He laid a handful of paper twists on a table.

‘What is this?’

‘Shenqu. Hawthorn. Ginger. Many things. Consume this mixture each morning before you eat. Then find a high place, somewhere with plenty of air, and face the sun. It will help a little.’

The samurai nodded.

The physician placed another folded packet on the table.

‘You may have problems with your digestion in the days to come. Take this. Chinese snake gourd. A purgative.’

‘I’ve seen these symptoms before,’ said the samurai. ‘An uncle. His last days were unimaginable torment.’

The physician nodded and sighed. He ducked behind the curtain and stepped into the back room, returning with a wooden box.

‘You understand this is against my advice. Drugging yourself insensible. It might alleviate the pain for a while, but your time is running out. You should be concerned for your soul.’

‘I have a job to complete over the coming days,’ said the samurai. ‘A final task I have to execute before I leave this world. I don’t care what happens to me after that. Please. I swore. I took an oath. Help me finish my work.’

The samurai opened the slide-lid of the wooden box. It contained little green ampoules. He picked up one of the bottles and held it to the light, inspecting the clear liquid within.

‘Extract of poppy bulbs, among other things,’ said the physician. ‘Use it as a last resort.’

The samurai nodded.

‘One of those vials will ease your pain for a while,’ said the physician. ‘But, as you say, your last days could be very difficult. Save the last four vials. When the pain becomes too much to bear, when you decide it is time to join your ancestors, drink them in quick succession. It will stop your heart. It won’t hurt. Death will take you like a deep sleep.’

The samurai stowed the wooden box in his pack and stood, tucking his sword into his obi. He dug coins from his purse and laid them on the table.

‘Thank you for your help, physician-sama.’

He stepped out into the busy street.

A tavern. Most of the patrons were in the back yard waiting for a dog fight to begin. Six starved mongrels were penned in bamboo cages draped with blankets. A chorus of snarls and barks suggested the competition would be keenly fought.

The samurai sat cross-legged in the front room stroking the rough matting beside him. He thought about what it meant to be alive and aware and what it would mean to be dead. He listened to laughter and shouts from the yard out back. Men were placing bets. He felt utterly alone.

The girl sat by the fire pit warming her hands. She poured hot saké from an iron kettle, carried the bowl to the samurai and knelt beside him.

‘So what have you heard?’ he asked.

‘The soldiers didn’t say much at first,’ said the girl, ‘but I filled their bowls a few times and they started to talk amongst themselves. A large consignment from China is due in a couple of days. They’ll avoid the main ports and aim to bring it ashore at a small harbour east of Tottori. Imperial troops will transport it to Kyoto by cart. The journey will take them through thick woodland – the perfect place for an ambush.’

‘Excellent,’ said the samurai.

‘You think we can actually do it? You think we can kill the Emperor?’

‘All the pieces are falling into place. It seems the gods are smiling on our venture. It’s as if they are urging us onward, daring us to succeed. Give me one more drink, then we will leave.’

The girl refilled his cup.

‘Did you find a physician?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ said the samurai.

‘So what did he say?’

The samurai took a sip of saké and considered his reply.

He said I’m dying. He says it will hurt. He says I should find a temple infirmary and spend my last days in prayer.

‘He said I should get some rest.’

The girl and the samurai reached a forest glade in the late afternoon. The sun threw long shadows.

The samurai paced the clearing studying the carpet of leaves and twigs. He looked for sure footing. Time to practise. He was sick but that was no reason to neglect his swordcraft.

The girl sat on a log and watched.

‘Teach me,’ she said. ‘Teach me how to fight.’

The samurai could have told her to forget the idea. He could have told the girl she had no business with a sword in her hand, but plenty of women were trained in martial arts. Wives and mothers who had to protect their homesteads and children with a naginata while their husbands were at war.

Besides it was a long journey to the coast. They had walked many miles through wooded hills. He had walked upfront hacking his way through bamboo thickets with his sword while the girl walked a few paces behind following the track he had cut. A monotonous trek. They could both use some kind of respite, some kind of distraction.

He cut two lengths of bamboo and tore away the stalks. He rapped the poles against a tree trunk to make sure they were robust.

‘I’ll attack. You defend.’

She nodded agreement. The samurai was a master swordsman, but he was dying and his knowledge – experience draw from a lifetime of combat and contemplation – would die with him. She had made up her mind to become a samurai and would need to draw whatever lessons she could in the time he had left.

He threw one of the poles to the girl and took a downward slice at her head before she had a chance to grab the pole out of the air and defend herself.

She ducked the blow and rolled. She snatched up the pole and jumped to her feet.

They faced each other at the centre of the glade, weapons raised. They circled, unblinking concentration, each waiting for the perfect instant to strike.

The samurai smiled, amused at her aggression and focus. When he was younger he wanted a son. He looked forward to teaching his son how to ride, how to draw a bow, how to fight with a sword. He planned the boy’s first lessons. He would begin by teaching him to cut wood, how to heft an axe and channel its momentum. It would strengthen the boy’s arms and shoulders. Later, he would put bokken in his hands and teach him how to slice and block. But his wife had died in childbirth and his dreams of teaching a son and perhaps a grandson died with her. He had no children.

‘You’re weak,’ said the samurai. ‘But you’re fast, so play to that advantage. If you find yourself facing a soldier in full battledress, don’t try to hack through his armour. It takes a lot of strength, a man’s strength, to slice through leather plates. Instead, you should aim for areas of vulnerability. Target your opponent’s arms and legs. Strike at the arteries in their neck. And strike at the joint between the chest plate and groin guard, if you get the opportunity.’

‘When will you give me a real sword?’ she asked.

The samurai advanced raining blows. He suddenly paused and restarted, trying to disrupt her concentration and break any sense of rhythm. She backed away, desperately trying to fend each strike.

He spoke as they fought:

‘I met a man in a tavern one day. He was travelling ronin, like myself. He had a magnificent sword. He showed it to anyone who bought him a drink. Battlefield plunder from the Ōnin Wars, pulled from the belt of a dead samurai by his father. Dragons etched along the length of the blade. Couple of bowls of saké and he would wave it around. I stopped by that tavern a few days later and they told me the man was dead. He drank too much, talked too much and got into a fight. Someone hit him over the head with a kettle and killed him stone dead.’

The samurai took a step back to indicate a pause in the practise bout. The girl caught her breath and adjusted her grip on the bamboo pole.

‘He learned a lesson,’ said the samurai. ‘A hard, hard lesson. A sword is just a strip of metal. You,’ he said, pointing at the girl for emphasis, ‘You are the weapon. You are the killing blade. Understand? If you are determined to annihilate your opponent, if you attack him with concentrated fury, odds are you will prevail. Doesn’t matter if you are armed with a stick, a rock, or your bare hands. You’ll beat a swordsman trying to execute an elaborate technique.’ He slapped his lower belly. ‘Here. Your guts, your spirit. That’s where the battle is won or lost.’

They squared up ready to resume the fight.

‘You’ll be shorter than most of you opponents,’ advised the samurai. ‘But any weakness can be turned into a strength. If you find yourself facing a big man in armour try to strike upward at their armpit, if you get the chance. A particularly useful weak spot. There’s a big artery near the surface of the skin. Stab an opponent in the armpit and they’ll bleed to death in moments.’

She nodded. He lunged.

The girl sat on a log and massaged her sore hands while the samurai practised his craft. He centred himself, adjusted his footing and executed a series of lethal draw-cuts, a flourish that turned the act of unsheathing his sword into a killing slash.

The girl looked around, troubled by the forest. Remote woodland. The kind of desolate, unpeopled place haunted by daemons. She expected to see leering, canine faces peering from the undergrowth.

The samurai sliced the air as he cut down phantom opponents. He blocked. He span. He crouched. He released an explosive exhalation with each blow. His feet danced on a carpet of leaves, barley disturbing the brush. Combat moves executed as an elegant dance. He was light and nimble. He strove to remain thoughtless, effortless. Gentle as a summer breeze, yet lethal, absolute death.

‘So when did this idea enter your head?’ he asked as he struck invisible assailants. ‘When did you look at your reflection and glimpse a mighty warrior?’

‘You don’t have to talk to me like a child.’

‘It’s an honest question. Why would you want to take up a sword?’

‘At home, I could see hills from my bedroom window. I always wondered what lay beyond those hills.’

‘You want freedom?’

‘Yes.’

The samurai doubled up and vomited.

‘Kyoto,’ said the girl. ‘We should go to Kyoto right away. Find another physician.’

He shook his head, spat and wiped his mouth. ‘My time is up. Nothing more to be said.’

‘Go to the monastery. Make your peace with the world and let them look after you.’

‘I have work to do.’

‘Does it truly matter? You could spend your last days in comfort.’

‘It matters more than ever.’

He closed his eyes, centred himself, listened to the rustling leaves of the trees around him.

‘Are you scared to die?’ asked the girl.

‘No. I’m not scared of death.’ He sheathed his sword. ‘I’m scared of decrepitude. I’m scared of not fulfilling my purpose.’

He looked up at the darkening sky. ‘It doesn’t look like we’ll reach Tottori tonight. We had best make camp.’

The samurai and the girl belly-crawled through undergrowth to a cliff edge. They heard gull-caws and the susurration of waves. They breathed ocean spray. The samurai pulled a curtain of coarse grass aside. The girl was astonished by the view. It was the first time she had seen the sea. As a child she had been told Honshu was an island by surrounding savage kingdoms which posed an eternal threat of invasion. But it wasn’t until, with her own eyes, she saw water stretching to the horizon she fully understood that a vast continent lay beyond the horizon. If she bought passage on a boat and sailed north she would reach China and its adjacent barbarian lands. If she jumped ashore, bought a horse and kept travelling she would soon pass beyond the boundaries of any known chart. She would hack through jungles, cross nameless deserts and would encounter alien civilisations each stranger than the last. It was exhilarating to imagine the worlds that lay beyond her experience. Reluctantly she brought herself back to the present.

They surveyed the coastal inlet beneath them. They were overlooking a small fishing village – a crescent of wooden shacks facing the sea. There were upturned boats on the beach alongside piles of netting and iron cauldrons for distilling salt.

‘There they are,’ said the girl, pointing to the edge of the hamlet. Four soldiers lolled on grass near the treeline guarding a two-wheel cart and a grazing ox. They were peasant-stock who seemed to relish the absence of a commanding officer. Their errand had briefly liberated them from the iron discipline of their barracks and they were enjoying their few days of freedom.

They weren’t many villagers around. Maybe the fishermen were keeping their wives and daughters shut away at home until the soldiers left.

The samurai looked up and gauged the position of the sun. ‘The ship will come riding the morning tide,’ he said.

The ship turned the headland mid-morning. It was a twin-sailed vessel with a thatched crew cabin on the foredeck. The timbers were patched and weathered suggesting the ship had survived countless voyages and several typhoons. It sailed into harbour and anchored offshore.

The fishermen and their families left their homes. Curiosity overcame caution. They gathered on the beach, intrigued to know why the solitude of the bay had been broken by a contingent of Imperial troops and a Chinese vessel.

The infantrymen shouted at the villagers. They drove them back to their shacks and ordered them to stay there. The soldiers harnessed the ox and had it haul the cart down to the beach. The cart cut deep ruts in the sand.

The infantrymen threw down their helmets and unstrapped their armour. They stripped to fundoshi and waded out to the boat, chest-deep by the time they reached the ship.

The crew unknotted rope and pulled a sheet of oil cloth aside. The main cargo compartment was filled with small barrels. The crew passed kegs over the side of the ship to the soldiers waiting below who then headed back to shore carrying a barrel on each shoulder. When the cargo was fully unloaded the boat weighed anchor and set sail, rounding the headland and riding high in the water.

The soldiers stacked the barrels in the wagon. When the cart was fully loaded the infantrymen dried and dressed, securing the barrels with rope and draping oil cloth over the consignment.

‘Twenty six kegs,’ murmured the samurai.

The men laboured to roll the cart across the beach. The ox strained to pull the wagon. The troops put their shoulders to the rear of the cart and heaved, leading the cart through the fishing hamlet. Two soldiers walked in front and two walked behind. A couple of curious children approached. They drove them away with shouts and hurled stones.

‘You’d think they would send more troops,’ said the girl. ‘You’d think they would send a caravan of men given the value of the cargo.’

‘A simple subterfuge. The Imperial guard is evidently arming itself in secret, trying to stockpile weapons without alerting the Shōgun. If they sent a platoon of heavily armed men it might draw too much attention. This way, they pass unnoticed. If you didn’t know the nature of the consignment, if you hadn’t been tipped off, would you give them a second glance? Bored, ragged foot-soldiers escorting a cart. They could be hauling anything. Nails. Tallow. Anything at all.’

‘It looks like they’re taking the valley road through the forest.’

‘They used to have a bandit problem round here. A lot of fish didn’t reach the market so the local bailiff summoned troops and purged the area. Put a lot of heads on spikes.’

‘So they think the forest is safe.’

The samurai nodded. ‘Poor wretches,’ he said. ‘They’ll be dead by sundown.’

The cart jolted along the forest track, the ox plodding mile after mile, its hooves sinking into leaf-mulch and mud. The soldiers walked alongside the cart with the blank resignation of men who had performed mindless grunt-work all their lives in exchange for a rice ration. There were three infantrymen led by a corporal all wearing conical helmets and tunics striped white with sweat salt. Their crude leather boots squelched and skidded in the mud. Weak sun shafted through the branches that arched over the track turning it to a claustrophobic tunnel of dappled light.

‘Hold on,’ said the corporal and raised a hand. They brought the ox to a stop.

‘Thought I heard something.’

‘What?’

‘Music. A flute.’

The soldiers looked around, uneasy. They peered into the undergrowth for any sign of movement, any sign they were being stalked.

‘I don’t hear anything,’ said one of the men.

They listened hard. They heard the reassuring call of a wood pigeon from the branches high above them and a reciprocal call somewhere down the track.

‘Must have imagined it,’ murmured the corporal. ‘Letting fear getting the better of me.’

‘We should keep moving, Corporal-sama,’ said one of the men. ‘We need to get out of the woods by nightfall, before the daemons come.’

The track entered a gully. Sheer rock walls loomed above them. They moved through the humid twilight in trepidation looking up at the slick granite and hanging vines. They were hemmed in – a good place for an ambush. This was the kind of backwater road starving ronin might haunt in the hope of stealing some coin. They had been assured the woods had been purged of bandits, but more might have taken their place.

‘Stay alert,’ said the corporal. ‘Something doesn’t feel right.’

They turned a corner. A girl stood in the middle of the gully with her hands behind her back. She seemed well groomed. She had sleek hair, a clean kimono and leather travel shoes.

‘Daemon,’ whispered one of the men, gripping a talisman hung round his neck.

The corporal cautiously approached the girl. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ he asked.

She didn’t reply but casually pulled a two-reed flute from her obi and started to play.

The corporal reached out like he wanted to place a hand on her shoulder to find out if she were made of flesh or smoke. He flinched as an arrow suddenly sang past his head. The man holding the ox reins froze as the arrow pierced his right eye. His face slackened. The reins fell from his hands as he dropped to his knees and pitched forward in the mud. The girl turned and ran.

‘Ambush,’ shouted the corporal to the remaining infantrymen, trying to break their shock and urge them to action. ‘Get out of here. Get back to the village. Await reinforcements. Guard the cargo with your lives.’

The remaining troops unhitched the ox, threw their shoulders against the cart and struggled to turn it in the tight ravine. They grunted and strained as they frantically glanced around in case further attackers appeared.

The corporal gripped his naginata and edged down the gully. He reached a corner and peered round the bend. He surveyed the sheer granite walls of the gorge, studied every crevice and shadow, but there was no sign of the girl.

The cartwheels were sunk deep in the mud so the infantrymen quickly removed the barrels to lighten the load. One man stood in the cart and tossed kegs to the soldier standing below. They moved fast, driven by panic. When the cart was unloaded they heaved it around to face the direction from which they came. One of the men started to reload the kegs.

‘Leave it,’ said his companion, itching to flee on foot. ‘Bandits. Forget the cargo. Let’s get out of here.’

‘Do you know what the bandits will do to us?’ said the infantryman, continuing to hurriedly stack barrels. ‘The same thing the guard will do to us if we abandon this consignment.’

They finished loading the cart and coaxed the ox back towards the hemp harness. They pushed and slapped the animal’s flank to speed its progress, causing the nervous animal to trample the dead soldier, splintering bone.

A dislodged rock clattered from a ledge high above them. One of the infantrymen finished securing the harness then turned to his companion to speak. An arrow caught him in the back of the neck. He fell against the cart and hit the ground, the jolt spurring the ox. The cart rolled forward, its wheel pressing the dead soldier’s head into the mud.

The remaining man sprinted down the gorge. His helmet fell off and he dropped his naginata. He didn’t pause to pick them up but kept running. He heard the wind-whistle of an incoming arrow. The tip tore his tunic and gouged his thigh. He stumbled, regained his footing, and limped onward down the track.

The corporal edged down the gorge blinking sweat from his eyes. He warily looked around keeping his attention focused upward at the ledges and vegetation at the top of the gorge walls, ready for any bandits that might try to drop from above. He kept a white-knuckle grip on his naginata, ready to brace his legs and thrust at the first sign of threat.

He heard approaching footsteps – the echoing rasp of leather travelling shoes approaching down the gorge. Someone was heading his way stepping rock-to-rock to avoid the mud.

The samurai rounded the corner. The soldier took an involuntary step backwards. Although the samurai wore no armour his muscular composure, the intensity of his gaze, conveyed a deadly threat. The man had clearly seen plenty of combat. The corporal, on the other hand, had never been to war. He joined the Imperial Guard precisely because it was largely decorative. Food and a roof over his head and all he had to do was stand sentry at a palace gate and challenge visitors. He was about to pay for his lack of experience.

As the samurai drew his sword the corporal turned to run.

‘No,’ bellowed the samurai.

The soldier stopped in his tracks weak with fear. He had a gut conviction that no matter how far, how fast he ran, he wouldn’t be able to evade the samurai. There was no choice but to turn and face him.

The samurai approached and the corporal realised his only infinitesimally slight chance of survival was to strike first and strike fast. He bellowed and lunged, his voice echoing back at him, boyish and filled with fear. It sounded like his first day in the guard, the first time they put a weapon in his hands and ordered him to charge a straw target.

The samurai side-stepped the spear tip then struck twice. He barked a war-cry and advanced with two abrupt stamp-steps. The first cut sheered through the shaft of the naginata. The return stroke cut through leather armour and sliced open the soldier’s belly. The corporal dropped the remains of his naginata and gripped his stomach. He sank to his knees trying to stop his intestines from sliding between his fingers. A third sword-stroke sliced through his neck. His head hit the ground and rolled as his decapitated body crumpled sideways. The samurai wiped his sword on the hem of the dead man’s tunic.

The girl found the cart in a high section of gorge. The ox had come to a standstill half-crazed with fear. Its eyes rolled white and it snorted great plumes of steam-breath. The smell of blood and the screams of dying men had filled it with slaughter-house terror. She stroked and patted the ox as she circled the cart, checking the ropes to make sure the barrels were secure.

Her attention was drawn by a something on the rock at her feet. She crouched and examined the splash of blood following its trail with her eye. Crimson drips mingled with mud-water. The trail headed down the gorge, then took a left turn behind an outcrop. She straightened up pulling a knife from her obi. The samurai had been insistent: there must be no witnesses, no one left alive to warn the Emperor of their plan.

She crept forward, stepping rock-to-rock with the delicate precision of Noh. She cornered the outcrop, knife raised ready to stab.

The injured soldier was crouched behind a boulder with a stone gripped in his hand, his face contorted into the desperate snarl of a trapped beast. It was a frozen moment. The girl experienced the heat-pounding realisation she was about to fight for her life. She looked at him. He looked at her. She tensed ready to attack.

‘Wait,’ said the samurai. He was standing a few paces distant watching the confrontation unfold. He had a look of dispassionate appraisal on his face like he was tempted to let the girl and the soldier fight it out, like a spectator at a cock fight curious to see who would prevail. ‘He could be useful.’

The girl lowered her knife as the samurai approached the injured soldier. ‘Get up,’ he commanded.

The soldier looked at the man and tried to gauge his chances of prevailing in a fight. He noticed fine blood drops on the skirt of the samurai’s kimono and realised with cold horror his companions were dead. He reluctantly dropped the rock and straightened up.

‘Move,’ said the samurai.

They cut a length of leather lace from the soldier’s shoulder pad and used it to bind his wrists.

‘Get on the cart.’

He climbed onto the wagon alongside the barrels. They bound his ankles.

‘We should collect up the bodies,’ said the samurai. ‘We need to cover our tracks.’

The girl untied a rope, lifted the canvas and checked out the cargo. She prised open one of the kegs with a knife and ran coarse black powder though her fingers.

‘Careful,’ advised the samurai, checking the ox reins. ‘One spark. That’s all it takes.’

They walked the length of the gorge. The samurai lead the ox and the girl walked by his side. Four soldiers weighed down the cart. One living, three dead.

They emerged from the gully and walked through the forest. The track climbed the side of a hill. They found themselves traversing the rim of a deep gorge. The samurai brought the ox to a halt.

‘Let’s ditch the bodies.’

They rolled the three bodies from the cart and kicked them into the gorge. The injured soldier watched, sullen, as his dead comrades tumbled down the steep gradient and were swallowed by dense brush.

The girl cooked rabbit over a campfire, having skinned and spitted the animal under the samurai’s direction. It was the first time she had cooked a meal. He usually provided a meal each evening but, by unspoken agreement, he had begun to teach her how to fend for herself. She turned the animal on a spit. Crisping flesh sweated fat. She cut thick strips with her knife.

‘Make it last,’ advised the samurai as she stuffed ribbons of meat in her mouth.

The injured soldier watched them eat.

‘You froze,’ said the samurai, addressing the girl. ‘I watched. When you confronted this man you had a knife and were ready to use it. But you froze.’

She nodded sipping water from a bamboo flask

‘I was scared.’

‘Killing a man at a distance is difficult enough. Stringing your arrow, taking aim, coldly deciding to take a life. It can be a terrible thing. But facing someone up close, someone determined to fight to the death, well, that’s something else entirely. Nothing can prepare you for it. The fear. Time stands still. All those elaborate sword techniques you practised in the dojo are forgotten in an instant. In the end it becomes a contest of will. Which of you is more determined to prevail.’

The girl nodded.

‘If you find yourself in that situation again, scream. It will break your paralysis and panic your opponent. Then attack. Hard and fast. Don’t give your opponent time to compose themselves and fight back. Overwhelm them. Like my master used to say: Leave no space for death to enter.

‘And don’t let violence become a vice. Hard to believe. But some men come to love the euphoria of combat. It’s addictive, like poppy sap.’

The girl gave a discrete tilt of the head towards the captive soldier as if to say: What are we going to do with him?

The samurai got to his feet. The girl joined him out of earshot of their prisoner.

‘You understand the situation,’ said the samurai. ‘We can’t let him go.’

The girl glanced at the man. He was obviously from a dirt-poor background. He was young but he had already lost most of his teeth.

‘He’s just a boy.’

‘I know. But it has to be done.’

She looked down at her feet and heard herself say: ‘Make it quick.’

The samurai drew a knife and crouched next to the soldier. The man stared at the blade in terror and tried to squirm away.

‘Calm down,’ said the samurai. He gripped the man’s collar and pulled him back to a sitting position. He cut a section of sleeve and tied the strip of linen round the man’s head as a blindfold.

‘Night is falling,’ he said, to reassure the man. ‘Get some rest.’

The samurai emptied the flask of water and shook it dry. He walked over to the cart and prised open one of the kegs. He scooped handfuls of powder and packed them into the flask.

‘What are you doing?’ asked the girl.

‘I’ve never used this powder. I heard about it, read about it, but never seen it put to the test. I need to understand its potency.’

The samurai crept noiselessly across the clearing and placed the powder flask in front of the injured man. Some preternatural sense told the blindfold soldier someone was close by. He cocked his head and listened hard. The samurai used a cup to shake a thin powder trail back across the clearing to the trunk of a fallen tree, then took shelter with the girl. The samurai held a burning stick pulled from the campfire.

‘Doesn’t seem right,’ said the girl. ‘Killing a man this way. No honour in it.’

‘Necessity.’

‘Seems cruel.’

‘No more cruel than putting a knife in his heart. This man is in the pay of the Imperial household. He’s peasant stock. He could have worked the fields, spent his life bending his back in a paddy. He would have died an old man. Instead he put on armour for the guarantee of two meals a day. He swore to give his life for the Emperor, if necessary. That was the oath he took, the bargain he struck. Today, that debt is due.’

They lay flat against the trunk for cover. The samurai put a flame to the trickle of gunpowder next to him. Ignition. The black powder spat and fizzed. The fuse-flame circled the log and headed across the clearing towards the blindfold soldier.

‘What’s that?’ shouted the captive, as the hissing, crackling trail of combustion snaked towards him through twigs and leaves. ‘What’s going on?’

A massive concussion. An explosion so loud it was silent. The girl experienced the detonation as a gut-punch rather than an audible sound.

The samurai and the girl got to their feet. Their ears rang. They approached the smoking remains of the soldier. There was nothing left of him but a pair of legs and a pulped torso. His head and arms had been blasted away. His ribcage had been stripped of flesh. The girl clapped a hand over her mouth and turned away.

‘Well,’ said the samurai, contemplating the grisly spectacle. ‘It works.’

They reached Kyoto a week later. The samurai and the girl descended the hill road on foot, the city laid out beneath them. They rested a while and sat on the grass by the side of the track looking over a labyrinthine street grid. A wide boulevard led to the Imperial Palace to the north. There were temples on the outskirts of the conurbation; a cluster of sweeping roofs and tiered pagodas.

‘Have you ever been to Kyoto before?’ asked the samurai.

‘No,’ said the girl, marvelling at the sprawl. ‘But I’ve heard many people speak of it. The greatest city in the world.’

‘Well, there it is.’

‘It’s like an ocean. An ocean of buildings. It’s too much to comprehend.’

Kyoto had been levelled during the Ōnin War. Shōgun Ashikaga Yoshimasa died leaving no clear heir and subsequent turf-battles between the Yamana and Hosokawa clans left the city in ruins. The Imperial Palace and some of the major temples had been rebuilt but a wide strip of unreconstructed waste ground divided the city east-to-west, ground given over to cultivation.

‘It’s like a dream,’ said the girl. ‘A waking dream.’

They got to their feet and continued to descend the hill.

‘They used to call it the capital of flowers,’ the samurai said as they strode towards the city gate. ‘They say it was one of the wonders of the world. I wish I had seen it before it burned.’

There was nothing left of the city’s great Rajōmon Gate but a stepped foundation. They climbed the steps and stood on the stone platform. They gazed the length of Suzaku Ōji, the cobbled boulevard that bisected the city, stretching to near-vanishing point and the distant gates of the Imperial Palace

Walking north, they merged with a steady stream of merchants, monks and packhorses heading into the city.

‘Is it always this crowded?’ asked the girl.

‘People have travelled from far and wide to be near the Emperor. He lives behind high walls but one day of the year he and his retinue emerge from the palace to process to the temple and pray for the blessings of his ancestors. People will line the streets and try to catch a glimpse of his palanquin, the closest they will ever come to the presence of a living god.’

‘Why do they care?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe they think that if he turns their eyes on them for an instant the sick will be healed, the poor will be rich, the lonely will find love. Whatever ails a person, whatever weighs them down, will be set right.’

‘What must it be like to be the focus of all that need, all that heartache?’

‘All I know is that tomorrow the Emperor will be out in the open. Tomorrow he can be killed.’

The samurai pushed through the throng. The girl followed, anxious not to lose sight and get swallowed by the crowd.

They explored the bustling side streets, the samurai wrapping his cloak tight around himself to hide his sword. No one gave him a second glance. There was nothing remarkable in his appearance – his shoes and clothes were matted with dust. A peasant and his daughter at the end of a long journey, they were probably visiting Kyoto to see family. Or maybe they were on pilgrimage, come to prostrate themselves before the Emperor as he passed.

They found a busy hostel, the kind of place that might sell them a stretch of floor and not ask too many questions. The samurai surveyed the place from the outside. A ramshackle building, roof shingles held in position by rocks. Plenty of travellers passing through. The samurai and the girl would be faces in a crowd.

‘This will do.’

They entered the hostelry and found themselves in a wide room with a central pit fire. The samurai and the girl unshouldered their bags and knelt on a carpet of scattered straw. A maid brought food on a rough wooden tray. Saké, and some rice and pickles.

The samurai glanced around, keeping a casual but watchful eye on the crowd. He observed a couple of men in well-maintained silk kimonos enter the tavern and seat themselves near the fire. The maid served them immediately.

‘Wait here,’ he said.

He got up and crossed the busy room, accidently jogged an arm, apologised and engineered a conversation. His usual grave demeanour was replaced by sunny bonhomie as he sat beside the men. They chatted and laughed. He pointed to the street outside and asked a couple of questions. They pushed cups around on the floor like they were mapping out directions.

The girl sat alone, self-conscious, aware of appraising glances from the men around her. She averted her gaze and studied the floor.

Half an hour later the samurai returned and sat beside the girl.

‘Did they tell you where it is?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The precise location.’

They strolled along the Suzaku Ōji, the girl following a pace behind. The cobbled boulevard was lined with cherry trees to screen elegant homes that overlooked the avenue. They moved among light afternoon traffic. Tradesmen pushed carts or walked hunched with wicker panniers on their backs.

The samurai bent and re-tied his sandal, glancing around to see if they were being followed. He got to his feet. He stared at faces. Tradesfolk stared back with bored disinterest. The samurai was alert for anyone who might refuse to meet his gaze, anyone who might make a conspicuous performance of disinterest. Both the Imperial House and the Shōgunate relied on a network of paid informants to keep them apprised of events taking place beyond their Palace walls. Innocuous townsfolk like shopkeepers and customs officials drew a monthly stipend in return for regular reports of suspicious activity, attempted infiltration of the workings of state by agents of rival houses. The samurai and the girl had done little to raise suspicion during their arrival in the city but there was always the chance that, as strangers, they had been targeted for random surveillance.

The samurai straightened up. ‘Look at the road,’ he said.

They surveyed the cobbled surface of the street. There was a slight ridge up ahead as if a section of road had been dug then re-laid. Cartwheels jolted as they rolled over the ridge.

‘Is that it?’

‘Yes,’ said the samurai. ‘A brick conduit. Part of the old irrigation system for the water garden at Ryōan-ji. The pipe used to siphon water from the hills and carry it to the Kyoyochi Pond. They destroyed a succession of shops and homes to dig the channel. The pipe fell into disuse following the war.’

‘How did you know it was here?’

‘I overheard someone talk of it when I was a child. One of those little pieces of trivia that gets locked at the back of the mind gathering dust until, years later, its full significance is revealed.’

The girl nodded and looked down at the cobbles. ‘So we are standing over your grave.’

The samurai nodded with a melancholy smile.

‘We all have a stretch of ground waiting for us somewhere. This is mine.’

They walked down a side-street following the tell-tale ridge of cobbles which marked the route of the subterranean water pipe looking for an entry point; some place they could dig and access the underground channel unobserved.

The route disappeared beneath a row of textile shops. Vendors urged them to buy mats, kimonos, cushions. A shopkeeper sat opposite a shuttered and empty shop, behind a table stacked with bolts of linen.

‘Is this shop for rent?’ asked the samurai.

The man nodded.

‘Who owns it?’

‘I do.’

The shopkeeper opened the shutters. Light shafted into the interior of the shop and lit fresh whitewash and empty shelves. The room was floored with rough planks laid on compacted earth.

‘Where are you from?’ asked the shopkeeper.

‘Nara,’ said the samurai. The girl hung back and said nothing.

‘What’s your business in Kyoto?’

‘Silk. My brother and I sell Chinese silk. We’ve come here to buy stock. I need a store house for a week or two, a place I can keep our purchases secure before shipping them west to Nara.’

The samurai’s story had been composed to avoid any infringement of the za cooperatives which controlled commerce in Kyoto. By posing as an out-of-town merchant looking to buy, not sell, the samurai would not have to provide the shopkeeper with any official paperwork. There would be no violation of guild protocols, no violation of city governance that might cause complications.

The shopkeeper nodded.

‘Here’ said the samurai. ‘Two weeks, in advance.’ He dropped coins into the shopkeeper’s hand.

They climbed a wooded hillside outside Kyoto. The samurai and the girl paused on the steep track and looked around. An empty dirt road stretched before and behind them. When they were sure they were unobserved, they left the road and waded through tall grass into the trees.

They emerged from the trees and entered a wide clearing. The ox was placidly grazing in a meadow. The girl stood beside the animal, patting and stroking it. The samurai approached some shadows beneath the trees. He reached into dense undergrowth and probed a jumble of branches and leaves. He hauled the brushwood aside and exposed the cart hidden beneath.

They arrived back in Kyoto at nightfall. The samurai led the cart down a narrow lane behind the row of shops keeping a slow pace to reduce the sound of wheels grinding cobbles and flagstones.

He brought the cart to a halt. Tradesmen and their families had locked their stalls and retreated to upper rooms to eat and sleep. The samurai and the girl hugged moon-shadows glancing up and down the narrow lane alert for any sign of the nightwatch.

The samurai checked upper windows and glimpsed candlelight through cracks in the shutters. He checked to see if any of the neighbours were peering down to see who might be moving a cart around during the hours of darkness.

He unlatched the back of the store and lit a lamp.

‘Let’s get this done quick as we can.’

They unroped the kegs and folded the oil-cloth. The girl stood on the back of the cart and rolled keg after keg to the samurai. He stacked them in the back room of the store. When they were done, the girl led the ox away to a nearby stables.

The samurai carried a lantern to the front room of the store, checking that the doors and shutters were secure. He knelt on the floor and prised the boards with a knife. He stacked the boards in the corner of the room and exposed an expanse of packed dirt.

He fetched a hoe and spade he purchased earlier that day, shrugged off his kimono, stripped bare-chested and stood over the raw earth. He swung the pick and began to break packed earth into loose clods. The girl watched him dig. She used the spade to heap soil into a basket and haul it aside.

An arm’s length down the samurai struck brick. He enlarged the hole to expose the circumference of the pipe. He prised bricks with his knife and threw them in a pile in the corner of the shop, exposing the clay inner jacket of the conduit.

He paused, exhausted and parched. The girl handed him a bamboo flask of water. He drank deep.

He knelt over the clay pipe and smashed it open with a brick. They both recoiled from a foetid exhalation of tunnel air.

‘Pass me the lamp,’ said the samurai.

He leant through the jagged aperture, squinted into darkness and saw a conduit, wide enough for a man to crawl. A steady trickle of water washed the bottom of the pipe.

‘Perfect,’ he murmured, voice echoing in the tight tunnel space. He withdrew his head from the pipe.

‘All I have to do now is move the kegs into position.’

The girl nodded. ‘Then our task is almost done,’ she said, overcome by a wave of anxiety. A few hours from now the samurai would be dead and she would truly be an orphan. No home, no family. She would be utterly alone in the world.

The samurai took another gulp from the flask.

‘Yes. Almost done.’

Dawn broke over Kyoto.

The samurai stood at the centre of the boulevard enjoying birdsong and the crisp morning air. This would be his last day, he thought, wrapping his travel cloak tight around himself. The wide cobbled avenue was empty, apart from a distant fire watcher patrolling a row of aristocratic homes, vigilant for any sign of smoke. A few minutes from now the first traders and couriers would take to the streets and would be joined by visitors to the city hoping to glimpse the Imperial procession. The empty avenue would fill with milling traffic. Peace replaced by movement and cacophonous noise.

He located the ridge of cobbles that marked the route of the subterranean conduit and walked down the side road back to the empty store, keeping a slow, measured step. He knocked a pre-agreed code on the back door. The girl opened up and let him inside.

‘A hundred and twenty-eight paces,’ he said, shrugging off his cloak. ‘A hundred and twenty-eight paces from here to the road.’

The girl nodded without comment and continued to roll kegs to the lip of the hole in the floor and stack them ready to be lowered into the conduit.

The Imperial procession mustered in a courtyard in front of the cypress pavilion that served as the Emperor’s private quarters. A guard of cavalry and foot-soldiers in finest livery stood to attention in the morning sun, their helmets and segmented leather armour lacquered crimson. The helmets bore the gold chrysanthemum insignia of the Imperial House. Commanding officers inspected the ranked men and made minute adjustments to their spacing. Two ornate palanquins sat at the centre of the yard with bearers standing ready to take the load.

The guard readied itself to escort the Emperor and his mother from the palace to the temple of Tenryū Shiseizen-ji to the west of the city. The temple was home to the tombs of Emperor Kameyama and Emperor Go-Saga. The Emperor intended to pay his respects to his forebears and would be greeted by the high priest when he arrived. Then he would visit the shrine, light incense and pray.

An elderly nun stood in the corner of the courtyard placidly watching the procession assemble. She was little bigger than a child and her head was shaved bald, as befitted someone dedicated to a life of cloistered seclusion. She wore blue and white robes. Her hands were tucked in her sleeves. She, like the rest of the retinue, was waiting for the appointed moment when Emperor Go-Nara would emerge from his apartment. The doors would be thrown wide and they would prostrate themselves as The Son of Heaven descended the steps and took his seat in the litter.

Had a detached observer watched the scene for any length of time, they would have noticed soldiers crossing the quadrangle quickened their step as they walked past the nun, taking care to avoid her gaze. They might have sensed the unease, the dread, of the people around her; they might have surmised the true centre of power lay not with the Emperor and his retinue but the elderly woman patiently watching the procession take shape.

Fujiwara Fujiko was the Emperor’s mother. The previous Emperor had been a weak man preferring to supervise the cultivation of flowers rather than immerse himself in the business of state. As a result Fujiwara gradually assumed the reins of power. Her husband tended his gardens while she familiarised herself with the underlying economics of power. It became an open secret that Fujiwara was head of the Imperial House. She had taken holy orders following the death of the death of Go-Kashiwabara but still dominated the Imperial Council. She was referred to simply as ‘the nun’.

The captain of the guard stood beside the nun. There were plenty of senior officers in the courtyard who dared not approach the woman. Like any noble house, the formal hierarchy hid a shadow power structure in which favoured underlings could wield more influence than their nominal superiors.

‘The boat made landfall,’ said the captain. ‘The cargo was unloaded. It must have been intercepted soon afterward.’

‘What do the locals say?’

‘They insist they saw nothing.’

‘Have your men prompt their memories. I understand a father’s powers of recall can undergo a miraculous transformation when he sees a knife at his child’s throat.’

The captain was reminded that the smallest, most innocuous snakes often possess the strongest venom. He nervously cleared his throat.

‘The procession should be postponed.’

‘Nonsense,’ said the nun. ‘The Emperor makes this journey to honour his ancestors every year. It would be a shameful declaration of weakness if we were to postpone.’

‘Bandits would know better than to attack men engaged on Imperial business. Even ronin at the point of starvation would know better than to risk reprisals. And if they did kill the guards and found themselves in possession of a cargo of gunpowder, where would they sell it? Nobody trades that kind of materiel without an Imperial license. They would abandon the cart, put as much distance between themselves and the consignment as they could. No. Someone was tipped off. Someone seized that cargo with a purpose. They didn’t intend to sell it. They intended to use it.’

‘I still see no reason to cancel the procession.’

‘If someone was determined to assassinate yourself or the Emperor, explosives would be the perfect way to assure success. You’re guarded night and day. What better way to break through a cordon of highly trained soldiers? Simply vaporise them. Your movements are secret, known only to a handful of men. But today, this one day of the year, everyone in Kyoto knows exactly where you and the Emperor will be.’

‘What about our informants?’ asked the nun. ‘Is there any word from them?’

‘This is a merchant city. Thousands of people come and go. We can’t watch them all. The explosives could already be here, in position.’

‘You have men checking the route?’

‘They’ve been out since dawn scouring every building, every alley. I also have men checking stables. Plenty of empty carts have been stored in the past couple of days. We’re working through the list, tracking down owners.’

‘You seem to have the matter well in hand.’

The captain knew that if anything were to happen to the Emperor or his mother the consequences for himself would be horrific. There would be no leniency for a man whose incompetence led to the death of The Son of Heaven. His years of service would not protect him. He would not be granted seppuku; the chance to put his affairs in order and leave the world at his own hand. He would be put in chains then executed in a market square in the most protracted method that could be devised. If the Emperor or his mother sustained any kind of injury the captain resolved to immediately snatch the tantō from his belt and cut his own throat before the knife could be snatched from his hand.

‘There isn’t time to complete the search,’ he said. ‘I cannot guarantee your safety.’

‘Then we must trust the gods.’

The nun walked across the square and took her place in the procession. Footmen held back the silk curtain of her palanquin as she climbed inside and sat on the cushion. There was a gauze screen at the front of the curtained compartment. She could see out, but no one could see in.

The captain watched footmen lower and secure the side-curtain. He caught a last glimpse of the nun. She had a look of detached serenity on her face. Time spent meditating upon the doctrines of Tendai in austere monastic seclusion seemed to have refined her contempt for the world to a flawless, crystalline cruelty. Disregard of everyone and everything, including herself.

The doors of the Emperor’s residence were pulled wide. Attendants and soldiers threw themselves to the ground. The captain knelt and pressed his forehead to the flagstones. He heard the quiet scuff of the Emperor’s sandals as the Son of Heaven descended the steps, a faint creak as the Emperor took his seat in the litter. He had served the Emperor for ten years, yet never laid eyes on him. He experienced the presence of the godhead as whispering footsteps, as a flicker in the periphery of his visions as he knelt in obeisance.

The captain remained prostrate as bearers lifted the twin palanquins and braced the poles against their shoulders. He heard a quiet clatter of armour and naginatas as the soldiers got to their feet. The courtyard gates were hauled open and the procession set out.

The samurai lowered himself into the water conduit. He crouched on all fours in the narrow pipe and pushed a keg ahead of him, his hands and knees splashing in the stagnant water. His shoulders brushed the edge of the pipe as his grunts of exertion echoed in the tunnel-dark.

The barrel had been sealed with tar to stop rainwater and sea-spray from soaking into the powder during transit. The seals kept the powder dry as he pushed it along the pipe. He rolled the keg with his left hand and held a lantern in his right. The weak candle flame lit clay walls slimed with algae. He tried not to let his mind dwell on the outcome if the keg were to split and powder reach the flame. He wouldn’t know much about it. One moment he’d be squirming along the pipe, next moment he would be nothing at all.

A long length of string tied with a hundred and twenty-eight knots helped put him directly beneath the wide boulevard of Suzaku Ōji.

He had sawn sections of floorboard and jammed them across the pipe to form a series of shelves on which he could stack the kegs and keep them out of the water. He lifted the keg, an awkward manoeuvre in the tight space, and pushed it against the stack.

It was hard to picture the force of the explosion. When he and the girl tested the gunpowder in the forest, a flask-full had been enough to blast a man to pulp. If the entire consignment were triggered at once the effect would be volcanic. Soil and cobbles would be hurled into the sky. The detonation would reverberate round the surrounding hills like a clap of thunder. A cloud of smoke and dust would mushroom over the city.

He heard a splash behind him. He turned in the tight space. The girl crawled towards him holding a lamp.

‘I wanted to see,’ she said.

‘See what?’

‘You. The barrels. The final place. I need to see it with my own eyes.’

He nodded. ‘Always hoped to die under a blue sky. It seems I won’t even have a grave. Still. No matter.’

‘How will you know when the procession is overhead?’ she asked.

‘Listen. Can you hear it? That rumble? Carts passing to and fro on the avenue. In an hour or two the palace guard will block the street in preparation for the procession. Then there will be silence. I’ll sit here a while and listen. When I hear the vanguard pass overhead, I’ll detonate the gunpowder.’

‘You could set a fuse. Give yourself time to get clear.’

He shook his head. ‘The explosion needs to be timed to the second. The Emperor’s mother must die. I don’t want to kill a hoard of soldiers and leave the nun unscathed.

‘My only regret,’ said the samurai, ‘is that I won’t have a chance to declare myself before the blow is struck. She won’t see my face, look me in the eye. That’s why you must live. I need you to tell my story. Let them know back in Etchū. I kept my oath. I served my master to the end.’

‘I will.’

‘And pray for me, now and again. Light some incense if you find yourself near a temple.’

‘I will pray for you every day.’

He nodded gratitude.

‘I shall miss you, Sensei,’ she said.

‘Wherever I find myself beyond death, I shall miss you too.’

‘Come up top. Just for a little while.’

The samurai thought it over, trying to calculate the time remaining to him. Maybe he should stay exactly where he was, ready to detonate the gunpowder. Or perhaps he could snatch one last glimpse of daylight.

‘All right. Just for a few moments.’

They turned and crawled back down the pipe.

When the girl squirmed from the conduit up into the empty store she was grabbed by soldiers, hauled aside and a hand clapped over her mouth. She struggled. She tried to shout a warning.

When the samurai emerged from the hole he was confronted by three archers, bowstrings pulled taut ready to cut him down. He looked around at the men and smiled wryly at this latest, capricious turn of fate.

‘Remain very still,’ said the captain. ‘I’d prefer to take you alive.’

The samurai ducked and rolled, snatching his sword from the floor. He threw the saya aside. The draw turned to an arcing slash which splintered an archer’s bow and sliced open his throat. The man fell to the floor and choked.

He hurled himself aside as the second archer loosed an arrow. The arrow embedded in a shutter, splintering the wood.

The third arrow pierced the samurai’s bicep and nailed him to the wall. He barked in pain. The girl cried out in sympathy. He was pinned semi-crucified. The sword fell from his immobilised arm and clattered on the ground.

The samurai groped for his belt knife, determined to fight, determined to provoke an honourable death. He was white with shock. The captain punched him insensible before he could draw the blade from its sheath. The samurai hung from the arrow a moment then the shaft snapped and he crumpled to the floor.

‘Tie him up,’ said the captain as he stood over the unconscious man. ‘Tie him tight.’

Four soldiers marched the girl down the dungeon passageway, her wrists bound with rope. They steered her by gripping the collar of her kimono.

The jailer pulled back the bolts of a heavy pine door. They pushed her inside and she fell to the floor and sprawled on planks covered in straw. They bolted a manacle round her ankle and tethered her to the wall by a length of heavy chain before cutting her hands free. They slammed and bolted the door.

The girl rubbed the rope burns round her wrists and let her eyes adjust to the gloom. Weak sunlight shafted through a high barred window. The dungeon was within the grounds of the Imperial Palace. The palace had burned down many times during its history. Every few generations an untended flame had sparked a conflagration which razed the elegant chambers and staterooms and reduced the Emperor’s magnificent residence to acres of smouldering timbers. The palace had been repeatedly refashioned, each iteration more extravagant than the last. The current structure had been built piecemeal following the Ōnin War. Some of the buildings were so new they still smelled of fresh timber, but the subterranean cells were part of a much older structure. The ancient, weathered bulwarks suggested a Heian stockade which stood on the site before the rise of the samurai class and the domination of the shōgunate.

There was a second prisoner in the cell. She assumed he was some kind of petty criminal and guessed he was in his forties. A good age for a toothless street scavenger. Poverty aged people fast. Hard years quickly etched deep lines in their faces. The manacle clamped around his ankle had rubbed his flesh raw. The girl wondered what the man had done to deserve a place in the Imperial dungeon. He looked too weak, too timid to have committed a violent or audacious crime – maybe he oversaw a counterfeiting operation and spent his days in a back room somewhere stamping imitations of Chinese copper currency. Devaluation of the money supply was tantamount to treason. An ordinary thief might expect to lose a tongue, an ear, a hand. A coiner could expect far more draconian punishment. An example had to be set.

The old man looked at her a while. He smiled like he was trying to ingratiate himself with his pretty new cellmate. She glimpsed diseased gums.

She ignored him. She tried to compose herself and banish panic. She studied the walls, the barred window and heavy door, for any chance of escape. The cell had been constructed from massive oak bulwarks. There were bloody scratches down the walls where successive prisoners had tried to claw their way out. The window bars were thick as a man’s wrist and the door was three layers of pine bolted together by iron studs. Her only opportunity of escape would be to overpower the guards but she would have to break her ankle so she could pull it free of the manacle. Then somehow, despite a broken foot, rush the jailer as he opened the cell door to bring food. It was a fantasy, of course. She would be efficiently dispatched if she made any attempt to flee. She would never reach daylight. She would never make it out the cell. But at least she would die quick, die fighting.

‘What’s your name?’ asked the old man.

She ignored him.

‘I’m Genta. What did you do? Why are you here?’

She got to her feet and crossed to the window, dragging the heavy ankle chain behind her. The window gave her a ground-level view of a gravel courtyard, an open half-acre with a couple of trees in opposing corners.

‘That’s where I’ll die tomorrow,’ said the old man, his voice quavering with fear.

There was a frame staked in the centre of the courtyard. Iron shackles hung from a high bar.

‘They’ll come for me at dawn. And in a few days they will come for you too.’

The girl was shocked awake by the sound of heavy bolts drawn back. She was curled on the floor. Dawn light shafted through the window as the jailer kicked open the cell door. The girl got to her feet but the old man remained knelt on the floor racked by sobs. His eyes were rheumy like he’d been awake all night fretting his final hours, praying the sun wouldn’t rise.

‘Get up,’ said the jailer.

The old man didn’t move but hung his head and panted with terror. Guards grabbed his arms and hauled him to his feet. He whimpered. Urine spattered on the straw-dusted floor. He offered no resistance as they unshackled his ankle and dragged him from the cell.

The girl stood at the window and saw a mob of townsfolk congregated in the square, a couple of infantrymen keeping them in line. The execution must have been announced in advance. Notices had been posted in the city’s two main market places. Spectators had queued, curious to watch a man die. Guards had ushered them through a gate into one of the outer courtyards of the Imperial compound. Evidently it had been decided that the old man’s execution would have no deterrent effect if it took place unseen. Townsfolk had to be present to witness the event and besides, it was part of the torture. There was no better way to make a condemned man feel broken and alone than to put him at the centre of a crowd.

Guards pushed a path through onlookers and led the old man to the scaffold. His face was locked in a rictus of fear, his mouth downturned in an almost simian grimace. They tore away his clothes and stripped him down to his loincloth. They forced him to sit. They locked manacles round each ankle then pulled chains hoisting the man’s legs until he hung upside down from the scaffold.

If the old man had family to intervene on his behalf, they might have bribed one of the executioners to make it quick. A few coins might have persuaded them to nick an artery to make sure he didn’t suffer. But an indigent thief couldn’t buy mercy. He had to face the full horror of his punishment.

One of the executioners held up a large band saw for the crowd to see. Silence fell. There was no sound but the old man snivelling:

‘Please … please … please …’

The old man’s cries turned to a whinnying scream as the executioners stepped up and prepared to cut.

They set the band saw between his legs and gripped the handles. Then, with slow ceremony, they began to pull back and forth. The old man howled in pain and mortal terror. It was an inhuman scream, the kind of animal shriek emitted by a pig as a farmer drew his knife across its neck. Genta squirmed and thrashed. Iron teeth shredded his perineum, tore through his genitals and ripped open his bowels.

The guards continued to saw, cutting deep into his abdomen. Blood washed down his body, down his face. The old man’s inverted position boosted circulation to his head keeping him conscious until his body had been bisected almost to his ribcage. The saw continued its inexorable downward progress, slicing through major organs. Genta, mercifully, died.

They sawed through his upper torso and neck before the mess of spilt offal precluded any further work. One of the soldiers completed the bisection by slicing the old man’s head in two with a stroke of a sword, like butchers splitting a side of beef as it hung from a hook. The soldiers stood back and admired their work. Genta hung in two halves, the interior of his body presented in cross-section.

The crowd parted as the executioners crossed the courtyard to where buckets stood waiting, stripped naked and washed themselves. Servants, outcastes charged with the disposal of human remains, unlatched the dead man’s legs and lowered the two halves of his body to the ground. They knelt on the cobbles and scooped the slippery, intestinal slurry into baskets. When the last flesh basket was removed, the servants sprinkled sawdust to soak pooled blood. The performance was concluded. The crowd was herded towards the compound gate.

The girl put her back to the cell wall and slid to the floor, strength sapped by cold dread.

The samurai heard footsteps outside the cell. Bolts were drawn back and the door pushed open. The captain of the guard stood in the doorway backed by two sentries looking wary and confused. They had each been told they were about to enter the presence of a fearsome warrior and had best remain alert. Each kept a hand on the tsuka of their swords ready to draw at a moment’s notice and tried to reconcile the warning they had received with the wretched man sitting on the floor of the cell.

The captain inspected his prisoner. The samurai sat cross-legged with his ankle bound by chain. His wounded bicep had been bandaged with torn linen, but blood had soaked through the cloth and the arm hung limp. The samurai tried to sit with his back straight and proud but his head kept lolling like he was fighting sleep. He blinked and tried to clear his vision. The cell lurched like it was the cabin of a storm-tossed ship.

The captain stepped to one side as the jailer put a bowl of rice on the floor in front of the prisoner. There were no hashi. They might be used as a weapon. He would have to eat with his fingers.

‘So. Who are you?’ asked the captain.

The samurai didn’t reply. He stared at the bowl of rice as if his mind were so fogged he couldn’t identify the object.

‘You have plenty of scars. You’ve clearly seen combat. Where was it? Diamotsu? Shiokowa no gawara? Tatenawate? What is your clan? Whom did you serve?

The samurai didn’t reply. The captain paced the cell.

‘Why did you come to Kyoto? Why did you try to kill the Emperor? To avenge your lord? Tell me. Tell me your story. There will be no reprisals for your family.’

The statement earned a contemptuous stare from the samurai. The captain, a military man supposedly wedded to a code of honour, was speaking an obvious untruth. An attempt on the Emperor’s life was certain to earn a slow and torturous death while the perpetrator’s family would be rounded up and executed. There would be no question of clemency. Their houses and possessions would be burned. The graves of their relatives would be smashed and their bones disinterred and scattered. The would-be assassin’s entire lineage would be erased. Priests would be ordered to pursue him and his family beyond death beseeching the gods to pile torment upon torment upon the conspirator as he languished in hell

‘You could claim the right of seppuku,’ said the captain. ‘If you are of noble lineage, it could count in your favour. The Emperor’s court is composed of reasonable men. They are not vindictive, not motivated by rage. If you wish to die with what little honour remains to you, they will hear your petition. But you will need to cooperate. You will need to throw yourself upon their mercy.’

More lies.

‘Perhaps,’ said the captain, pausing for emphasis, ‘if you are a man of rank, a man to be treated with respect, they might let you challenge the Emperor’s champion to a duel. A rare occurrence, but it’s been known to happen.’

Another transparent ruse. If the samurai picked up a katana and engaged in combat an educated observer would immediately know where he had been schooled. His signature style of swordcraft would betray his origins as precisely as a birth sheet detailing his ancestral line.

The samurai said nothing while the captain shifted foot to foot, anxious and impatient. Evidently this was no casual line of questioning. He had been charged with interrogating the prisoner and would be expected to report back with detailed information regarding the scale of the conspiracy against the Emperor. Had the assassination plot been the work of one vengeful man or was it a clandestine power-play by the Shōgun? He didn’t expect immediate answers. He was assessing the resilience of his prisoner, planning the increasingly harsh interrogations to come.

‘Did you pray?’ asked the captain. ‘As you crouched in that pipe like a rat counting down the minutes to your death did you pray to the gods? Did you ask Hachiman for his blessing? His protection? Did you ask him to grant success? Because you’ve received his answer.’ The captain gestured to the squalid cell. ‘Fate has delivered a judgement. You set out to kill the Emperor, the divinity. You set out to topple the settled order of the world. Madness. You were like a lunatic firing arrows to shoot the sun from the sky. Accept your failure.’

‘Where’s the girl?’ asked the samurai.

‘Is she your daughter?’

‘Where is she?’

‘The other side of that wall. You need to understand that your intransigence will have consequences for her, as well as yourself.’

The captain crouched beside the samurai and inspected the man’s wounded shoulder.

‘I’ll fetch a physician. Can’t let you succumb to illness. That would be too easy.’

He leaned close and looked the samurai in the eye. ‘Tell me one thing. Were you trying to kill the Emperor, or were you trying to kill his mother?’

The samurai didn’t reply. The captain straightened up.

‘The nun has something special in mind for you. If you won’t talk, if you won’t provide information, then she will use your death to deter others who may harbour a grudge against the Imperial household. Think of the enormity of your crime. If they execute back-alley coiners, cut them in half with a saw, what do you think they will do to you? Your punishment will be the stuff of legend.’

The Samurai lay on his cot and slept a while. He heard a bolt clack and looked up as an apparition entered the room. A man with coal-black skin like he had been burned in a fire. The samurai recoiled in fear. He slid from his cot. He crawled to the corner of the room and chanted an incantation to ward off evil.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ said the black man. ‘I’m not Death. I’m not here to drag you to the underworld.’ He rapped his knuckles on the cell wall. ‘See? Flesh and blood, just like you. I’m from a country far away. They call me Saracen.’

The samurai sat trembling against the wall, lost in a hellish delirium. His eyes rolled.

‘You have a fever, don’t you?’ said Saracen. ‘I’m a physician. I’ve been instructed to keep you alive. Can I examine your arm?’

The samurai nodded consent. Saracen helped the man to his feet and led him across the cell sitting him on the edge of the crude wooden cot. He sat beside the samurai and helped unlace his ragged kimono, gently releasing the bandages to expose the weeping wound. A puncture in the upper bicep just below the shoulder joint. He probed raw flesh. The samurai stared up at the ceiling of the cell, impassive despite the pain.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Saracen. ‘This wound should have been treated earlier. Much earlier.’

The captain and a couple of guards waited in the passageway outside the cell. ‘So? Can you save him?’ asked the captain

‘This is beyond herbs and needles,’ said Saracen. ‘He is very sick. He will require radical treatment if he is to live.’

‘I need him alive and lucid, whatever it takes, understand? I forbid you to let him die.’

‘I shall consult my books.’

The Emperor entered a stateroom of the Imperial Palace. The screens silently slid closed behind him. Every screen in the palace slid on waxed runners so that, as the Emperor moved around the palace, no unnatural sound might disturb his peace. Mute servants operated the screens as he approached and kept out of sight. It was like living among ghosts.

Courtiers prostrated themselves as the Emperor entered the room, pressing their foreheads to the floor before quickly getting to their feet. They retreated, still bent in a full bow, their sandals whispering as they shuffled backward on polished floorboards. They pulled the screens closed behind them and left the Emperor alone with the nun.

The nun knelt at the end of the room, a tiny figure beside a wide table. She smiled and patted a cushion. The Emperor knelt beside her.

They sat facing a large scroll of paper mounted on silk. The provinces of Japan rendered as a series of pictograms drawn from the recollections of a hundred Imperial couriers. Elegant depictions of Fujiyama, Seto Naikai, The Freshwater Sea. The landmarks of each province were marked by castles, harbours, pagodas.

The nun had placed a wooden toy soldier on each region to represent regional Daimyō. Each figure was a piece in the great game played between the Emperor and the Shōgun as they manoeuvred for supremacy.

The Emperor clenched his hands in his lap. He was The Son of Heaven, a living deity. He could if he wished ride through Kyoto, point at random townsfolk from the comfort of his palanquin and have them executed on a whim. The men at his command wouldn’t question his orders. Power of life and death. Power of a god. But here, next to the nun, the Emperor was a child again, anxious for her approval. The same anxiety he felt every night when, at his mother’s insistence, he sat opposite Master Nagamoto, Kyoto’s foremost master of Go. The Emperor would dig into a bowl of white counters and begin the opening moves of a game which would, inevitably, see him lose hard. The games were intended to hone his mind, help teach him strategic skill. Instead they left him filled with impotent rage.

The nun pointed to a province to the north, her finger resting on a drawing of a castle among mountains. A dragon coiled around the bailey. She had placed the little wooden figure of a cavalryman on the province, horse rearing, sword raised.

‘General Akitane. We supported him in his campaign to pacify Etchū earlier this year. It would have been a very useful alliance. It would have given us some northern ports and direct access to China. We assumed he could count on the aid of his brother, Motohide, a samurai of high repute. Apparently not. Motohide deposed his brother and took his place as Daimyō.’

‘Is it really our concern?’

‘Motohide affects to be unaligned, but our spies confirm he is a vassal of the Shōgunate. He has a son, and will use him to secure his alliance with the Shōgun by marriage. So it seems the Shōgun has successfully displaced one of our men with one of his own. We can’t let this stand. You are the rightful ruler of this land. Remember: There can be no two suns in the sky. We will not share power. We will eclipse the Shōgun and ensure we are the sun that shines.’

‘Surely there is nothing to be done,’ said the Emperor. ‘We can’t muster an army and march. We can barely feed the palace guard. We simply don’t have the strength to oppose the Shōgun. We lost this skirmish. We should bide our time, wait for a fresh opportunity to present itself.’

‘That is your advice? Do nothing?’

‘In essence, yes. Precipitous action won’t help our position.’

‘You are passive and helpless, and you tell yourself it is a virtue.’

‘There is no point turning the battle for Honshu into a cock fight. The Shōgunate and the Imperial House would tear themselves to pieces. No one would win.’

‘You are content to be an impotent figurehead? To live and die within these walls? You paint. You plan gardens. You fly your hawk. Is this how you intend to fritter away your days? Dalliance? Poetry? Flowers? Is this your legacy? One day you will have a son. What will you leave him? Nothing. Nothing at all.’

‘I didn’t bring the Imperial House to its knees. I inherited these ruins.’

‘You think this is a ruin? You’re too young to remember how things were. Every building had been touched by fire. Not a single structure escaped the flames. The palace grounds were overrun by commoners, peasants stole timber for firewood. Commoners crowded round the windows of the Pavilion and tried to catch a glimpse of the Emperor.

‘You told me. Many times.’

‘When your grandfather, Go-Tsuchimikado, died there was no money for a funeral. We kept his body in a storeroom for a month until we sold enough furniture to afford to bury him. Your father was Emperor for twenty years before we had enough money for a coronation. I’ve brought this family back from near-extinction. Thanks to me, we now have an intelligence network and a trickle of revenue. It’s a seed that could blossom into greatness. It hurts me to see you throw it all away. It makes me despair.’

‘You always treat me like a child. I’m not a child. I intend to rule.’

‘Then tell me. As ruler. What should we do?’

The Emperor studied the chart.

‘Motohide is vulnerable. His men just fought a war and his province is ripe for attack. Sooner or later, adjacent provinces will advance on his territory. Why not wait? Let our enemies wipe each other out?’

‘Good,’ said the nun, adopting the tone of encouraging approval she always used when he gave the wrong answer. ‘But maybe we can do better.’

‘Tell me.’

‘We need to take active steps to replace General Motohide with someone more favourable to our cause. We will make outward gestures of friendship. Send emissaries to discuss trade and military affairs. We will put him at his ease and, in the meantime, ensure his death in a manner that cannot be attributed to us.’

‘Is there a traitor in his household? Someone who might be able to administer poison?’

‘No. But the gods smile on us. We now have a skilled man under our roof. A man no one will believe is following Imperial orders.’

The nun picked up a samurai figure standing on the margins of the chart and turned the toy in her hand.

‘You can’t mean the assassin chained in the cells,’ said the Emperor.

‘Who better?’ said the nun.

‘We should dispatch the captain of the guard to trawl the taverns near the Rajōmon Gate. I’m sure he could find a half-dozen cut-throats willing to undertake this mission for a few coins.’

The nun shook her head.

‘No mercenaries. We need absolute commitment.’

‘Petition the ninja schools in Kōga. Request one of their adepts.’

‘Too political. Too many strings. This kind of undertaking needs to be contained.’

‘Why would the traitor agree?’ asked the Emperor. ‘He wants us dead.’

‘We will compel him to swear an oath. He is a man of honour. He lives a life of foolish simplicity. It makes him easy to bend to our will.’

‘He should be taken to the market place and eviscerated.’

‘What would Master Nagamoto say if he were here now, facing you across the goban? There is nothing but the next move.’

The nun placed the samurai figure on Etchū, positioning the figure so its sword clashed with the cavalryman. The nun and the Emperor sat contemplating the chart – Honshu, the surrounding ocean, the coastlines of barbarian lands. The Emperor was fleetingly tempted to sweep the chart clear of figures and tear it to pieces but he calmed himself. Someday soon he would summon Master Nagamoto to the throne room. He would have the old man swallow his Go counters one by one then compel him to commit seppuku to see if any of the polished stones skittered from his ruptured abdomen. And someday soon he would order his mother’s death. It was a long-cherished plan. He liked, during dull ceremonies, to picture his mother’s horror as she woke to feel a knife drawn across her throat. But lately he had been plagued by an uneasy thought: the suspicion his mother wouldn’t react to a slit windpipe with terror and gurgling screams. Instead she would smile in triumph, as if her death marked the culmination of her life’s work, final proof she had shaped her son in her own image.

The girl lay in her cell two days without food. She heard the jailer walking to and fro but he never answered her calls. She had been left with a small bucket of water and at first she drank deep but, when she came to realise she had been abandoned, she conserved the remaining water, restricting herself to lip-moistening sips. She timed the interval between each modest drink by the patch on sunlight on the cell floor. Each time the sun shifted position and the beam of light shafting through the window moved to a different floorboard she took a drink. She was parched and so preoccupied with preserving her remaining supply she kept the bucket in shadow to minimise evaporation. She wanted the weather to turn bad so she could push her arm between the bars and catch palmfuls of rain.

At first she thought it was a deliberate policy of torture but, she reminded herself, she was just a girl. In the eyes of her jailers she was only fractionally more culpable than the ox that hauled gunpowder to Kyoto. She had been forgotten. Maybe she would die of thirst before anyone thought to enquire about her fate. She broke nails trying to prise up one of the floorboards and dig her way out.

On the afternoon of the second day the cell door swung open and the jailer entered the room. He put a bowl of rice and a jug of water on the floor.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘What is to become of me?’

The jailer pretended he hadn’t heard her, left and bolted the door. She drank the water and ignored the rice. Later he fetched a bucket so she could wash, and a comb for her hair. He laid a dress on the cot.

‘Put this on. They will be coming for you soon.’

The girl was led across the courtyard and escorted to a building on the other side of the square. She was brought to a wide room. Two sentries flanked the screen door. The captain of the guard knelt at a table and gestured for her to sit beside him. She knelt. A maid poured tea into simple Iga-ware cups.

‘Who are you?’ demanded the captain.

The girl didn’t reply. She tried to get the measure of the man. The captain possessed a keen intelligence, judging by the quality of his gaze. And a self-assurance which suggested he occupied a more senior rank in the court hierarchy than his military title would suggest.

‘I searched through old intelligence reports to see if there were any traces of you or your master. It seems a girl and a samurai were recently detained near Kyusha but refused to give their names. They were held briefly, then released. Was that you? A pilgrimage to the shrine at Usa Hachimangū? Praying for the success of some great venture? Answer me.’

The girl remained silent so the captain softened his approach, giving a discrete signal to the maid.

‘You’re from nobility. That much is obvious from your bearing. The daughter of a Daimyō, perhaps. Daughter of a fallen warlord.’

The maid brought a plate of manjū pastries and put them in front of the girl.

‘I recollect a story told about the aftermath of Katsuragawa. Following his defeat, one of the generals returned to his home and committed suicide. So did most of his retinue. Then his house burned around him. Plenty of bones among the ashes. Impossible to tell who lived and who died. Which, I suspect, was his intention. Two sons. Three daughters. We are supposed to believe they died in the fire. But perhaps they survived.’

The girl said nothing. She pushed the plate of pastries aside.

‘I heard a similar story concerning the battle of Kurobe River. Following the defeat of General Akitane, his family and retainers killed themselves aboard a ship. The ship burned then sank to the bottom of the sea. Again, I can’t help but wonder if there were survivors.

‘I understand your position,’ said the captain. ‘As long as you remain without a name, you are free, undefined. No one has a hold on you. But your circumstances have changed, your life hangs in the balance. Yes, you are just a girl but they’ll execute you anyway. If you have a noble family name, now is the time to invoke it and beg for mercy. Think it over. But don’t take too long. Wheels are turning. Your fate will decided in the coming hours.

‘Your companion, the samurai,’ the captain continued, sipping his tea, ‘I don’t believe he’s your natural father. There is little resemblance between you. How long has he been your protector? I haven’t seen him in combat but I can tell, just by looking at the man, he would be a formidable foe. So who is he? Tell me his name.’

She didn’t reply.

‘I’ll say it again: you need to understand the consequence of your silence. You’ve been held in a cell these past few days partly for your own protection. What if you are handed to my men? It’s happened before. Women, common criminals, held in the barracks for the amusement of the troops. Held for weeks. Beaten. Teeth knocked out. Fucked until they can no longer walk.

‘Your loyalty to the man is commendable. How long has he looked after you? Months? Years? But you need to understand the next time you see him it will be the day of his execution. I admire him. His single-minded pursuit of honour is the mark of a true samurai. But it is, by its nature, a selfish outlook. You travelled with him, washed his clothes, cooked his food. You sacrificed the opportunity to be a wife, a mother. And what is you reward, now he is gone? If he truly cares for you, which I’m sure he does, he would want you to leave his service and have a life.’

No reply.

‘Is this some strange act of love for him? You think the pain, the degradation you will receive at the hands of my men are some weird consummation? You will be disabused of that notion after five minutes on your back. The agony will be real and overwhelming. You will beg for mercy, but it will be too late.’

The captain’s face grew hard, as if he reached the limit of the time he wished to waste on the girl.

‘It’s time. This is the moment you choose life or death. What’s it to be, girl? Do you want to live? Or do you want to die a broken whore?’

The girl said nothing.

The captain sighed and turned away from her. ‘I see your choice is made. Return to your cell and pray.’ He clapped his hands and the girl was led away.

The girl stood at the cell window and gripped the bars. She gazed at the camphor tree at the edge of the courtyard and tried to impress every detail of the scene to her memory. The texture of the bark. Branches against a grey sky. She wanted to hold this serene moment in her heart and use it as a refuge. Whatever happened to her in the coming hours, whatever pain and humiliations she had to endure, she would project herself back into this courtyard. She would walk the cobbled half-acre in solitude and look up at scudding autumn skies.

The captain was summoned to the small cloistered quadrangle beside the Imperial library. The cloisters enclosed a petrified garden arranged to suggest the abstracted textures of nature. Jagged, igneous boulders sat bedded in moss – islands in a sea of raked gravel. The landscape was tended each sunrise by a monk who sat and contemplated the harmonious composition of the garden before picking up his rake and sculpting a pattern of fine furrows. Each sweeping stroke of the rake erased the previous day’s design and created fresh, elegant swirls which would themselves be erased the following morning.

The nun knelt on flagstones. She held a brush and a cup of water. She wrote prayers with deft strokes of the brush then sat back and watched the words slowly evaporate.

‘Join me,’ she said, without looking up.

The captain of the guard stood at a respectful distance, keeping his back straight and his gaze fixed straight ahead. The nun was a black shadow in the periphery of his vision.

‘I wanted to speak to you about the assassin.’

‘He has yet to talk,’ said the captain.

‘What do your instincts tell you?’

‘I continue to believe he acted alone.’

‘What is his condition?’

‘Poor. He sustained a severe injury during capture and required radical surgery. It will be days before he is strong enough to be interrogated at length.’

‘Tell Saracen to keep the prisoner alive.’

‘I’m sure your interest in the matter will sharpen his mind.’

‘Feed the prisoner well. I want him returned to full health.’

‘There was a box among his possessions. It contained medicine. Purgatives. Poppy. He has some kind of underlying sickness. Something severe. Something incurable.’

‘But his mind. His mind and will are intact?’

‘Yes.’

The captain was intrigued to hear the nun pursue the subject of the samurai. The assassination attempt had been audacious and nearly worked. But it wasn’t the first attempt to murder the Emperor and it wouldn’t be the last. From the outset it had been clear the samurai acted alone, pursuing a personal vendetta. His actions had no strategic implications and the nun had plenty of other matters of state to occupy her thoughts.

‘I wonder why he wants me dead,’ she mused. ‘Revenge for the death of his master, whoever that might have been. Hardly narrows it down.’

‘You wish to discuss the details of his execution?’ asked the captain. ‘Something public? Something severe?’

The nun dipped her brush and wrote dream on the flagstone in front of her. She watched the brush-strokes quickly fade to nothing.

‘Actually, there has been a change of plan.’

Saracen entered the cell and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. He knelt beside the samurai. The injured man lay on his cot, naked except for a soiled fundoshi and a blood-mottled shoulder bandage where his right arm used to be. He shivered, his body glazed with sweat. He was lost in delirium. His unfocused eyes stared through and beyond the ceiling of the cell like he could see through the clouds, through the sky, deep into the cosmic gulfs.

Saracen understood pain. He had, in his role as palace physician, knelt beside many men in the grip of a terrible illness. It put them beyond reach. No words, no comfort could penetrate their tormented fever-dreams. They were alone in hell. When his own time came, when the final sickness settled upon him, he had resolved to follow the advice of Marcus Aurelius and open his wrists. He would die calm and self-possessed like a true Stoic.

It had been a quick amputation. Saracen had dosed the samurai with juiced poppy leaves. The samurai raised his head and drank the bitter spoonful too sick to understand what was about to happen. When he was fully stupefied the jailer and guards held him down while Saracen sawed through his arm. He screamed and tried to wrestle himself free but they held him pinned. His blood vessels were cauterised with a hot iron rod, his wound sewn shut with silk and disinfected with white mercury salt. Later his rotted arm had been thrown in a refuse basket beside the kitchens where it lay among fish heads, egg shells and onion skins ready to be hauled to a waste pit at the edge of the city. The limb would most likely be scavenged and gnawed by wild dogs.

The samurai lay half way between life and death. Saracen waited to see if the man would rally or succumb.

The samurai’s left hand crawled across his chest like a spider, fingers scrabbling towards his right shoulder. The physician watched in fascination as the fingers, seemingly operating under their own volition, pulled bandages aside and began to pick at the stitches holding the stump-flap closed. Nails tore at the stitches as if, somewhere in the depths of his fever, the samurai wanted to rip open the wound and bleed out. The physician turned and addressed the jailer.

‘We need to tie him down.’

The samurai looked down at his body lashed to the cot by strips of blanket. He craned to see the stump where his arm used to be.

‘Kill me. If you have an ounce of compassion, kill me now. Use poison. Put it in my food, my drink. No one will ever know.’

Saracen smiled, lifted a bowl to the samurai’s lips and gave him a sip of broth.

The captain of the guard entered the cell, flanked by two sentries each ready to draw and strike if the samurai made a move to attack though it was immediately apparent the maimed man presented no threat to anyone.

The samurai lay on his cot. He was no longer tied. The captain checked him over. The prisoner was gaunt and broken. His hauteur, his fearless determination, had been extinguished. He was nothing. He was hollow-eyed with exhaustion, no longer a formidable warrior but an old man.

‘Sit.’

The samurai slowly swung his legs from the cot and hauled himself to a sitting position.

‘Get up,’ commanded the captain.

The samurai leant forward and tried to summon the strength to stand. The sight was pitiful. The captain reacted with anger and embarrassment.

‘Come on. Get up.’

The samurai struggled to his feet, barely able to hold himself upright.

‘I bring instructions from the Emperor. Your life is forfeit. You are his instrument, to use any way he sees fit. You were, no doubt, hoping for a swift execution. However the Emperor orders you to live. You are to take an oath. You will make no further attempt on his life. You will swear not to harm him in any way. He has a task he wishes you to perform. You will complete this task. Only then are you permitted the luxury of death.’

The samurai was shaken by a wracking cough and steadied himself against the wall.

‘Do you understand?’ demanded the captain. ‘Answer me.’

‘Kill me. Just kill me.’

‘No. You will live. And you will fight for us. That is your punishment.’

‘I’ll never be your plaything. Rather die a thousand times.’

‘Look out of the window,’ said the captain.

The samurai shuffled to the window and looked through the bars. The girl was manacled to the scaffold at the centre of the courtyard, her arms hoisted above her head by chains. An executioner stood ready with a knife.

‘Observe the shadow of the camphor tree,’ said the captain. ‘When the shadow touches the wall, the executioner will begin to cut. He will take her apart, piece at a time.’

The shadow of the furthermost branch was a hand’s span from the wall. The girl was terrified but tried to suppress any outward sign of fear.

The samurai gripped the window bars for support. He watched the narrow strip of sunlight between the branch shadow and the wall slowly shrink to nothing.

‘Yes,’ said the captain, as if replying to the samurai’s unspoken thoughts. ‘You shouldn’t have involved the girl. It has left you vulnerable. But it’s too late now. So swear. For her sake and yours.’

The executioner paced the square. He checked the tree shadow and adjusted his grip on the knife. The girl closed her eyes and turned her face to the sky like she was determined to relish the breeze one last time.

‘All right,’ whispered the samurai. ‘I’ll take your oath.’

Commander Raku, accompanied by two trusted swordsmen, breasted a hill and looked down on the rooftops of Kyoto. The swordsmen were brothers: Tadasue and Tadatoo. They wore civilian clothes.

Wood smoke drifted over houses, temples, and the vast grounds of the Imperial Palace. Raku looked down on the palace and, to the east, the Shōgun’s mansion. Kyoto would be his home, he suspected, in years to come. Once General Motohide had consolidated his rule in Etchū he would need to establish a permanent ambassadorial outpost in the capital. He would need an astute representative, someone cunning yet unshakably loyal. Raku had little doubt he would be chosen to act as Motohide’s proxy. He had risen through the ranks and this would be his final reward: a mansion on the Suzaku Ōji; a chance to establish his own family name.

Raku brought himself back to the present.

‘Keep it simple,’ he advised the brothers. ‘If anyone asks, tell them we’re here on a pilgrimage. We’re here to visit Ginkaku-ji. Don’t elaborate.’

They passed the remains of the Rajōmon Gate and joined Suzaku Ōji riding the boulevard alongside foot traffic and merchant carts. The commander led the horsemen. He followed memorised directions to the house of Iezane.

Iezane was a prosperous man. He owned two saké breweries. He lived in a large house at the centre of Kyoto and had boosted his social standing by making ostentatious donations for the rebuilding of the Fushimi Inari shrine. He was also a tea merchant and brought bancha as well as the finest grades of Uji to the city. It was a trade that gave him access to the households of the city elite including the Imperial Palace itself, which was why he was a paid informant of General Motohide and why he had been instructed to provide a safe house for the commander and his men.

The riders rode into the courtyard and dismounted. Servants took the reins and led the horses to nearby stables.

‘Summon your master.’

Iezane didn’t look pleased to see them. While happy to take Motohide’s stipend, the reality of harbouring spies brought home the desperate risk he took by getting involved in intrigues against the Imperial House or Shōgunate. If his treason were discovered he could expect to be executed and his family stripped of all possessions. If the Emperor or Shōgun felt the need to make a public example of him a gang of labourers might be dispatched to raze his house. The rubble and beams would be carried away in carts and there would be nothing left of his breweries, his tea warehouse or his palatial home but acres of raked earth.

‘Inside, quickly,’ he said, ushering them into the house, glancing anxiously through the courtyard gate to make sure they hadn’t being observed from the street.

Iezane showed the men to their rooms. Later they joined him for a meal of noodles and fish.

‘So,’ said the commander, when the maid was out of earshot. ‘You heard of General Motohide’s conquest of northern Etchū?’

‘News has reached Kyoto.’

‘What has been the reaction?’

‘Nobody cares about Etchū. It’s a small province far from here. If the Shōgun wished to go to war over the matter he would mobilise troops, requisition material. He hasn’t. It’s a local squabble. It means nothing.’

‘What are you hearing from your Imperial contacts?’

‘Nothing. As I say, no one cares.’

‘You supply the palace, neh? The households of their courtiers?’

‘I’m a tradesman. If I developed a sudden interest in politics they would drag me to a cell and start pulling fingernails.’

The commander finished his meal and pushed the bowl aside.

‘Let’s try a different approach. You hear gossip, neh? You visit these noble households. Military. Imperial. You make deliveries, you accept payment. I assume the servants offer a little rudimentary hospitality. You sit in the kitchens, sip tea and talk with domestic staff.’

‘Yes.’

‘You must hear personal information, hints of scandal.’

‘Now and again.’

‘Good. You and I are going to draw up a list. Middle-ranking officers within the Imperial court. Anyone with a vice. Drink. Women. Something that might compromise their position. Something that might give us leverage.’

Iezane thought it over, clearly relieved that he wouldn’t be engaging in espionage himself. He swirled tea in his bowl.

‘There are a couple of names that spring to mind,’ he said.

Nightfall. Commander Raku prowled backstreets near the Rajōmon Gate. Light and laughter spilled from brothels and drinking dens.

‘The place used to belong to a fishmonger,’ Iezane had told him. ‘You can still see a fish painted on the door.’

Raku found a tavern with the blistered, peeling image of a fish on the door and headed inside.

He sat and sipped saké near the fire pit, acting casually like he’d stopped by for a contemplative drink, a chance to be alone with his thoughts. People came and went. Groups of boisterous, laughing men. No one paid him attention. He looked out the doorway and watched people in the street. A steady stream of exhausted traders wheeled their carts home.

He glanced left; a half-open screen allowed him a glimpse of the next room. He watched five men playing an intense game of Chō-Han. The shaker was stripped to the waist, his chest etched with a carp tattoo. Raku wondered if the tavern was the headquarters of an underworld gang, each initiate branded with a fish. The shaker shook a bamboo cup, slammed it down and exposed dice.

‘Odd,’ he barked. A couple of the men scooped coins and quickly threw down a fresh stake. Another brisk shake and roll.

‘Even.’

The game began again. The men stared down at the dice mat, mesmerised by tumbling dice. They had untouched bowls of saké by their sides and a couple of them stroked amulets hung round their necks for luck.

‘Even.’

A thug sat near the dealer eating dumplings, ready to step in and resolve any kind of dispute over the outcome of the game. It wasn’t unknown for a man to be overcome by despair following a losing streak. He might kick over tables and tear his clothes, sob about the money he lost, scream what a worthless husband and father he had been. He might even pull out a knife and threaten to slit his own throat. Such a man would be subdued with a gut punch and put outside in the alley. The recent prohibition of gambling made Chō-Han establishments wary of trouble. A patron was welcome to kill himself but not on the premises.

Lieutenant Kisoi sat on the far left of the group. He had a stack of copper coins in front of him. Sometimes he won but mostly he lost and the stack of coins slowly dwindled. Raku observed the lieutenant with fascination. He studied the mix of fear and exhilaration on Kisoi’s face as he watched the dice, caught by a compulsion strong as lust.

Kisoi started to sweat. A run of bad luck wiped out most of his money. He was down to his final coin. A shake of the dice. The cup was upturned and the dice skittered across the mat. Odds. The coin was swept away.

Kisoi checked his purse to see if he had any more money but it was empty. He got to his feet and bowed stiffly to his fellow gamblers. They ignored him, preoccupied by the next roll of the dice. He turned and left by a back door. Raku rose and followed him.

Raku stepped into the alley and hid in shadows next to a stack of barrels and watched the lieutenant stride stiffly towards the street.

‘You.’

Two burly men emerged from the side entrance of the tavern and walk towards Kisoi.

‘Hey. You.’

The lieutenant slowly turned as if he had been expecting to be accosted, as if the scene about to play out was inevitable.

‘Not enough,’ said one of the men. ‘Nowhere near enough.’

The lieutenant seemed resigned like he knew what was coming next. A thug delivered a gut punch then a knee to the face. The lieutenant fell to the ground and curled foetal to protect his head from multiple kicks. He was a soldier. He was carrying a knife. He could have killed the men in a heart-beat, stabbed and slashed like he had been drilled many times on sacks filled with straw. But instead he lay on the ground and let them kick. Raku assumed that on some deep level the man needed to abase himself, needed to be punished.

‘Two days,’ shouted one of the men. ‘All of it. Two days.’

The men spat on the prone officer and returned to the tavern, closing the door behind them. The lieutenant rolled on his side and tried to stand up. Raku stood over him and offered a hand.

‘Let me help you.’

They walked to ancient tavern a few streets away and joined a genteel crowd in a better part of town. The ceiling was ribbed by crooked beams and bowed as if furniture in the rooms above were about to crash down on their heads. A quiet murmur of conversation. Groups of men minding their own business.

Raku and Kisoi sat in a corner. Kisoi sat with his back to the room so no one saw his face as he dabbed his bloody nose on his sleeve. Raku signalled for wine. An old woman brought a couple of bowls. The commander sipped hot saké while Kisoi looked with suspicion at the bowl in his hands. He suspected that, by accepting Raku’s hospitality, he would be incurring an unwelcome debt.

‘Who are you?’ asked the lieutenant.

‘Me? No one. No one at all.’ Raku took a sip of saké. ‘Those men in the alley. How much do you owe?’

The lieutenant flinched at the question. He felt the trap and stared at Raku. The lieutenant put down his bowl and stood up like he intended to leave. Raku unhitched a leather purse from his belt and took out a single coin and tossed it on the boards in front of him. It skittered, chimed and rolled to a stop. The lieutenant stood looking down at the coin, torn between the instinct to put distance between himself and the mysterious stranger and his desperate need for money.

Raku sipped wine and waited for the man to reach his decision. Kisoi reluctantly sat down. He picked up the coin and examined each face.

‘What’s this?’

‘Chinese burial coin.’

‘Gold?’

‘Keep it.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to help. That coin? More if you need it. No wagers, mind you. No dice. Your gambling days are over. This is for your debts.’

‘In exchange for what?’

Raku gestured to the coin in the lieutenant’s hand. ‘Put that away before someone sees it,’ he advised.

Kisoi closed the coin in his fist.

‘Your time,’ said Raku. ‘That’s all I want. The occasional conversation. We’ll sit and talk, just as we’re doing right now.’

‘You’re one of Shōgun’s men.’

‘Doesn’t matter who I am or where I’m from. This is about you. You’re in trouble and I can help. You have a wife? Children?’ Raku asked, taking another sip of wine.

‘I suspect you already know,’ said the lieutenant.

‘Two sons. One daughter.’

‘Leave them out of this.’

‘You have a responsibility to the Imperial House and you feel the weight of that obligation. That’s good. Admirable. But you also have a responsibility to your family. To keep them fed. You’re doing what every man must do. Facing danger, facing hardship, for the sake of those dependent on him. You’re in a bad predicament, neh? So what’s your plan? Wallow in self-pity? What will that achieve? Here is an opportunity to transform your situation.’

Commander Raku had turned enough informants during his time in the general’s service to know to know that sometimes money wasn’t enough to close the deal. A street-level outcaste would snatch a proffered coin without hesitation and wouldn’t feel bad about it – wouldn’t feel anything at all. But a high-born man raised with a code of honour would need more subtle persuasion. He would need to be offered a narrative that justified treason, a perspective that will allow him the pretence of integrity even as he sold out his master.

Raku put a second coin on the floor in front of the lieutenant.

‘You can walk out of here right now, honour intact. But what happens when those men from the tavern come calling? What will you do? Beg? Plead? I’m offering a way out. There is an element of risk. But we’re soldiers, neh? Ask yourself: am I the kind of man that takes decisive action and holds my nerve in a tough situation?’

The lieutenant drained his bowl and signalled for a refill. He understood the dance, the seduction. And he knew he would succumb. No matter how low he sank there was always another level of degradation waiting for him.

‘So what will it be?’ prompted the commander. ‘Will you let me help you?’

Kisoi picked up the coin. It felt cold.

The samurai was led from his cell, his remaining arm lashed to his waist. He was flanked by four guards as he climbed steps to the courtyard and had a rope round his neck in case he tried to run. The jailer unlocked the main door and pushed it wide. The samurai stepped into blinding daylight. He was led across the courtyard to a building on the opposite side of the square.

The samurai stood in the centre of a wide room. He was dirty and unkempt. He felt dazzled. Maybe he was dead, and this pristine white space was heaven’s anteroom.

‘This is your new accommodation,’ said the captain of the guard as he loosened and removed the noose from the samurai’s neck. He pulled a knife from his belt and cut the rope binding his arm.

‘I don’t need to post a guard at the door, do I? You’ve sworn an oath. You won’t try to escape. You’re a man of your word.’

He summoned two maids. ‘These ladies will take care of you for now. We will speak later.’

The captain left and the maids stripped the samurai naked and dumped his soiled clothes in a basket. They pulled back a screen revealing a bath prepared in the next room. An iron tank piped hot water into a wooden tub.

The maids helped the samurai step on a stool and climb into the tub. He slowly lowered himself into the water. He sat staring straight ahead, unfocused. The maids tied back their sleeves. They soaped him down and scrubbed grime from his skin. They washed his hair and trimmed his beard.

The samurai returned to the adjacent room. He lay on a cotton-padded mattress, stared at rafters a while then fell asleep. He was woken by the rasp of the screen being pulled back.

The captain and Saracen entered the room. The physician knelt and examined the samurai’s right shoulder. He used a small knife to slit silk stitches.

‘It might help if you look away,’ he said. ’The injury is healing well. There will be no problems, as long as you keep the affected area clean.’

The physician bowed and left.

‘Dress,’ ordered the captain.

The samurai got to his feet and examined clothes laid over a low stool. A crisp, clean hakima and kimono. Leather travel shoes and a quilted hanten. He dressed. A seamstress had removed the right sleeve of the kimono and sewed the shoulder closed. He couldn’t tie the obi round his waist. The Captain summoned a maid who knelt in front of the samurai and knotted the sash.

‘I want my sword.’

‘You’ve lost your arm.’

‘I’ll fight left-handed.’

‘Later,’ said the captain. The idea of the maimed man struggling to wield a sword with his remaining arm was pathetic verging on shameful and the captain didn’t want to dwell on the image. ‘It’s time you learned the details of your mission.’

He ushered the maid from the room and drew the screens closed before kneeling at a table.

‘Join me.’

The captain unravelled the scroll etched with an ornate cluster of pictograms. Castles, lakes, and mountains spread across the provinces of Honshu.

‘Games within games,’ said the captain, stroking the chart. ‘It would take days to explain the subtly shifting balances of power, the web of allegiances that bind these states. Only a master tactician could hold them all in mind. But that need not concern you. You have a simple task to perform.’

‘If the task is easy, why haven’t you sent your own men?’

‘I said it was simple. I didn’t say it was easy.’

The captain leant forward and tapped Kyoto.

‘You are to travel from here to upper Etchū.’ His finger traced the route. ‘The northern half of Etchū is the seat of General Motohide. He affects to be a loyal subject of the Emperor but has cemented an alliance with the Shōgun in an attempt to further his own dynastic ambitions.’

‘The Emperor wants him dead.’

‘Yes.’

‘Send an army. Decide the matter on the battlefield like men.’

The captain shook his head. ‘No. We don’t have the resources to mount a full-scale campaign. We must rely on subterfuge. And nothing must tie the Emperor to this act which is why you have been chosen to execute the mission. No one will believe you are working on the Emperor’s behalf – the man who recently tried to take his life.’

‘The Shōgun will suspect.’

‘But he won’t be able to prove anything. The act will never be acknowledged. It won’t become part of the written chronicle. It will be part of the shadow history.’

The captain pointed to the mountains of Etchū.

‘There is another reason we cannot consider a conventional assault even if we had an army at our disposal. The general is well aware there may be an attempt on his life. His official residence is the palace in Sekino which is where he keeps most of his wives. However the general spends most of his time here, at Nakatomi Castle otherwise known as The Dragon’s Lair. My men tell me it is unassailable.’

The captain unrolled a second sheet of paper showing a crude illustration of the castle with high ramparts built into a mountainside.

‘We sent a scout to reconnoitre the castle. That’s as close as he got.’

The samurai lifted the page and inspected the image. The captain studied the samurai’s expression, fascinated to see dull-eyed defeat replaced by the focused concentration of a man with a problem to solve.

‘The picture doesn’t tell me a great deal.’

‘The castle is old. Very old. The foundations and outer ramparts are granite. It’s high on a mountainside, so no one can approach without being seen. The route to the fortress itself is a steep and narrow road leading to a barbican gate. The castle has its own water supply – a mountain spring. And we have intelligence the general has been hoarding grain against the possibility of a siege. As long as he remains within the castle walls he is invulnerable.’

‘Have any of your men been inside the castle? Does anyone know the internal layout?’

‘No. We’re relying on you to get inside, locate the general and kill him.’

‘A suicide mission.’

‘As was your attempt on the Emperor’s life.’

‘Not much I can do with one arm.’

‘You’ll be leading a team. Outcastes. Criminals, like yourself.’

‘Criminals? This is a job for dedicated, disciplined men.’

‘Then you must ensure their dedication and discipline. Five of you will make the journey. Five of you will travel to Etchū and gain entrance to the castle. You must do it before the snows. Your companions will put you in the same room as the general, then you are to strike the killing blow.’

‘I’ll need to speak to an armourer. I have requirements. Special weapons.’

‘You have a plan?’

‘A few ideas.’

‘Saracen will construct whatever you might require.’

‘And my daughter must accompany me on the journey.’

‘The girl? No. She can’t be part of this.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She has been put to work. She has an excellent position given the circumstances. Remember, you will be travelling through hostile territory to assail a fortress. The odds of that any of your team will return alive are vanishingly small. If you care for the girl, let her remain uninvolved.’

‘If anything happens to her, the slightest harm, I will kill you. Forget the oath. Forget the mission. I will hunt you down. Nothing will stop me. I’ll kill you, the Emperor and his mother. I failed once. I won’t fail again.’

‘I will ensure she is well treated. Now rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.’

The samurai knelt and contemplated the brilliant whiteness of his room. Days of dark dungeon grime had been replaced by translucent paper walls.

A screen abruptly pulled back and soldier entered the room. He gave no bow or greeting. He placed a sword on the mat in front of the samurai then left. It was the samurai’s old blade. He stood and tucked the weapon into his obi at his right hip.

He stepped to the edge of the room to give himself space to swing. He unsheathed the weapon and tried to strike but fumbled the draw. He studied the blade as he held it in front of him. The tip trembled.

His left arm was weak. He would need to rebuild his strength and agility before he was fit to face a trained opponent. He sheathed the sword and set it aside. He prayed a while then began a series of slow push-ups. He fixed an unblinking gaze on the mat in front of him and pumped his remaining arm, willing it to grow strong.

The cell door swung wide.

‘Get up,’ said the captain.

The girl swung her legs from the bunk and got to her feet, trying to read the captain’s face, trying to gauge if she were about to become the plaything of his men.

‘Come with me.’

The captain strode through corridors and halls in an old section of the Imperial Palace that had stood neglected for many years. There were no lamps, furniture or mats. Nothing but a lone trail of cat-prints in the dust. Evidently they were the first people to walk the shuttered passageways for a long while.

‘Where are you taking me?’ the girl asked, trying to keep up.

‘Somewhere safe.’

They reached a heavy door constructed of pine slabs bound by iron straps. There was a barred grille at face-height. The captain drew back bolts.

‘So I’m still a prisoner,’ said the girl.

‘Yes. But no longer under sentence of death,’ he said, pulling the door wide. ‘This is your new home.’

The girl peered into the blackness. ‘I assume I’m not the only resident.’

‘He’s called Saracen. You are to be his companion.’

The captain stood aside, inviting her to walk through the doorway. As she cautiously stepped into darkness, the door shut behind her and bolts slid home.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She found herself in a vast circular library, the wall-shelves filled with jumbled scrolls. There were no windows. The room was lit by lamps.

She approached a table cluttered with charts and cartographic instruments of a strange and foreign design. A deep voice said:

‘Hello.’

The voice echoed in the high-ceiling chamber. A man stood in the recesses of the room. He had the blackest skin she’d ever seen. She backed away, putting a table between herself and the apparition.

‘Please don’t let my appearance frighten you. I’m a man, like any other.’

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘They call me Saracen.’

‘What’s your real name?’

‘I’m happy to be called Saracen. I had a different name, years ago in another place. But that man is long gone. What’s your name?’

‘The girl,’ she said. ‘Why am I here?’

‘I’m a valued prisoner. They used to keep me in a subterranean cell with a piss bucket and a bed of straw. Once I proved my worth they transferred me to these spacious quarters and allowed me a few luxuries.’

‘Am I one of your luxuries?’

‘They have decreed I should have a maid – someone to clean and cook. There have been two previous girls before you.’

‘What happened to them?’

‘They fell ill.’

‘Ill? How?’

‘Bad teeth, I think. Nothing sinister. Nothing unusual. They were taken away for treatment and didn’t come back. Perhaps their illnesses proved fatal. It can happen. A rotten tooth can easily turn to a fever. Anyway, it seems you are their replacement.’

‘Can I leave?’

‘No. You are a prisoner here with me. This room will be your entire world.’

‘Am I to be your wife? Is that the arrangement?’

‘They assume you will provide certain comforts, but don’t worry. I didn’t force myself on the other girls. I won’t force myself on you.’

‘Where am I to sleep?’

‘There are some screens. You can create your own chamber. I will respect your privacy.’

The girl cautiously paced the room examining the shelves. They were loaded with slabs of leather. She reached for one of the objects, glancing at Saracen to check she had his permission to pick it up. She hefted the leather-bound wad of paper, turning the pages to browse indecipherable glyphs.

‘That’s how barbarians bind documents,’ said Saracen.

‘This is your language?’

‘It’s an ancient script.’

‘Are these spells? Magic?’

‘Books of natural philosophy. That book in your hand is a treatise on the uses of mercurial ointments by Muhammad ibn Zakariyā Rāzī. He was a healer.’

‘Is that why they kept you alive? Gave you this library? For your knowledge?’

‘I was shipwrecked. Our vessel was thrown ashore during a storm, in a bay near Matsue. I was the sole survivor. Local fishermen reacted in terror when I staggered into their village seeking aid. They were inclined to burn me as a daemon. The Daimyō thought better of it and sent me to the Emperor as tribute.’

‘You can speak all these languages?’ asked the girl, gesturing to row upon row of books.

‘My life-saving skill. Through me the Emperor or, more accurately, his mother, has access to the wisdom of the barbarian world. Traders bring books from distant shores. I read them. Prepare summaries.’

She examined an elaborate mechanism on a table. A metal frame held a cluster of interlocking wheels cut from brass. A book lay open on the table. The book was filled with sketches of gears and drive shafts.

‘It’s a measuring device,’ explained Saracen, ‘if I can ever get it to work.’

‘What does it measure?’

‘Time. The longer I stay in this room, the more I become preoccupied by the mystery of time. The passage of one moment to another. Cat and dogs live in the present having no real apprehension of the past and future. Only humans experience the now as part of continuum. The way things were. The way things will be. Perhaps time is an illusion. Perhaps it doesn’t exist beyond ourselves.’

‘Have you ever tried to escape this place?’

‘If I ran they would catch me and cut off my feet. Besides, where would I go?’

The girl ran her hand across the pages. ‘If I am to be confined in these rooms with you, perhaps you could teach me to read these languages.’

Saracen smiled. ‘You’ve been here two minutes and already you are plotting to replace me. And why not? I am old. You are young. A destitute girl in the Imperial court. Worthless. Replaceable as a broom. But knowledge is a powerful thing. Knowledge of medicine. Knowledge of poisons. The Imperial court values such skills. Yes. If you study, you can learn.’

‘The other girls?’

‘They showed no interest in books. Would I be right in saying you are of noble birth?’

The girl didn’t reply. She explored the cluttered tables at the centre of the room. ‘What’s this?’ she asked. Strange figurines faced each other over a chequered board. She picked up a knight on a horse, carved in bone.

‘Shatranj. I have no opponent so I play against myself. At least I get to win.’

The Saracen took a lamp from a wall niche and walked over to the Shatranj table. ‘You see, each piece has a different range of movement. Some hop one square to another. Some jump many squares at a time,’ he explained.

Saracen allowed the girl to get a close look at him. She inspected tight curly hair, soot-black skin and a beard turning grey. He let her stare. She looked him straight in the eye to show she was fearless.

‘So what were you? Before the shipwreck? What did you do?’

‘I was a sailor. A navigator.’

‘It must be hard. To be shut away years on end.’

‘I have books.’

‘Thought, but no action. All the learning in the world, but no opportunity to apply it. It must be frustrating.’

‘Not at all. Look at this.’

He led her to a table cluttered with cardboard tubes and saucers of powder. She saw sketches of some kind of strange arrowhead.

‘I have been ordered to design a special weapon. To my knowledge no one has built such a device before. If I succeed in perfecting this projectile it might win a battle. And that battle might win a war. You see? My work could have consequences which echo down the centuries. My ideas, my learning, will travel beyond these prison walls and affect the world far more profoundly than if I rode into battle myself waving a sword.’

‘Who is it for? This weapon?’

‘I have dedicated my life to the acquisition of knowledge,’ said Saracen with a smile. ‘But not all knowledge is beneficial. This is the Imperial palace. Some questions are better left unasked.’

The samurai was brought to the palace yard at dawn. They brought him a horse chosen to suit a one-armed rider. It was a placid animal that wouldn’t shy or bolt. He hauled himself onto the back of the horse one-handed. The missing arm put his body off-balance. He had to lean right to stop himself sliding out of the wooden saddle before he had a chance to settle his feet in the stirrup leathers. He pulled a fur over his shoulders and fumbled the neck clasp.

‘Ready?’ asked the captain. The samurai nodded.

The captain flicked the reins and the company pulled out. The captain, the samurai and four outriders set off from the Palace passing through a series of courtyards before leaving the Imperial grounds. They joined the Suzaku Ōji and headed out of town.

They left the city and followed a dirt track, the gentle gradient turning to a steep climb. The road wound up the side of a hill. Autumn wind washed over tall grass.

They headed down the other side of the hill and approached a stockade. The compound was surrounded by trench-works and soil banked against a palisade wall. A couple of crooked watchtowers flanked the gate and bored soldiers manned the entrance. The guards snapped to attention when they saw the captain and his company approach. They puffed their chests, straightened their helmets and held their naginatas upright.

The company rode through the gateway and dismounted. A cluster of crude huts surrounded a mud quadrangle defined by logs. The presence of the captain sent the camp overseer into a panic. He rushed to the barracks and mustered troops lazing on cots. The garrison soldiers, in turn, ran hut to hut and roused prisoners.

The prisoners were lined up in the quadrangle, kicked, punched and struck on the legs with a bamboo switch until they formed five rows of ten.

‘More prisoners than guards,’ observed the samurai. ‘Surprised they haven’t broken out.’

‘They’re far too disorganised to present a threat. They are a rabble, not an army.’

The captain and the samurai paced the rows and surveyed the filthy, resentful men. The ranked convicts were hollow-eyed and malnourished from a diet of millet gruel. Some of the men were sick and tried to suppress spluttering, bronchial coughs.

‘I hand-picked these prisoners,’ explained the captain. ‘Thieves, murders, rapists. All of them are ex-soldiers. Capable men. None of them have been branded. None of them have been tattooed. Choose four of them to accompany you on your journey. You may use any method of selection you see fit.’

‘They’re worthless,’ said the samurai. ‘They’ll flee the moment they are released.’

‘These men have dependents. We hold their wives and children hostage. If they desert, we will execute their families.’

‘Four.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And the others?’

The captain glanced at the samurai. The man looked at the rows of prisoners with a mix of exhaustion and pity like he had fought one battle too many and was sick of killing.

‘These men have been sentenced to death. They’d be dead already if they hadn’t been brought here for selection. You will pick four of them to accompany you on your mission, and the rejects will be executed. But they would have been killed anyway so don’t let it weigh on your mind. When you make your choice don’t think of it as sending forty-six men to their deaths. Think of it as an opportunity to save four men from the executioner’s blade.’

The captain clapped his hands. His men unstrapped packs from their saddles and erected a canopy to keep off the rain. The captain knelt on a cushion and unrolled a paper, laying his sword across the top to hold it open. A list of names, a list of crimes.

‘Rapists?’ said the samurai, pointing at a handful of the names.

‘Good soldiers, for the most part,’ said the captain. ‘Victims of drink. This man, I trained alongside him. He shouldn’t be here. He’s worth more than this.’

The samurai shook his head. ‘I have no use for men who cannot control themselves.’

The captain nodded, sighed and called the names of nine men. They stepped forward and approached the table.

‘Kneel.’

The men complied, some of them sobbing with fear while others stared at the ground aware the rain-spattered mud at their feet would be the last thing they would see before they died. One of the prisoners stared at the captain like he knew him and hoped to be shown mercy.

The captain gave the nod to one of his troops, a burly man with a mean face – evidently the designated executioner. He unsheathed his sword and worked his way along the line of kneeling men, severing each head with an efficient stroke. He took his time adjusting his grip before each strike as if he wanted to prolong the moment and savour each man’s mortal terror.

For some of the convicts decapitation was not instant death. Their heads rolled in the mud then lay blinking for a few moments before life left their eyes.

The samurai had seen awful sights on the battlefield. He had watched dying warriors sob for their mother and watched shamed soldiers impale themselves on their swords. He had watched soldiers crawl across the bodies of comrades in search of their own legs. He closed his eyes. He could hear ghost-screams.

The dead convicts were hauled aside, their heads lifted by the hair and thrown onto the body pile. The forty-one remaining convicts shifted foot-to-foot, white with shock. They looked at the gaps in their ranks, the heaped bodies.

The samurai stood and addressed the prisoners.

‘Today, each of you will face a series of tests. Trials of strength, agility and guile. Four of you will be chosen, the rest will die. So decide, all of you. Decide how badly you want to live.’

The convicts shuffled in agitation, sizing up the men next to them, trying to gauge strengths and weaknesses. The convicts had been corralled in the camp for weeks. They had swapped life-stories and forged friendships but now each man was a deadly rival. Some of the men knelt and prayed. Some sobbed, rocked back and forth, said goodbye to daylight and prepared for the world after death, certain they couldn’t prevail in whatever contest was to follow. They were defeated before they began.

Tameyo stood in the second row of prisoners. He was a thief. A burly man dressed in prison rags belted with rope. He was giddy with fear. Rainwater dripped from unkempt hair and his clothes hung wet and heavy. He listened hard trying to hear what the captain and the samurai were saying as they sat together at the table.

The captain dipped his brush and struck through the names of the executed rapists.

‘We have some thieves and pickpockets, is that right?’ asked the samurai.

‘Eight men,’ confirmed the captain.

‘Have them step forward.’

The captain consulted the list and barked names. Tameyo was the third name called. He shouldered his way through the ranks and stood in front of the table along with seven other convicts. He could hear the men beside him pant with fear.

The samurai addressed the camp overseer. ‘There’s an old box in the barracks, neh? I saw it through the doorway.’

‘Nothing of value. Apples.’

‘It’s locked?’

The overseer nodded. ‘People kept stealing apples.’

‘Have it brought here.’

Two soldiers brought a large wooden box from the barracks and set it on the ground in front of the convicts.

‘Step forward,’ said the samurai, gesturing to the first in line. The prisoner approached the table. The samurai held up a rusted iron nail.

‘There are apples in this box. I want you to pick the lock and give me an apple.’

The thief took the nail and turned it between his fingers.

The samurai took a sandglass from his pack. ‘You have until the sand runs dry. Use the time well.’

‘I’m a cut-purse,’ protested the man. ‘That is my skill. I can steal anything from your person. Brush past you in the street, lift from your belt, your sleeve, lighter than the wind.’

‘But can you open this box?’

‘I don’t know locks.’

‘Then fate hasn’t smiled on you today.’

The samurai turned the glass. Sand began to stream through the timer. ‘Begin.’

The thief froze in shock, then leapt forward and knelt in front of the box. He jammed the nail into the simple warded lock and artlessly tried to trip the internal latch. His hands shook. He blinked rainwater from his eyes and glanced from the lock to the sand pouring through the glass. His time was already one-third gone. His movements became frantic. He punched the box in frustration. He put the nail aside as his final moments trickled away and tried to prise the lid open with his hands. He emitted a low moan which slow rose to a scream as the last few grains of sand fell through the narrow neck of the timer. He was dragged away by the executioner, his sobs abruptly terminated by the sweep of a sword.

The next convict decided to go down fighting. He made a desultory attempt to open the box then jumped the table and lunged for the captain, the nail protruding from his bunched fist. The captain threw himself backward and snatched the tantō from his belt sheath as he fell. It was over in an instant: the thief impaled on the blade, tip protruding from his back. He lay eye to eye with the captain, spitting fury. Then rage drained from his face and he died. The captain rolled the dead man aside and got to his feet. He pulled the knife from the convict’s belly, wiped it clean on the dead man’s arm then re-sheathed. He resumed his position at the table and composed himself. He addressed the next prisoner in line.

‘Step forward.’

The convict feverishly worked the lock as sand streamed through the glass. He was still twisting the nail and trying trip the latch as time ran out. The executioner lopped off the man’s head. The decapitated body was left kneeling in front of the box, hands on the lock. Soldiers dragged the corpse away.

A convict bolted from the line before his name was called and made a run from the gate. He was killed by an arrow to the back.

The next man sat in front of the box with a nail held in limp hands and wept as time trickled away. He soiled himself and gave a last despairing howl as he sensed movement behind him. In the periphery of his vision he saw the executioner raise his sword. He screwed his eyes tight shut and tensed for the blow.

It was Tameyo’s turn. He stepped forward and knelt in front of the box, convinced weathered wood and corroded iron would be the very last thing he saw. He cracked his knuckles. The captain put the nail in his hand as the samurai turned the sandglass and set it down.

‘Begin.’

Tameyo took a deep breath and tried to steady his trembling hands. He slotted the nail into the keyhole and twisted it around, probing the interior to see if he could get some feel for the mechanism. He heard an abrupt click. He froze in surprise. He slowly opened the lid and found himself looking at jumbled apples. He was overcome by a wave of relief so strong he could barely hold himself upright. He picked up an apple with a shaking hand and offered it to the samurai.

‘Keep it,’ said the samurai. He turned to the captain. ‘It seems we have found our man.’

‘An accident,’ said the captain. ‘Look at his face. He was shocked when the lock tripped. One of the previous men must have loosened the mechanism.’

‘A thief blessed with good luck. So much the better.’

The captain turned to the executioner and gave a nod. The remaining thieves were forced to their knees and decapitated.

Tameyo sat beside the table caressing the apple before taking a bite. It was the sweetest, juiciest apple he had ever eaten.

Jinkorou was a butcher. He strangled his wife following an argument. He stood shivering among the remaining thirty-three convicts. He was reluctant to volunteer for any kind of challenge. If he remained still and avoided the samurai’s eye he might live a little longer than his companions, maybe eek a few precious minutes. But he was getting cold. His limbs were stiff and his hands were growing numb. If he were to stand any chance of winning a physical challenge he ought to step forward soon and volunteer.

He listened as the one-armed samurai and captain talked among themselves.

‘Agility,’ said the samurai. ‘I need someone nimble.’

‘What test do you propose?’ asked the captain.

The samurai looked around. He could see construction materials stacked next to a partially built hut. He got to his feet and inspected the pile of lumber. He found long wooden poles and some coils of rope.

‘We should use these.’

Infantrymen erected four poles at the edge of the courtyard. They guyed them with ropes to hold them upright. The poles were three times the height of a man. They each had a scrap of red cloth nailed to the top.

‘Agility,’ declared the samurai, pacing back and forwards in front of the convicts. ‘Who among you wishes to take part in a contest of agility?’

No one moved.

‘All of you will be tested,’ reminded the samurai, looking at each man in turn. ‘No point trying to hide in the crowd. All of you will have to engage in some kind of contest with your fellow inmates. You can’t escape. If you don’t accept this challenge, you may face a trial less suited to your talents. So if you pride yourself on your strength, your poise, then step forward.’

Three men reluctantly volunteered. Jinkorou hesitated a moment, then joined the line.

‘No one else?’ asked the samurai. ‘Well, then. Four men, four poles. Good. As you can see each pole has a flag on top. The first man to place a flag in my hand will live. The trial will begin when I give the word, understand?’

The men lined up. They stretched and shook their arms and legs trying to restore blood to numb limbs.

‘Now. Begin.’

Jinkorou sprinted to the pole ahead of him. He shoved the convict running by his side and sent the man sprawling in the mud. The prisoner yelled in anguish and scrambled to his feet but his race was already lost.

Jinkorou started to climb. In the periphery of his vision he saw another man reach the top of a pole but slip before he could retrieve the red rag. The convict fell to the ground and broke his ankle. He spent his remaining time at the foot of the pole, hopping in desperation, transfixed by the little red flag fluttering above his head, the short distance between life and death.

Jinkorou climbed the pole and gripped the scrap of fabric. He slid down the pole, matched by the man on his left, an opponent called Masaie. He had been hired muscle in the employ of a copperware merchant and had been convicted of burning down a rival merchant’s house. He and Jinkorou had been friends in the camp but right now Jinkorou wouldn’t hesitate to crush the man’s throat in order to survive.

The two men slid down the poles and hit the ground at the same time. Jinkorou glanced left. He felt a surge of euphoria. Masaie had twisted an ankle and was struggling to remain upright.

Jinkorou ran towards the samurai. He’d made it. He’d beaten the executioner’s blade. Then something slammed into the back of his head and he pitched face down in the mud.

He tried to get up but his limbs wouldn’t comply. He was dizzy and his ears rang. He touched the back of his head. Blood on his fingers. A rock lay next to him in the mud.

He looked up. Masaie limped to the samurai’s table and slammed the red scrap of fabric onto the table before falling to his knees, exhausted but victorious.

‘You dog,’ shouted Jinkorou. ‘You filthy dog.’

He ignored the screams of his two fellow losers as they were dragged away and beheaded.

‘Dogs. All of you,’ he shouted as the executioner walked towards him with his sword drawn. ‘Nothing but dogs.’

The executioner stood over him. Jinkorou took a last look around at a vicious world that had brought him nothing but misery then spat at the executioner’s feet.

‘Dogs.’

He stared the executioner in the eye as the man raised his sword to strike.

Michio stood among the remaining convicts. He was huge, a full arm-span taller than most of the other men and was prone to rage. He spent an evening at a brothel and killed a whore in a moment of drunken fury. He would end his life, as he always knew he would, in a prison camp. Even if he won a trial and escaped the executioner’s blade it would only be a matter of time before his volcanic anger put him back under sentence of death.

Michio watched the samurai and the captain consult their list.

‘Twenty nine left,’ said the captain.

‘Murderers?’

‘Many of them. They are soldiers. Trained for aggression. Trained to kill.’

‘Well, let’s test that talent. Have the others prisoners clear the yard. Let’s see our killers in action.’

Men convicted of petty crimes of avarice: theft of rice, adulterating precious metals, defrauding the Imperial household, were ordered to vacate the yard. They sat on the logs which bordered the acre of mud leaving thirteen men convicted of unlawful violence standing in the centre.

‘Give them knives,’ said the samurai.

The captain hesitated. He assessed the threat posed by the thirteen ragged men.

‘Your men have swords and bows,’ the samurai assured him. ‘These convicts will give you no trouble.’

The captain nodded assent. His soldiers reluctantly drew tantōs from their belts and threw them in front of the convicts. The samurai stood and addressed the prisoners.

‘Pick up the knives,’ he said.

The men shifted uncomfortably, looking down at the blades lying in pooled rainwater. Maybe it was a trick. Maybe they would be struck down by archers if they reached for the blades.

‘Pick them up.’

They picked up the knives, testing the sharpness of the blades and the wooden grips. The samurai gestured to the archers that ringed the square.

‘If you rush the guards, you won’t get close enough to strike a blow. So put any daydreams of escape from your mind.’

The convicts looked at each other, sick with fear as they realised what was about to be asked of them.

‘You are savages,’ said the samurai. ‘Let’s see how savage you can be. You will fight. The fight will continue until only one of you remains. Ready? Begin.’

One of the prisoners acted fast. He stabbed the man on his right. Then he crouched, span and slit open the belly of the man on his left. The injured men fell to the ground, mortally wounded and out of the game. The remaining convicts backed away from one another and began to circle. A slow dance. Each man stared straight ahead so he could hold opponents in the periphery of his vision. Nothing happened for a long while. The convicts shuffled in a low crouch waiting for someone to make a move. One prisoner was afflicted by a sudden, spluttering cough. He doubled up, gasped and choked. His neighbours instantly hit him from both sides. Frenzied stabs. The terrified man didn’t defend himself. He covered his face like he wanted the horror to be over, like he sought refuge in death. He convulsed and pitched forward in the mud. His assailants were grabbed from behind and their throats cut. The mêlée began in earnest. The men converged. Hacking, slashing fury. Screams of terror and rage. The spectators lining the yard shouted instructions and encouragement. Both prisoners and guards were transfixed by the vicious gladiatorial combat.

Michio waded into the throng. He stabbed straight down and nailed his knife into the crown of a convict’s head. The man fell dead, knife still embedded in his skull.

Michio’s punches sent opponents reeling. They fell back into the arms of their fellow convicts who immediately gouged open their bellies.

Four men faced each other at the centre of the corpse-strewn killing ground. One of the convicts lunged at Michio. The man screamed and charged but immediately slipped in the mud. A knife slammed in his back and punctured a lung. He writhed in the water-logged dirt, blood and spittle foaming from his mouth.

Three men left. Michio slowly backed up as his opponents converged on him. A prisoner bellowed and charged. Michio scooped mud, threw it in his attacker’s face and dodged the blade. He brought his fists together, slammed the convict’s temples and crushed his skull.

Two men left. Michio faced an elderly convict with a gash in his leg. They were both so splattered in blood they looked like they’d been painted red. The crowd fell quiet as they waited for the final, brutal clash that would decide the outcome of the trial. Michio wiped rainwater from his eyes and marshalled his strength. His opponent lost bladder control.

Michio roared and ran at the man. The convict fled. They ran in circles. It was a long, laborious pursuit. Both men were exhausted. Michio stumbled over bodies, skidded in churned mud. His quarry was hobbled by an injured leg. Michio finally caught the man by the collar and flung him to the ground. He planted a foot on the man’s back, bent down and gripped the stricken convict’s hair, pulling back his head.

‘Please,’ begged the old man.

Michio clamped the man’s head between his hands, twisted and wrenched. Neck snap. He caught his breath then slowly got to his feet. His clothes swung heavy with blood and rainwater. He walked across the yard towards the samurai. He stepped over bodies left contorted by their final agonies. The yard looked like a battlefield. Screams and shouts had been replaced by deathly silence.

Michio stood in front of the samurai’s table, victorious. He struggled to regain his breath. Great plumes of steam with each laboured exhalation. Nearby soldiers tensed, hands on the tsukas of their swords, in case the giant, demented by bloodlust, attacked their commanding officer.

‘So,’ said the captain. ‘We have our winner.’

‘Yes,’ said the samurai. He wasn’t looking at Michio. He was looking at the men kneeling round the perimeter of the yard. One of the convicts slowly got to his feet, drew a knife from his sleeve and advanced on the giant. ‘Yes, I think we have our winner.’

Michio turned. He watched, uncomprehending, as the convict approached, then snapped out of his reverie. He ran to nearby bodies and prised a tantō from the grip of a dead man and found a second knife nearby.

The two men edged to the centre of the yard and circled each other. Michio wiped sweat and rainwater from his eyes. He sank to a crouch, knife in each hand. His skin steamed in the cold afternoon air and he stumbled like a drunk. He flexed tired arms and legs, tried to galvanise numb, unresponsive limbs. His opponent danced around him, focused and well rested. The convict skipped over sprawled bodies and looked for an opportunity to strike. The two men tensed, ready to spring at each other.

‘Enough,’ shouted the samurai. ‘Come here, both of you.’ They approached the table. ‘Throw down your knives.’

They complied. The samurai inspected the two convicts.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked the shorter of the men.

‘Ariyo.’

‘You were convicted of murder?’

‘Yes.’

The man held the samurai’s gaze refusing to be intimidated by the soldiers around him.

‘Who did you kill?’

‘Does it matter?’ asked Ariyo.

‘I suppose not.’

The samurai addressed the captain. ‘Admirable cunning. The moment the contest began, this man joined the onlookers watching the fight. He didn’t leave the perimeter of the yard. He didn’t violate the rules of the contest. He simply knelt near the edge while others fought it out and allowed himself be overlooked. Now that his sole remaining adversary is crippled by exhaustion he has entered the game with a clear advantage. Clever.’

The captain nodded.

‘The trial is over,’ said the samurai, addressing Ariyo. ‘Sit with the other two champions. Enjoy the apples.’

Soldiers began to clear the square picking up knives and rinsing blood from the blades. They dragged bodies by the ankles and added them to the corpse-pile.

Michio looked around with growing anger and incomprehension. He slowly backed away from the table.

‘Hé? But I won,’ he shouted. ‘I fought. I killed. He cheated. I won.’

He stood alone at the centre of the yard. Archers took aim.

‘Wait,’ he bellowed, terrified and enraged by the injustice of the situation. He pointed an accusatory finger at Ariyo. ‘Wait. He didn’t fight. He didn’t draw a single drop of blood.’

The captain gave the nod and three arrows pierced Michio’s chest. He stood swaying for a few seconds then sank to his knees. The executioner drew his sword and cautiously approached the dying man. Michio looked up at the blade raised for the killing blow.

‘But I won.’

The executioner was quietly proud that, despite the muscular thickness of Michio’s neck, he was able to hack through it with a single blow.

Chikaaki mustered with the remaining inmates at the centre of the square. He used to supervise a grain warehouse but he got caught altering the inventory so he could re-sell sacks of grain. He wasn’t used to hardship. Prison life hit hard.

He listened to the samurai talking to the captain.

‘I have enough men,’ said the samurai. ‘Three is sufficient. The smaller the team, the better.’

‘I have orders. A five man squad. You’ve lost your sword arm. Given time, you could learn to fight with your left. But there is no time. You and your men are set to depart straight away. You will be in command and they will fight on your behalf. So. Five men.’

‘Tell me about these convicts,’ said the samurai, gesturing to the remaining prisoners.

The captain consulted the charge sheet.

‘The dregs. Horse thieves. Kidnappers. Swindlers. A pathetic bunch. Crimes of weakness. Crimes of greed.’

The samurai stood at the edge of the yard and surveyed the remaining convicts. Emaciated, fearful men.

‘So what earthly use are you?’ he said, as if thinking aloud. ‘Men too stupid, to venal, to persevere in an honest trade. You have no skills, no aptitudes. Even among the criminal underworld you are regarded as gutter-rats. Little more than vermin.’

The men looked down at their feet.

‘Walk to the edge of the square.’

The men glanced at each other, reluctant to move, aware that their lives depended on the whim of the one-armed man. The slightest misunderstanding of his orders might end in death.

‘Come on. Move to the edge of the square.’

Chikaaki shuffled forward. The rest of the men followed his lead.

‘This is the final trial. We will test the simplest, most basic attribute of all. The will to survive. You will run around the perimeter of the square. If you stop, you die. If you walk, you die. The last man on his feet will live.’

Soldiers took position around the perimeter of the yard, swords drawn.

‘The cunning among you will run slowly. You will try to conserve your strength. You might even be tempted to trip your companions and put them out the game. In the end, none of these tricks will save you. You fate depends on the answer to a simple question: how badly do you want to live?’

The samurai clapped his hands to indicate the imminent commencement of the test.

‘Begin.’

Chikaaki and the remaining convicts broke into a shuffling run. They jogged round the perimeter of the yard. The man in front of Chikaaki stumbled almost immediately, his feet slipping on churned mud. He fell face down. Chikaaki jumped over him and kept running. He heard the prisoner shout: ‘No,’ then heard the meat-smack of a blade hitting flesh.

‘Think about what you want most in the world,’ shouted the samurai. ‘Another drink. Another fuck. Find something. Find a reason to live.’

They kept running.

By late afternoon Chikaaki was exhausted and battling delirium, but he continued to run the perimeter of the square.

The soldiers built a fire. They sat at the edge of the square and ate in shifts. They ate bowls of rice. They ate an apple each. They passed around a skin full of water. They taunted the parched prisoners by gulping water and letting it trickle down their chins. Chikaaki threw back his head, stuck out his tongue and tried to catch some rain. The convicts kept running. They shuffled slower than a walking pace. Their faces were slack and white, each man locked in a private hell. A couple of convicts fell to their knees. Comrades swerved round them as they lay defeated, waiting for the sword.

Chikaaki kept running.

One-by-one, the men gave up. They walked to the centre of the yard, knelt and submitted to the sword. A strange dynamic took hold. A weird ecstasy. In their last minutes of their existence the petty criminals found solidarity in death. They had lived their lives like feral dogs. They never looked beyond themselves, never looked further than the next cup of wine. But they faced the end together. As each man reached the limit of his physical and mental endurance he walked to the centre of the square with a dignity he had never known in life. They knelt, closed their eyes as if in prayer and waited for the blade to fall.

Chikaaki kept running.

The samurai accepted a bowl of rice. He had no right arm so he had to balance the bowl in his lap and awkwardly manipulate hashi with his left hand. He dropped food a couple of times as he raised it to his mouth and had to brush rice from his robe. He remained even-tempered. No point raging against his handicap. Life sends tribulations. Might as well be angry at the sky for being blue.

Soldiers stood around the perimeter of the yard and jeered the convicts. They knew, deep down, there was little difference between themselves and the wretched men sliding in the mud. One drunken tavern brawl, one stroke of bad luck, and they too could find themselves incarcerated in a stockade awaiting execution.

The samurai felt disinclined to watch the prisoners struggle for their lives. He took no pleasure in their suffering. Instead he got to his feet and paced. He massaged the stump of his vanished arm. He could still feel the absent limb. A dull ache. He had opiates in his pack but he was anxious to save them for when the pain in his gut became more than he could bear. He looked up and watched wood pigeons race across a bruised sky, trying to ignore the anguished convicts, their tortured respirations, the mud-splash of their shuffling feet.

By early evening only two men remained. Chikaaki and the other remaining convict shuffled round the square. Their feet had been bound with sacking but the make-shift shoes had long since disintegrated. Sharp stones hidden in the mud cut their feet but they kept running.

Chikaaki was almost at a standstill. His limbs were starting to slow and fail. His vision blurred. The people and buildings around him became diffuse as if they were masked by fog. He tried to slap himself alert. Then, without warning, the man in front of him collapsed as his legs gave out. He fell to his knees, a look of incomprehension on in his face as he tried to will the inert limbs to move. He massaged his paralysed thighs, punched them; tried to get them to respond.

Chikaaki stood beside the man. The convict was a new arrival at the camp. Chikaaki hadn’t spoken with him, didn’t even know his name. He held the stricken man’s hand as the executioner approached. The executioner took position and drew his sword. The convict smiled at Chikaaki and closed his eyes. He began to murmur the Mantra of Light.

‘On abokya beiroshanō makabodara …’

The blade fell. The trials were over. Chikaaki stood swaying at the centre of the courtyard. He looked around the silent compound. He gazed at headless bodies. The place smelled like a battlefield. The stink of evacuated bowels and the metallic taint of spilled blood. The samurai beckoned Chikaaki forward. The convict limped across the yard and stood in front of the table.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Chikaaki.’

The samurai handed him a flask of water. He drank deep.

‘Not so fast,’ advised the samurai. ‘Steady sips.’

Chikaaki staggered and struggled to keep upright.

‘You better sit down,’ said the samurai.

Chikaaki handed back the flask with shaking hands. He walked a few paces then lowered himself to the ground. He lay on his back with his hands behind his head, closed his eyes and enjoyed the blissful sensation of rain on his face.

The samurai and the captain stood over the exhausted man.

‘He’ll need bandages,’ said the samurai. ‘Look. The soles of his feet are torn up.’

The captain studied Chikaaki’s face. The man lay still. Too still. He knelt and felt Chikaaki’s neck. There was no arterial pulse.

‘His heart has stopped.’

The samurai contemplated the corpse. A serene smile on the dead man’s face as if he were lost in a beautiful dream.

‘Looks like I’ll be taking three men after all.’

The sun rose over the near-deserted prison compound. The stockade was shrouded in morning mist. The convicts stoked the fire and warmed their hands. None of them had slept the previous night. They had been under sentence of death. Each day spent in the camp brought them closer to execution. But they had been reprieved and suddenly the air was crisp and the stars impossibly bright. It was as if they were reborn.

Ariyo huddled in a blanket and checked the compound gate out of the corner of his eye. It was open and unguarded. The captain stood nearby stripped down to his fundoshi as if defying the cold. He poured a jug of water over his head and washed with a rag. He watched Ariyo assess his chances of escape.

‘See that man up there?’ said the captain. He pointed to a soldier in one of the watch towers. ‘I once heard him boast that he is the best archer in Honshu. He reckons he can fire an arrow up into the sky with such precision that, when it loses momentum and dives to earth, it will kill a man hiding behind a wall. So by all means run for the gate. Let’s test his skill on a moving target.’

Ariyo spat into the flames.

‘Time we discussed your situation,’ said the captain when he was fully dressed. He beckoned the men. The convicts gathered in front of him with blankets over their heads like shawls. They watched him strap armour.

‘You three prisoners have been selected to take part in a military mission. Your chances of survival are slim. But if you follow orders and fight like mad dogs, you might make it through.’

‘What kind of mission?’ asked Tameyo.

‘Details later.’

‘Why send us?’ asked Masaie. ‘Why not send regular troops?’

‘That’s not your concern. Just do your job.’ The captain looked Ariyo in the eye. ‘And put any thoughts of desertion from your mind. We have your families. Your sons and daughters. So if you are planning to run, forget it.’

The captain untied a pouch from his belt. He loosened the drawstring, shook out some black stones and placed a pebble in the palm of each man.

‘The Emperor, in his mercy, has spared your lives. He has given you one last chance to prove your worth. This stone represents your debt to him. Carry it. Carry it wherever you go. If, by some miracle, you complete the mission and return to Kyoto the debt will be lifted. You will be free, pardoned of all past crimes.’

‘If we make it back alive.’

‘Have faith in your own tenacity, gentlemen. You are survivors. Each of you has demonstrated an admirable talent for self-preservation. That is the quality we need.’

The company prepared to leave. The captain pointed to the mound of headless cadavers.

‘Put the bodies in the huts,’ he ordered. ‘Then torch the compound.’

The troops dragged the dead men by their ankles and hauled them up bamboo steps into a barrack hut.

The captain turned to the samurai.

‘Forty-eight hours from now the alarm will be raised. It will be announced that you and your three companions have killed the guards, killed your fellow inmates and escaped. A story that will further distance you from the Emperor should you be captured.’

The samurai nodded.

‘There will be a bounty, a price on your head. You’ll need to put some distance between yourself and Kyoto by then.’

Troops continued to drag dead men to the barrack hut. The soldiers gripped severed heads by the hair and threw them through the doorway into the interior of the hut. A faint thud and rumble as the heads hit the floorboards and rolled. The executioner walked shack-to-shack with a torch. He lit rice-straw thatch.

The column of troops took to the road and headed back towards Kyoto as the prison compound burned behind them, the fire sending up a thick column of smoke. They turned at the sound of splintering wood and watched one of the watchtowers topple in flames.

The three surviving convicts sat in a cart as it jolted along a dirt track. They looked around at the grass, the trees, the sky, still ecstatic to be alive. The captain rode at the head of the column. He checked the position of the sun in the sky. It was heading towards evening. He slowed his horse and brought himself level with the samurai.

‘Follow me,’ he instructed.

The two horsemen left the troop column and headed across open ground towards woodland.

They followed a narrow track through the forest passing through dense brush and dappled light. They descended the side of a valley and approached a white canvas tent pitched in lush grassland. Saracen and a couple of troops lounged on the grass watching the sunset turn the sky gold. Saracen bore a beatific expression. He found the sights and smells of the valley were richly intoxicating. He hadn’t seen the sun for many days. Each time he was locked in his library prison he never knew how long it would be before he saw daylight again. Each moment he spent outside was precious. He got to his feet as the horsemen approached.

The samurai and the captain dismounted. They bowed.

‘The fearless assassin,’ said Saracen looking the samurai up and down. ‘You seem to have accepted your forced change of allegiance with laudable equanimity.’

‘You have something to show us?’ asked the captain.

‘I do indeed.’

Saracen beckoned them to join him at a table and lifted a cloth to reveal piles of powder and a couple of cardboard tubes.

‘It was a difficult commission. An arrowhead that will explode on impact. Tricky.’

He sprinkled metallic granules into a shallow dish.

‘Allow me to demonstrate. This is a derivative of potash. Watch what happens when I add water.’

He tipped a cup and let a fat droplet of water fall onto the powder. There was an immediate reaction. The dish was filled with fizzing, spitting fire. The captain stepped back as the powder popped and burned.

‘Potash?’ murmured the samurai, leaning forward to inspect the smouldering mound of ash at the centre of the dish.

‘Of a kind. There is no word for it in Japanese. Al-Kindi called it fire salt.’

‘Fascinating.’

The samurai felt a sudden pang of regret. He had hoped to retire to a monastery and spend his last years contemplating metaphysical texts and works of natural philosophy, but his life was to be cut short. So many things he would never know.

‘At the heart of the projectile are two glass bulbs.’ Saracen held up two small glass orbs. ‘One bulb contains water, the other contains air. These bulbs are held in a thin paper sleeve filled with fire salt. Simple enough, neh? The missile hits the target, the bulbs shatter, the three elements mix and an intense flame is immediately sparked.’

The samurai nodded.

‘So we put this ignition device at the centre of a larger paper cylinder filled with gunpowder and seal it closed.’ He held up a fat red paper cylinder about three fists in length. ‘And yes, this is powder from the consignment you were intending to use to blow up the Imperial family. I thought you might enjoy the irony.’

Saracen speared the red cylinder onto the tip of an arrow and picked up a bow.

‘The armourers were good enough to make some cut-down longbows to deliver the projectiles. Easy to carry. Easy to hide.’

The samurai and captain watched as Saracen strung the arrow and readied the bow. A target had been set eighty yards distant – the wooden silhouette of a man. Saracen adjusted his stance.

‘The weight of the projectile will slow the arrow’s flight. You have to aim high if you want to cover a significant distance.’

Saracen took a deep breath as he drew the bow. The string creaked. He adjusted his aim, exhaled and released the arrow. The projectile followed an elegant, arcing trajectory. It rose high, slowed then dived to earth. It slammed into the target. Gunpowder detonated like a thunderclap. The target was pulverised, instantly reduced to a blizzard of splinters. Smoke cleared and there was nothing left of the silhouette but a smouldering stake standing crooked in blasted earth.

‘Imagine an army equipped with these projectiles,’ murmured the captain. He picked up a bowl and ran his fingers through the powder. ‘Their master would wield the power of the god. No one would dare oppose him.’

‘He would be the most powerful man in the world,’ said Saracen, ‘for a while. Then his enemies would copy the weapon. Imagine a war in which both armies used explosive projectiles. Imagine the carnage.’

‘How many of these missiles have you made?’ asked the samurai.

‘Ten, so far.’

‘Can you adjust them to create fire as well as a tremendous blast? I need incendiaries.’

Saracen thought it over. ‘I could add a little oil to the mixture. The explosion would spread droplets of flaming tar.’

‘Can it be done by tonight?’ asked the captain.

‘Yes, I think so.’

Saracen laid a backpack, sewn from oiled canvas, on the table. ‘One of your party will need to carry the projectiles on their back. They are delicate. If you drop them, if you subject them to any kind of impact, they will explode. You saw what happened to the target. Imagine what would happen if ten of these missiles blew simultaneously. You and your entire team would be turned to smoke.’

The samurai contemplated the canvas pack.

‘Remember,’ said Saracen. ‘Whoever carries this pack needs to understand the danger. Not a bump. Not a single jolt. Their life will depend on it.’

The team travelled east to the port of Ōtsu on the bank of the Freshwater Sea. It was a short journey from Kyoto, little more than an hour’s ride. The captain led them to a derelict merchant’s house. Once inside the grounds they rode up an overgrown path flanked by tall grass and weeds run wild. The house itself was boarded shut and the roof had partially collapsed. The estate must have sat neglected for years.

‘This place used to belong to a porcelain merchant,’ said the captain. ‘The entire household was wiped out by illness. Nobody comes here. Locals believe this plot of land is haunted by apparitions. It is a place of ill-omen. We’ve used it as an embarkation point for ninjitsu missions before.’

Night fell. Tables and mats had been set in front of the jetty at the rear of the house and torches had been staked in the ground. A large, flat-bottomed, single sailed boat was moored at the jetty. The type of shallow-draught vessel that plied the shores of the Freshwater Sea, Honshu’s largest lake, transporting bales of wool and skins. There were two crewmen: a skipper and his mate. They prepped the ship with the bored professionalism of sailors who had taken part in covert military operations before. They were tried and trusted men. They loaded cargo; supplies for the journey. The skipper stood at the dockside and surveyed the oil-cloth packages stowed at the bottom of the boat. They would be travelling through the wilderness, avoiding towns and major roads, so they would need to carry everything they might need on their backs. There were parcels of dried fruit, dried meat and plenty of rice, There were a couple of bales of clothes bound with twine – heavy garments packed in anticipation of winter. Cloaks, padded jackets and furs, all of them old and ragged enough not to attract attention.

A roll contained swords and knives to be issued when the foot journey began – a selection of battered, mismatched weapons that couldn’t be traced back to Kyoto. And at the centre of the equipment pile sat the backpack filled with explosive projectiles. The crewmen covered the cargo and roped it down.

The convicts were brought by cart. Soldiers had laid out a farewell meal. Flasks of saké, bowls of fish, pickles, cakes and fruit. Pole-lamps threw a warm glow. The men ate and drank, all the while regarding the boat with trepidation. A new trial lay ahead of them. A new opportunity to die screaming.

‘Come on,’ urged the captain, standing over the men ‘If you don’t eat this food my men certainly will.’

For months the convicts had subsisted on a daily bowl of millet gruel swilled with brackish water. The food before them was the stuff of dreams and they snatched with both hands and crammed their mouths.

‘Take it slow,’ advised the samurai, abstaining from the feast. ‘You’ll make yourselves sick.’

The prisoners were halfway through their meal when a second cart pulled up. Soldiers helped women and children jump from the wagon. The convicts raced to greet their families while the samurai sat alone and watched the reunions.

Tameyo was greeted by his wife and two young daughters. They embraced and stood a long while with their arms wrapped round each other. The man was clearly adored.

The samurai had met plenty of thieves. Some had no impulse control. A couple of bowls of saké were enough to turn them feral. They stole and raped with no thought for the consequences. They were no better than animals. For others a life of crime was a rational choice for poor folk trying to better their family’s situation. They had no legitimate hope of advancement so they acquired backstreet skills. They learned to forge coins, pick locks or kill unseen. They used the proceeds to buy schooling and administrative positions for male children and compile a significant dowry for any daughters they might possess. Tameyo seemed to fall in the latter category. He was a circumspect, watchful man.

Masaie was greeted by his wife and son. She was beautiful but obviously dirt poor. Her clothes were patched and her hair uncombed. But she was truly beautiful. She and Masaie sat together. They talked and laughed.

Ariyo was greeted by his mother. Maybe he had a wife and children in the past. Maybe they died or maybe he abandoned them. But right now he had only his mother for company. She was an old woman with a bent back. They didn’t embrace or smile but grimly acknowledged each other like soldiers regrouping on the battlefield in the midst of war. Evidently they had endured desperate hardships together. For them, the world was enemy territory.

Tameyo and Masaie quietly talked and laughed with their wives as their children fell asleep on their shoulders. Ariyo and his mother ate as much as they could, taking advantage of good food while it was available. Ariyo’s mother hid dumplings up her sleeve to eat later.

The captain paced the dock. He estimated time by the revolution of the constellations. In a while the sun would rise, the team would set out and the outcome of the mission would no longer be in his hands. He would return to his duties at the Imperial Palace and await news of success or failure. And if a messenger brought word that the assassination team had been captured and killed he would wait once more to discover his own fate. Maybe the Emperor’s mother would be merciful. Maybe she wouldn’t blame him for the failure of the mission. Or maybe she would exhibit his head on the palace wall.

The samurai joined the captain. ‘This is good,’ he said, gesturing to the families. ‘It’s kind of you to allow the men to see their wives and children one last time.’

‘I could have brought whores,’ said the captain. ‘But these criminals need to be reminded I hold the lives of their families in my hand. If they desert, I will give the order. I won’t hesitate. These women, these sweet children, will face summary execution.’

‘Would you do it? If the moment came? Would you carry out the threat?’

‘Yes. I would do it myself with my own sword to spare my men the task.’

‘Pointless cruelty.’

‘If I make a threat and don’t follow through next time I give an order it will be ignored. I have to keep my word. It is the cost of leadership.’

The captain turned to a nearby soldier. ‘Give them more wine. They won’t have much to exert themselves tomorrow. Just sit in a boat.’ He checked the sky again for any trace of dawn. ‘You set off at sunrise. The boat journey will take a day or two depending on the weather.’

The samurai nodded.

‘You hold my fate in your hands,’ said the captain. ‘If you fail my life will be forfeit.’

‘Is the Emperor’s mother that unforgiving?’

‘She’s never seen a throat she didn’t want to cut. I think her fondest dream would be to wake a find everyone dead from some plague. All her enemies, all her rivals finally extinguished. Empress of a silent world.’

The samurai turned a black debt-stone in his hand.

‘I want my daughter,’ he said. ‘She must accompany me.’

‘No. Out of the question. You need to put her welfare before your own.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Safe. Think about it. Think of the enormity of her crime. Thanks to you she became an accomplice in the attempted assassination of the Imperial family. Whatever you may think of the Emperor’s mother, the fact that the girl is alive and unharmed is a stroke of divine good fortune. You should leave it at that.’

The samurai shook his head. ‘She must accompany me on the mission,’ he insisted.

‘She’s not even your daughter.’

‘Saracen must have described my condition,’ said the samurai.

‘He says you’re sick.’

‘I’m dying. I can complete the mission but I’ll need someone to help me, someone I can trust.’

‘There isn’t time to fetch her from Kyoto.’

‘It’s a short journey. A rider could make it there and back before sunrise.’

‘Think hard,’ said the captain. ‘Think about her safety.’

‘I’ve known her long time. Watched her grow. She doesn’t care about safety. She cares about freedom. Send one of your men. Ask if she wishes to accompany me on this journey. Give her the choice.’

The captain thought it over. The samurai was a criminal. Negotiations should be out of the question, but the captain found himself compelled to treat the man as an equal.

‘All right. I’ll send a man. But whatever answer she gives, you leave at dawn, understood?’

‘Understood.’

Dawn. Mist hung over the surface of the Freshwater Sea. The boat raised sail. Slack canvas rippled as the boat caught a weak air current and pulled away from the jetty. The samurai looked back at farmland grid-scored with irrigation trenches and the ruined mansion part-overwhelmed by vines.

The captain stood on the bank and watched the boat depart. He wrapped a cloak around himself against the morning cold. He looked sombre as if he were weighing the samurai’s odds of success. His life was in the hands of degenerate criminals and a dying warrior.

The samurai glanced round at his companions. The men sat huddled in furs. Plumes of breath fogged the air. Their faces didn’t register much emotion. They were tired, hung-over and just wanted to sleep.

The samurai stood at the prow and listened to lapping water as the sails caught a breeze and the boat gained speed. The girl stood beside him. She leaned from the prow and contemplated her reflection in the slate-grey surface of the lake.

‘Don’t fall in,’ warned the samurai. ‘You would freeze and sink before we had time to turn the boat around and reach you.’

She nodded and straightened up.

‘Can you swim?’ she asked.

‘Not any more.’

He looked up at the sky. Grey nothing. It was impossible to locate the sun and gauge the time of day. It was like they had dropped out of time and space and were marooned in a colourless netherworld.

‘When do you plan to tell us the details of this mission?’ asked Tameyo, joining them at the prow.

The samurai thought it over. They would be sitting in the boat all day. They might as well make use of the time. ‘Fetch the others,’ he said.

The group assembled at the prow. The skipper and his crewman stayed at the stern and guided the rudder. They made sure not to overhear any details of the mission. They were paid to make the journey and mind their own business.

The samurai unfolded a crude chart and smoothed it on a bench-beam. The men gathered round as he traced the proposed route with his finger.

‘We travel the length of the Freshwater Sea then journey overland through Wakasa, Echizen and Hida until we reach the mountains of Etchū. We’ll move cross-country avoiding roads and habitation. Our object is Nakatomi Castle, currently the seat of General Motohide.’

‘The Dragons Lair,’ said Masaie, touching a talisman hung round his neck.

‘You know it?’

‘Heard of it. Never set eyes on it myself. They say it’s an impregnable fortress built on a mountainside. So high that half the time it’s lost in cloud.’

The samurai nodded. ‘That’s our destination,’ he confirmed.

‘And what are we supposed to do when we reach the castle?’

‘Help me get inside.’

‘Why? What’s the background to all this?’

‘The less you know the better. You have your instructions from the captain. Escort me to my objective. Help me accomplish my mission. Then, if you make it back alive, your death sentences will be revoked, all crimes forgiven.’

‘Do you have an actual plan?’ asked Tameyo. ‘Once we reach this fortress do you know how you’ll get inside?’

‘I have a rough scheme. I’ll work out the details when we have sight of our goal.’

‘What are the odds of us making it back alive from this expedition?’ asked Masaie. ‘Be honest.’

‘Negligible.’

The men shifted uneasily.

‘You gentlemen have short memories,’ said the samurai. ‘Yesterday you were condemned men fated to be paraded through the city in a basket then executed in the market square. Today you have embarked on a dangerous mission but at least your life is in your own hands. You control your destiny. Act like soldiers and maybe, just maybe, you’ll come back heroes.’

They made a breakfast of dumplings left over from the previous night’s feast.

The girl sat next to Tameyo and ate. They sat with their backs to the mast.

‘Where are you from?’ he asked.

‘Nowhere,’ said the girl.

‘You must have a birthplace. A clan.’

‘Not any more.’

‘You’re from nobility. The way you speak. The way you carry yourself.’

‘All I have are these rags.’

‘Turbulent times. The poor raised up. The high-born brought low. Hard to tell a bandit from a lord these days.’

‘Chaos.’

‘Chaos can be good,’ said Tameyo. ‘Chaos can be a gift. Look at all it has brought you. You’ve travelled province to province. You’ve walked the corridors of the Imperial Palace. Most folk never journey further than the village in which they are born.’

The girl looked at mist-shrouded trees on the distant shoreline. Birds plumped their feathers against the winter cold.

‘I’ve always liked ravens,’ she said. ‘If I had a family crest, I would put a raven at its centre.’

‘Bad augury. Harbingers of death.’

‘Still. I like them.’

‘So. Tengu. Crow-daemon. Is that what we should call you?’

Tameyo split his last dumpling and shared it with her. She watched him as they ate. She observed the direction of his gaze. He made an instinctive appraisal of the roped cargo, the purse hanging from the skipper’s belt and the locked box that contained the crewman’s supplies for the journey.

‘You’re a thief,’ she said.

‘And?’

I’m curious to know how you came to be in the stockade.’

Tameyo mulled his reply. There was no point evading the question.

‘I broke into a moneylender’s house near the southern market and tried to prize a strong box full of coins.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s going to be a long day and we need to pass the time.’

‘The lender was one of the richest men in Kyoto. I staked out his house for days. Sat and begged near the entrance of his mansion so I could keep watch. Merchants came and went in fancy palanquins. A fortune hidden somewhere within the house. Enough treasure to keep a person housed and well-fed for the rest of their life. Never be hungry, never be cold.’

‘Did you get inside?’

‘I climbed the wall at midnight and levered a window. A servant on night-watch caught me chiselling the strongbox. I jumped through a window, climbed the wall and fled down the street. Turns out, I’d cut my leg. Didn’t feel it at the time but I left a trail of blood. They found me half a mile away in a cooper’s yard, hiding in a barrel.’

‘A death sentence? Seems harsh.’

‘The bailiff wanted to cut off my nose and ears but I was already wanted for stealing from a barley warehouse so the sentenced was upped to death.’

‘Can I ask you another question?’

‘Can’t promise I’ll answer,’ said Tameyo.

‘When you steal something, when you snatch someone’s money, do you feel guilt?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t think about your victim? They might need money for food, for medicine. A family might go hungry.’

‘And what if I starve? What if my wife needs a physician?’

‘I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t steal.’

‘Honour,’ snorted Tameyo. He spat over the side of the boat. ‘What good does it do on a cold, hard day? Can you eat it? Will it keep your warm?’

‘Even so.’

‘Survival. That’s the true face of nature.’

‘No. There’s more.’

‘Order? Harmony? That nonsense the monks try to sell? Take my advice. Draw a line around the people you care about. Husband, children, whoever it turns out to be. Everyone else is an enemy. Remember that.’

‘And you? Are you my enemy?’

‘If it comes down to it, maybe.’

The girl sat next to the samurai.

‘Does it hurt?’ she asked, gesturing to his missing arm. Her usual mask of indifference was broken by anguish as she looked at the maimed man.

‘My missing hand has a constant itch. The ghost of my thumb. One of those little torments that can drive a man insane if he lets it dominate his thoughts.’

‘Is the wound healed?’

‘Not quite.’

‘How often do you need to dress it?’

‘Morning and night.’

‘I’ll help.’

‘No.’

‘Please. Let me help.’

The samurai reluctantly shrugged off his fur. His sword master used to say: In the course of your military career you will face many frustrations. As you progress through the ranks some of your superiors will treat you unjustly. They will take credit for your achievements and pin the blame for their failures on you. And your personal life will also present you with moments of anguish. Loneliness. Illness. Bereavement. They visit us all. So remember, whenever you face these moments of adversity, ask yourself: What lesson are the gods trying to teach me? What aspect of myself, what vice, are they asking me to overcome?

‘I was too proud,’ said the samurai, as he took off his quilted vest.

‘Proud?’ asked the girl.

‘I thought of myself as a great warrior. I thought I was better than other men.’

He loosened his kimono and exposed the stump at his right shoulder. The girl gave a sharp intake of breath at her first glimpse of maimed flesh, at the flap of skin that had been folded to seal the stump. The creases and punctures left by newly removed stitches. Winter cold had turned the samurai’s skin marble white. His chest was prickled with gooseflesh.

‘Here.’

The samurai handed her his leather bag. She rummaged inside and found a pot of honey. She twisted the cork stopper and dipped her fingers. She smeared honey on the raw suture marks. The samurai craned his head to look down at the stump.

‘Strange creatures, aren’t we?’ he murmured. ‘Meat. Meat animated by a spirit. Meat that can think and feel. Meat that knows it is meat. It’s a wonder. Maybe I will get my arm back in the afterlife. Maybe it’s waiting for me somewhere in the world beyond death.’

‘You will have your arm. And I will be reunited with my parents. We will all be whole again.’

‘The captain said you had been given a role at the Imperial Palace.’

‘You met Saracen?’

‘Yes.’

‘I was assigned to his quarters. I would have been his cook, his maid. They would have kept me prisoner the rest of my life. A favoured prisoner. A well-fed, well-housed captive.’

‘There are worse fates.’

‘They asked me to sweep with a broom. They wanted me to get down on my knees and scrub. I don’t mind domestic duties. I could have lived with the shame. But every waking minute would have been dictated by others. I would have been half alive.’

‘I insisted you accompany me on this mission so I could get you out of Kyoto. I wanted to get you away from the Imperial Guard. You are free to choose your own path. But when this boat drops us on the northern shore it will turn round and sail back, it might be best if you were on it. You would live a long life in the palace. A good life. Don’t dismiss it out of hand.’

‘My place is here, with you.’

‘But I’ll be dead soon. What will you do when I’m gone? How will you survive?’

‘If I go back to Kyoto I’ll be a slave. And if I go somewhere else? A village someplace? Be a wife and mother? Each day would be the same as the last. Washing laundry on a river bank. Fetching water with a child roped to my back. A different kind of slavery. I choose something else. I choose the sword.’

She finished dressing the samurai’s wounds and helped him re-tie his kimono. She helped wrap furs round his shoulders. He hated to be treated as an invalid but that’s exactly what he was so he let her help him dress.

Noon.

Weak sun slowly burned off the mist. The boat hugged the coast. They slowly passed a massive bronze Buddha three times the height of a man. The Buddha was overwhelmed by vines.

‘There used to be a temple,’ explained the skipper. ‘The statue stood in the meditation hall. Then the temple burned down and now only the statue remains.’

The Buddha listed to one side. The massive tonnage was subsiding into the soil. The figure’s blank-eyed smile was partly veiled by a thicket of dense bamboo. The passengers stood and watched in silence as the ruined god passed by and receded in the mist.

Mid-afternoon. The boat made stately progress. The girl sat in the prow with the samurai and watched the wooded shoreline pass by.

‘Did he lay his hands on you?’ asked the samurai.

‘Saracen? No. He’s an honourable man. He didn’t come near me.’

‘A barbarian.’

‘He spends his days locked in a library with the wisdom of the world arrayed around him. Thousands of books and scrolls, more than a man could ever read. He’ll be in that room until the day he dies, more or less, reading by candlelight. A peculiar fate.’

She watched the skipper ride the rudder and his mate adjust clew lines.

‘Have you ever sailed overseas?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Saracen told me stories. He showed me pictures. Strange lands. Strange cities. One day I would like to see them.’

‘I knew a soldier,’ said the samurai. ‘He was sent on a diplomatic mission to China. There was a storm. He found himself shipwrecked on an alien shore, lost and alone. He crossed deserts. Met strange tribes and worshipped their vengeful deities. He didn’t return home a wise and well-travelled man. He was broken by what he saw. When he returned to Honchu it seemed a little place. All its wisdom, all its traditions, seemed parochial and silly. He didn’t know what to believe. He didn’t know who he was.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He lived his life as a normal man. What else could he do? But he felt distant and empty like an actor performing a role. That is the danger of the life we lead. Searching for an ultimate truth. Trying to see to the heart of things. It’s like staring at the sun. It can burn out your eyes. It can drive you insane.’

The deluge continued all afternoon and into the evening. Rain made the surface of the sea dance with spray. The crew unfolded a couple of tarps and gave them to their passengers to use as shelter. Tameyo and Masaie huddled together beneath a hood of oiled canvas while the samurai and the girl sat beneath their own sheet of canvas and listened to rain crackle against the greased fabric above their heads. Ariyo sat alone at the prow. He glanced at his companions cowering from the downpour like children. He regarded them with contempt. How could they hope to defy an army and breach a castle if they didn’t have the strength to endure a little moisture? He slicked back his hair and let the rain play on his face.

A flicker of lightning. The girl counted to five. A thumping, rumbling peel of thunder shook the ship’s timbers. The wind began to rise. The crew lowered and folded the sail.

‘The gods have set their face against us,’ said Masaie, shouting to be heard over the rain.

‘I doubt the gods care about us,’ said the samurai. ‘Throw a cup of rice over the side. Call on Dōsojin, if it will make you feel better.’

‘Hope we don’t get driven onshore,’ said the girl. ‘If we run aground with these explosives aboard there’ll be nothing left of the boat. Nothing but a few charred planks bobbing in the water.’

‘I better check the powder,’ said the samurai. He got to his feet, relinquished the shelter of the oiled canvas and checked the cargo lashed amidships. Water slopped at the bottom of the boat but the pack of explosives was high in the cargo stack, secure and dry.

Rain was so heavy they couldn’t see beyond the boat. They couldn’t see the shoreline and they couldn’t see the sky. There was no way to tell which direction they were drifting. It felt like the boat was at a standstill. Ariyo sat by the side of the boat and continued to ignore the rain like he was inured to physical hardship. He took a coil of fishing line from his bag, plucked a strand of hair from his head, knotted it and used it to bait the hook. He hung the hook over the side of the boat and waited patiently for a twitch of the line. The girl watched him from beneath the tented canvas. His perpetual scowl implied hard times had turned him into a distrustful survivor, an unassailable fortress, an army of one. He caught the girl staring at him.

‘I’m not in the mood to talk.’

The line bobbed. He pulled a trout from the lake. The fish squirmed in his hand. He hit it against the side of the boat.

‘Your dinner?’ asked the girl.

Ariyo didn’t reply.

‘You fish, you fish for all of us,’ said the samurai. ‘You hunt, we all get a piece, understand?’

‘Or what?’

‘I’ll cut you in half, tip your remains over the side and the captain back in Kyoto will do whatever he pleases with your mother.’

Ariyo smiled. ‘They say you should never fight a cripple. If he kills you, then you die shamed. If you kill him, then everyone hates you for killing a cripple. You lose either way. Personally I never cared much about the opinion of others. Draw your sword on me and I’ll send you to the bottom of this lake piece at a time.’

The samurai shrugged off the canvas, got to his feet and took a step forward. Ariyo straightened up and faced him. The two men stood dripping rain. They stared each other down. Ariyo calculated the odds. He was confident he could beat the one-armed man in a fight but the samurai’s unblinking gaze told him the cripple would bite and claw to the death while any strength remained. Ariyo might win the confrontation but he would pay hard for the victory. He gave a dismissive snort, turned away and sat down. He plucked another hair and lowered the line.

The samurai resumed his seat beneath the hooded canvas. The girl watched rain dance on the water a while.

‘How many men have you killed?’ she asked.

‘I don’t keep count,’ said the samurai. ‘I don’t like to reduce men to a number.’

He turned and looked at her. ‘You’re wondering what it will be like to kill someone, neh?’

She nodded.

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ he said. ‘If you take to the road with a katana tucked in your obi it won’t be long before someone challenges you to a duel. A sword will attract trouble like a lodestone.’

She nodded.

‘It will happen fast,’ he said. ‘You will face your opponent. Both of you will be terrified. You will bow and you will draw. A moment later the contest will be concluded. Sword fights rarely last longer than a few breaths. But later you will relive it in dreams. How they begged. That little noise they made as you drove a blade into their gut.’

‘Do you hear them in dreams?’ she asked. ‘The men you killed?’

‘These days, I don’t sleep much at all.’

The rain grew worse and the wind rose higher.

‘Time to make camp,’ said the skipper.

‘I’d hoped to reach the northern shore today,’ said the samurai.

‘The weather’s against us. There is nothing to be done.’

They swung towards land. The skipper’s mate jumped from the boat and lashed a mooring rope to a stump. The convicts ran from the boat and took shelter in a copse of trees.

‘Best make camp,’ said the samurai. ‘Let’s get a fire going.’

Tameyo crouched and gutted fish while the other convicts searched for wood. Ariyo and Masaie disappeared among the trees while the girl gathered grass for kindling.

‘Are you sure they’ll be back?’ asked the girl.

‘Their families will be executed if they flee,’ said the samurai.

‘They’re survivors. Maybe they’ll sacrifice their children in order to live. A snared wolf will chew off his own leg to escape. Maybe these men will trade their wives and children for freedom.’

The samurai nodded. ‘Who knows how far people will sink?’

‘Maybe we should go after them.’

‘No. They need to reach their own decision.’

Masaie returned with armfuls of wood. The girl lit kindling with a flint and blew down bamboo to encourage a flame. They waited a long while for Ariyo to join them. Eventually he emerged from the trees carrying a small log. Little to show for an hour’s search. The girl assumed he had been alone in the forest deciding whether to flee, start a new life under a new name and hope to put the fate of his mother from his mind. He sat cross-legged by the fire and stared into the flames.

They huddled under canvas and ate fish. Fat raindrops dripped from the branches and fell sizzling in the campfire flames. The girl played a couple of tunes on a double-reed flute.

‘Every time I think my life can’t get any more wretched, somehow it does,’ muttered Masaie.

‘Least we can stretch out,’ said Tameyo.

‘I’ll keep watch,’ said Masaie.

‘They’ll be looking for us by now, neh?’ said the girl. ‘There will be notices posted in every market square across Kyoto. Escaped prisoners. A price on all your heads.’

‘The sooner we cross the border into Echizen the better.’

The samurai and the girl found a forest clearing. The rain had stopped. The sky had cleared and moonlight shafted through the branches. The girl watched as the samurai tried to tuck his sword into his obi at his right hip. He tried time and again but fumbled and failed. She waited for him to ask for help. Eventually he said:

‘Please.’

He stood impassive as she tucked his sword into his obi. She backed off and moved out of strike range. He stood at the centre of the clearing, gripped the tsuka with his left hand and drew with a wide slash of his sword. He executed an elaborate kata. He advanced. He retreated. He cut down imaginary opponents left and right. His sword wrote a lethal poem in the air. The blade whispered as it cut.

He sheathed his sword and stood in silent contemplation. An untrained eye would have seen a master swordsman at work. A lethal blur of steel. But the girl had watched the samurai train countless times and could detect the lack of balance, the millisecond hesitancy to his cuts. He might prevail against an average soldier but if he met an experienced bugeisha, someone who had dedicated their life to the study and practise of bushido, he would be brought down. With a few years practice he might be able to regain his former proficiency. But there wasn’t time.

‘Teach me,’ said the girl. ‘Teach me to fight.’

The samurai thought it over. It was hard to read his face in moonlight. ‘You wish to continue your training?’

‘Yes.’

The girl searched the edge of the clearing in the gloom and found two sturdy bamboo sticks that would serve as bokken. They faced each other. They bowed. The samurai raised the stick and brought it down, aiming to crack open her head. The girl parried the blow. She twisted and blocked two strikes which followed in quick succession, one from the left, one from the right. They fought back and forth across the clearing, taking turns to block and cut.

‘You’re good,’ said the samurai. ‘Normally I wouldn’t tell you. A student should be self-contained. They shouldn’t be dependent on praise. But you need to know, in case something happens to me in the coming days. You have a talent for the sword. You are already a match for most men. You have no need to fear a confrontation.’

She nodded.

‘When the time comes, you mustn’t freeze,’ said the samurai. ‘I can give you some training. Offer some advice. But in that instant, when it time to kill or be killed, you will be alone.’

‘Understood.’

‘Do you think you can do it? Drive a sword into a man’s gut without a moment’s pause?’

‘I won’t hesitate.’

A Kyoto tavern.

Commander Raku and Lieutenant Kisoi sat by the fire as a serving girl brought wine.

Kisoi looked down at his hands and hid his face from the girl. He nervously looked around, worried he might be under surveillance. He studied fellow drinkers to see if any of them were showing an unusual interest in his companion. A man near the door kept glancing their way. The man was old and bent, drinking alone. Might be a street scavenger earning a few coins as a paid informant.

‘Relax,’ said the commander. ‘You’re drawing attention.’

‘Easy for you to say. Any idea what will happen if I am found talking to you? Any idea what will happen to my family? I haven’t slept for days.’

‘You’re a soldier. You live with risk.’

Raku noted a flicker of shame from the lieutenant. A slight downcast of the eyes. Clearly the man had not, during his military service at the Imperial Palace, seen combat.

‘You’re too tense,’ said Raku. ‘Too agitated. The more you look around, the more people look our way.’

The lieutenant sat back and made an effort to relax.

‘The mind defeats us. A person can get so scared of discovery and punishment they make it happen.’ Raku patted his belly. ‘The enemy inside. Your toughest opponent.’

‘Spare me the bromides. Let’s conclude our business and get out of here.’

The commander sipped saké. ‘I’m interested in unusual troop movements.’

‘Can’t say I’ve anything to report.’

‘I climbed a hill to the south yesterday,’ said Raku. ‘It was a good vantage point. It overlooked the camp on the edge of the city. How many men does the Shōgun have garrisoned?’

‘Five thousand, I believe.’

‘It seems to be a pretty settled camp. They’ve dug latrine trenches, cut trees, erected a perimeter defence. Doesn’t look like they are planning to move any time soon.’

‘I don’t serve the Shōgunate. I serve the Imperial House.’

‘But if the Shōgun issued mobilisation orders, you would know, neh?’

‘I’ve heard nothing out of the ordinary. They are sending out standard patrols to man the provincial frontier. The usual complement of sentries guard the city.’

‘And the Imperial Guard?’

‘They’ve dispatched a team of men to hunt some escaped prisoners. They wouldn’t waste manpower chasing down convicts if they were readying themselves for battle.’

‘So nothing out of the ordinary? No one is requisitioning materiel? Buying horses?’

‘There is no hint of war.’

‘Could campaign preparations be made without your knowledge?’

‘If the Shōgunate or the Imperial House were mobilising an army they’d have bought all the food in the market. They’d have armourers working overtime. They would be conscripting men. The whole city would know.’

The commander took a ruminative sip of saké. ‘So what are you hearing from diplomatic circles?’ he asked.

‘I don’t move in diplomatic circles.’

‘You must overhear things.’

‘The new Daimyō of Etchū has petitioned for the Imperial blessing,’ said the lieutenant. ‘I hear an embassy will be dispatched to formally legitimise his rule.’

‘What else have you heard?’

The lieutenant smiled, sensing Raku’s indifference to the mention of Etchū hid an intense interest in the province.

‘Is that where you’re from? Is that was this is about? Etchū?’

‘Doesn’t matter where I’m from,’ said Raku.’ What else have you heard?’

‘An Imperial embassy. That’s all.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Nothing.’

Raku nodded, concluding the interview. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open. Give me an update in a couple of days.’

He unhitched a purse from his belt and discretely handed it to Kisoi. Kisoi felt the weight of coins, and wondered if the pouch full of metal discs would end up costing his life.

‘Should I go?’ he asked, trying to work out the best way to leave the tavern without attracting attention.

‘I’ll leave first,’ said Raku. ‘I’ll use the side door. Wait a while, then head out the front.’

Raku raised his cup, intending to drain it dry. He paused, looking down at his own reflection.

He had debriefed informants on many occasions. Usually the subject didn’t understand the significance of the information they conveyed. The most important detail of the interview might be contained in a throwaway remark, a seemingly trivial comment. Raku had learned to listen; to pursue avenues of intelligence that less experienced interrogators might disregard.

‘Escaped convicts?’

‘Yes.’

‘The palace has sent out a search team?’

‘They will ask border patrols to keep a lookout.’

‘A lot of effort to chase down a few thieves.’

‘You heard about the attempt on the Emperor’s life?’

‘No.’

‘It wasn’t made public. An assassin stashed kegs of gunpowder in a water channel beneath the street.’

‘Who was he?’

‘No idea. A lone bugeisha. He wasn’t in the pay of the Shōgun. He wasn’t in the pay of ambitious Daimyō. It seems it was a personal vendetta.’

‘He broke out of prison.’

‘Yes. A stockade a few miles to the west. He has lost an arm, apparently. A one-armed man and a handful of bedraggled confederates. Shouldn’t be too hard to find.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Raku drained his cup and set it down. ‘We’ll meet again soon.’

Kisoi nodded.

‘Remember: wait a while before you leave.’

Raku got up and strolled across the tavern, slow and casual. He tossed a gratuity to the maid, pulled his cloak hood over his head and stepped out the side door into the rain.

The vintner’s house.

The commander’s men knelt on the kitchen floor playing dice. The cook knelt nearby, dicing carrots, throwing them in a pot.

The commander pushed open the door and hurried inside, dripping rain.

‘Get your stuff together.’

‘What’s going on?’ asked Tadasue.

‘We’re leaving. Now.’

They rode out of Kyoto following directions to the stockade. They reached the top of a hill and found themselves looking down on burned-out ruins. Columns of smoke rose from the wrecked buildings. Even at a distance they could smell cooked flesh.

They descended from the hilltop and approached the abandoned prison camp. The palisade walls were intact but the dormitory buildings had been reduced to charred support beams.

The commander walked across the yard and surveyed the devastation while his men picked through the scorched debris of the bunkhouses. Crows took to the air.

‘Bones,’ shouted Tadatoo. ‘Skulls. Looks like most of the bodies were decapitated.’

The commander nodded.

The brothers joined him at the centre of the yard.

‘What’s the situation, Commander-sama?’

‘An attempt was made on the Emperor’s life. A lone assassin pursuing a personal grievance. The caught him. They brought him here. Apparently he broke out.’

Tadasue gestured to the surrounding ruination.

‘One man did all this?’

‘They say he incited the slaughter. His fellow convicts lent a hand. There is a reward for their capture, dead or alive.’

‘And what’s your opinion, commander? Do you believe that story?’

Raku shook his head. ‘The assassin tried to kill the Emperor. The Son of Heaven. What do you imagine they would do to such a man if they caught him?’

‘Devise a manner of execution so horrible it would be remembered for generations to come,’ said Tadasue.

Raku nodded agreement. ‘They would keep him alive for years, subject him to one awful torment after another.’

‘So what was he doing out here?’

‘Exactly. This is a common prison camp. A place to hold thieves and bandits while the bailiff decides whether to kill them or cut off their ears. He should have been in an Imperial dungeon. I’m guessing they sent him here for a reason.’

‘Which is?’

‘A staged breakout,’ said Raku. ‘The assassin is evidently a highly skilled ninja, a man who can’t be linked to the Imperial House. Somehow, they’ve turned him. He’s been coerced to work on their behalf. They’ve sent him to kill the general.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Tadatoo.

‘It’s what I would do.’

‘What now?’

‘We ride for Etchū. Travel night and day. We have to overtake the assassin and warn the general.’

Early morning. Clear, crisp light. The boat hugged the shoreline as it slid past a frost-white landscape. White fields, white trees. The passengers were swaddled in furs. They sat equidistant round the edge of the boat. Some of them slept. Some of them slumped half awake and hugged themselves for warmth. Nobody spoke. Each exhalation produced broiling plumes of steam-breath. There was nothing to do but watch rime-crusted wilderness pass by. Each of the travellers battled boredom and frustration, retreated into daydreams and memories.

The samurai pulled a chart from his satchel and unfolded it. He studied the topographic pictograms, thought about the terrain they would have to negotiate in order to reach their destination.

‘Where are we?’ the girl asked, craning her neck to look.

‘About here.’ He pointed to the eastern edge of The Freshwater Sea. ‘And we’ll disembark here,’ he said, pointing at the northernmost shore of the vast lake. ‘It shouldn’t take too long. We’re making good progress.’

‘And after that?’

‘We’ll make the rest of the journey on foot. As I said before, we will have to avoid major roads. We’ll be crossing forests and hills. It’ll be a long, hard trek.’

‘You haven’t told us the goal of the mission,’ said the girl. ‘But the intent seems clear enough. You’ve been sent to kill the general.’

‘Yes.’

‘So after your attempt to assassinate the Emperor’s mother, after all that planning and effort, you have become her instrument.’

‘Yes.’

‘All because you took an oath.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You seem unconcerned.’

‘Have you ever heard the monks talk of karma? I believe there is an order to the world. The nun is a force for evil, motivated by cruelty and ambition. She will reap the consequences of her actions sooner or later. In the meantime we shall concentrate on the matter at hand.’

‘The castle. You intend to go in alone?’

‘I’ll do the killing. I’ll strike the blow. But it will take all of us, all our ingenuity and skill, to get inside.’

‘I’m coming with you. All the way. Don’t think you can leave me in a forest somewhere, minding the camp, waiting for your return. When you go in I’ll be at your side.’

A shout from the skipper. ‘Hey.’

The samurai followed the man’s gaze. A boat was drifting towards them on the current. It emerged out of the white vapour, indistinct at first, then growing in detail and solidity. A ghost ship. The sail was torn. There were no apparent crew. The skipper stood at the prow and hailed the boat.

‘Hey, anyone?’

The unmanned vessel continued straight towards them. There was no time to manoeuvre. The boats collided with a heavy jolt. The girl gripped the mast to avoid being tipped in the water. The samurai glanced towards the explosives lashed in the cargo pile, grateful the impact hadn’t triggered their detonation. The two vessels juddered as they slid alongside one another. The skipper jumped into the vacant boat and used a mooring rope to lash the two vessels together.

‘Look,’ said Masaie pointing upward. He clutched the talisman hung round his neck. The skeletal remains of a man nailed to the mast. His hands had been pulled above his head and an iron spike driven through both wrists. His crow-pecked face was turned towards the sky. He had no eyes and his mouth was taut open in a rictus scream.

The skipper checked the bottom of the boat. He pulled back a tarp exposing jumbled bodies. Arrows protruded from flesh.

‘A family,’ said the skipper, conducting a dispassionate survey of the carnage. ‘Father. Mother. Three children. From the angle of the arrows I’d say they died in position. Huddled at the bottom of the boat while a couple of men fired from the bank. Looks like she was trying to shield the children. Must have been close range. The arrows were at full velocity. They stabbed right through her and out the other side.’

‘They smell bad,’ said Ariyo.

‘Cold weather has slowed decomposition. They’ve been drifting dead for three, four days, at a guess.’

The skipper patted down their clothing. ‘No valuables. Light clothing. Bare feet.’

‘You think bandits did this?’ asked the girl

The samurai nodded. ‘We’re a long way from Kyoto. A long way from any law.’

‘They nailed him to the mast. They must be animals.’

‘Animals kill for food. They don’t relish another creature’s pain and fear. Only humans torture for fun.’

‘When do we get weapons?’ asked Ariyo, contemplating the arrow-pierced bodies.

‘As soon as we land,’ said the samurai.

‘We should have them now.’

‘When we land.’

‘What should we do with the bodies?’ asked the girl.

‘Nothing.’

‘We don’t have time to dig. But maybe we should light the boat. Make a pyre.’

‘Just let them be,’ said the samurai. ‘They are beyond our help.’

The skipper untethered the death boat and pushed it away with his foot. It caught the current and slowly drifted past. The samurai contemplated dense woodland at the shore. The girl stood beside him.

‘Savage times,’ he said. ‘War. Famine. They create monsters.’

She nodded, studying the shadows between the trees. She felt a skin-crawling sense they were under observation.

‘We’ll post a guard each night once we get ashore,’ said the samurai. ‘Take turns.’

The girl nodded, turned and watched the death boat drift away. The crucified man slowly receded, grew indistinct, and was lost behind a veil of white vapour.

The samurai checked his chart. ‘This is it,’ he told the company, gesturing to a headland emerging from the mist. ‘This is where we leave the boat.’

The skipper steered the boat towards the bank. The mate jumped onto the jetty and lashed the mooring rope to a piling while the skipper lowered the sail. The convicts glanced around, reluctant to leave the safety of the boat. The wild grassland seemed pregnant with threat as if the vegetation itself would attack and entwine their ankles as soon as they stepped onto firm ground.

‘We ought to get going,’ said the samurai. ‘Travel as far as we can before nightfall then find some tree cover.’

He climbed onto the jetty, rotted boards creaking beneath his feet. The convicts followed. The girl jumped last. She stretched and paced. It felt good to be on stable ground, to have freedom of movement.

The crewmen untied the cargo and threw the packages ashore. The skipper grabbed the package of explosives like he intended to hurl it from the boat.

‘Careful,’ shouted the samurai. The skipper handed him the package and the samurai gently placed it on the jetty planks. When the boat was fully unloaded the crewmen untethered the mooring rope and raised the sail.

‘Thank you,’ said the samurai as the boat pulled away. ‘Have a safe voyage.’

The skipper and his mate didn’t reply. The travellers had been cargo, nothing more. The consignment had been delivered. Time to head home.

The convicts watched the boat depart. It receded, turned the headland and was gone.

‘Let’s get the supplies on shore,’ said the samurai. ‘This jetty feels like it will collapse any moment.’

They laid the supplies on the grass. The samurai sorted through the equipment – furs, bows and dried food – and divided up the gear ready to be lashed to wooden pack-frames.

‘Best load up and get going. It will be nightfall soon.’

‘Weapons,’ said Ariyo. ‘You promised us weapons.’

The samurai untied a canvas roll and threw it open exposing a clutter of swords and knives. Each man picked a sword and drew it from its saya. They held the blades up to the light inspecting blood channels and temper-lines.

‘Careful with those,’ said the samurai. ‘We’re bound to meet a few locals over the coming days. Exercise a little self-control. Don’t get carried away just because you have steel in your hand. Keep your swords sheathed until we need them.’

The samurai pulled his own sword and saya from his obi. He looked at it a long while then he gave it to the girl.

‘It’s a good blade. Clay-forged. It’s yours now. Look after it.’

The girl looked at the sword in her hands, shocked that the samurai would give away something so fundamental to his identity.

‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘You’ll need a weapon.’

He picked an old sword from the canvas roll, testing it for balance.

‘This will do.’

Masaie untied a couple of sacks and shook out the contents.

‘Look. Armour.’

A jumble of helmets, breast plates, groin and shoulder guards. The samurai picked up a helmet and turned it in his hands.

‘That stuff is way too heavy to carry,’ he said, ‘although it might be useful to wear a cuirass beneath your kimono where no one can see it.’

‘You should wear one,’ said the girl.

‘I haven’t worn armour for a long while.’

‘You should put a chest plate beneath your clothes.’

The samurai nodded. He could no longer rely on swordcraft alone to prevail in a fight. He would need to protect himself from blows he could no longer block.

‘Take whatever armour you can wear concealed beneath your clothing,’ he instructed the convicts. ‘Throw the rest into the water.’

The men shouldered their packs.

‘Masaie. You’re carrying the munitions.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because you’re the best man for the task.’

‘We should draw straws.’

‘No, we can’t trust to luck. We need someone fit, strong and sure-footed. It has to be you.’

Masaie looked doubtfully at the pack.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Ariyo, slapping the man on the back. ‘If it explodes, you won’t know anything about it.’

Masaie carefully picked up the pack and put his arms through the straps. He was white with fear.

They team headed out thrashing through tall grass, each of them giving Masaie a wide berth. The samurai took the lead. The girl followed close behind.

Early evening. The convicts breasted a hill and looked down on a cluster of thatched houses centred round a single storey inn next to a river. Smoke curled from the flue. The hamlet was bathed in amber light.

‘We should keep going,’ the samurai advised the convicts. ‘Best if we camp out of sight.’

‘Maybe we should stay at the inn tonight,’ said Tameyo. ‘Conserve our food. Might even be able to buy provisions. Some eggs, maybe some chicken. We’d be warm and dry.’

The samurai shook his head. An evening spent in a tavern would present too many opportunities for the team to draw attention to themselves.

‘There’s a bounty out on our heads. News won’t have reached this far out. Not just yet. But a few days from now these folks will go to the nearest village and see a notice in the square. Somebody will read it to them and tell them about the reward. They’ll remember us. They’ll remember which direction we were headed.’

‘And we’ll be long gone. This is might be our last decent meal for a while. In fact this might be the last decent meal we ever eat. We deserve this.’

‘They won’t have any wine. Probably tasted nothing but water their whole lives.’

‘But they’ve got a fire and roof over their heads.’

‘All right,’ said the samurai, addressing the company. ‘We’ll stay the night. But don’t start any trouble, understand? That’s how most of you ended up in the stockade. Idiotic bravado. Time to exercise a little self-control. We eat. We sleep. We leave. Nothing more.’

The travellers pushed open the crude door and entered the inn. They stood a moment and let their eyes adjust. They found themselves in a wide, low-ceilinged room. They breathed the sweet smell of wood smoke from an open fire. Laughter, chatter and the clink of cups immediately ceased and all eyes turned on the new arrivals. The locals appraised scarred faces and noted swords half-hidden beneath cloaks. The samurai smiled and bowed trying to put the villagers at ease. ‘We are travellers looking for a little warmth on a cold night.’

‘Then close the door,’ shouted the innkeeper from the back of the room. ‘We’re losing heat.’

The samurai obediently closed the door but had to open it again as a man headed outside for a piss. He got jostled as the man pushed past.

‘So sorry,’ said the samurai with a gracious smile, bowing in apology.

Even with an arm missing the samurai could, if he chose, kill most of the men in the room. He could draw a short-blade knife and dance table to table, become a throat-slitting whirlwind. Instead he chose to retreat into himself, become a shadow, an absence. Become so insubstantial, so unthreatening, nobody was aware he was present.

He chose a spot by a wall and lowered himself onto the packed earth floor. The girl knelt beside him. The tavern was the large front room of a farmer’s house. He provided hospitality to his neighbours each evening. They brought rice and a few vegetables which got cooked up and shared around. The samurai had coins in his purse to pay for their meal but money was little use outside major cities. Rural communities ran a barter economy.

He signalled a maid. She brought a jug of water and cups. He gave her a bag of barley as payment for a night’s lodging. She ladled rice from a pot hung over the fire and returned a minute later with two steaming bowls. The samurai and the girl sat in silence and ate rice with their fingers. He hoped people would get the message: they were impoverished travellers passing through – a cripple and his daughter making a pilgrimage; nothing out of the ordinary. They sat back replete and pushed their empty bowls aside. The samurai stared across the room at the burning logs in the fire pit and watched flames dance. He rubbed tired eyes.

Masaie groped a couple of the maids. He sat near the fire with a girl either side, his arms round their waists. They talked and laughed. The girls hugged against him. The samurai scanned the crowd and tried to gauge the reaction of the locals. Maybe they would resent outsiders touching their women. A local farmer might hate to see Tameyo pawing his girl. He might tolerate local men heading out back with her but might draw the line at a stranger. Such a man might get resentful and take a swing. The samurai watched the convicts and watched the crowd, ready to step in if a fight seemed imminent.

Tameyo sat alone. He finished one bowl of food and signalled for another. He panted as he shovelled rice taking hurried gulps of water to wash down each mouthful so he could eat some more. It was the behaviour of a life-long criminal; a man subject to repeated and prolonged incarceration. Convicts imprisoned for many months on a subsistence diet of millet gruel tended to gorge themselves when they came across extra food. If they managed to steal a handful of rice from the prison cook, they would shove it into their mouth before one of their fellow convicts snatched it from their grasp. And once released they would eat incessantly.

The samurai had heard of a thief that developed a fixation for peaches while he was serving a term for robbery. He was part of a punishment crew charged with repairing road-bridges on the route from Nara to Kyoto. He dreamed of peaches while he cut logs and hauled lumber. He couldn’t think of anything else. It became a mania. He would lie on the grass each night, shivering beneath a blanket and stare up at the stars fantasising about the taste and texture of the fruit while his fellow prisoners slept. He was released late spring. He didn’t make it further than the nearest peach orchard. Locals saw him staggering through the orchard, pockets full of fruit, peach in each hand. He gorged himself. Juice ran down his chin and soaked his shirt. He ate until he puked then ate some more. They had to overpower the man and tie him up before he ate himself to death.

Ariyo sat in shadows with his back to the wall. He ate slow and surveyed the room, alert for any sign of challenge or threat. The samurai caught his eye. They stared each other down. The samurai’s expression said: Relax. We don’t need trouble.

The girl looked around. ‘It’s good to be warm. It’s good to be surrounded by people.’

The samurai nodded. The girl watched the maids chatter and laugh. They were local girls, probably orphans with no one to support them, making the best of the only opportunity this rural backwater had to offer.

Maybe they laughed to please the men. Perhaps when the last revellers staggered from the inn and the night was done their faces relaxed into masks of misery and exhaustion. Or maybe they were genuinely happy. They were warm, they were fed, they didn’t have to work the fields. Or maybe the line between pretence and genuine emotion merged years ago and they no longer knew the difference.

She could hear a rising wind outside. The shutters rattled. The flue in the ceiling whistled and moaned. The tavern keeper crossed the room and threw sacking at the foot of the door to block a draft.

The samurai took the opportunity to ask the man about bandits.

‘Yes, they’re out there,’ said the tavern keeper, gesturing to the darkness that lay beyond the wattle walls of the farmstead. ‘Bands of starving folk, some of them ex-soldiers. They hunt like wolves but won’t attack the village itself. They won’t attack a tavern full of men, but they steal livestock. And they’ll lie in wait and pick off isolated travellers. So wherever you folks are going, go as a group. Cover as much ground as you can in daylight. Hide yourselves each night. Don’t drop your guard for a second.’

The evening grew late. One by one the villagers got up, said farewell to their companions and returned to their homes.

When the room was near empty and conversation had died away the girl pulled the hichiriki from her waistband and began to play.

The convicts were lulled by the music. It soothed like a mother’s caress taking them back to childhood, to the very cusp of memory, that brief taste of happiness before they were brutalised by poverty and the desperate hour-by-hour struggle to survive.

The men sat round the fire, lost in thought and watched the flames slowly die.

Commander Raku and his men climbed a hill on the coast of The Freshwater Sea, riding parallel to a cliff edge. They pulled fur cloaks around themselves as the night wind grew strong. The landscape was lit by intermittent moonlight. They couldn’t see the lake beneath them, but they could hear waves lap the shore.

‘We ought to rest the horses,’ said Tadatoo.

‘No,’ said Raku. ‘They’ve got a two-day head start but the bad weather will have slowed them down. We can make up time if we keep moving.’

He flicked the reins and urged his horse onward along the moonlit hillside.

The convicts laboured through tall grass. Flat terrain replaced by steep gradients as they approached a range of wooded hills. They entered a gorge. Mist clung to the valley walls. They forged a path through a succession of bamboo thickets. The samurai walked at their head beating back brush with his sword.

‘We should camp,’ called Tameyo from the back of the column. He stopped for a moment and stretched his back.

‘Couple of miles further. Let’s get as far as we can in daylight,’ Said the samurai, hacking thick bamboo stalks. He paused now and again and watched the treetops. If birds suddenly took flight, or if the woodland around them grew preternaturally quiet, it might warn of an ambush. The gorge was the kind of place bandits might secret themselves between raids.

The team continued down the valley single file. The forest canopy blocked out the sun. They moved through dappled twilight. Masaie stepped carefully. He surveyed the ground ahead of him, anxious not to be tripped by a rock or a protruding root.

‘We should have skirted these hills,’ he said, sweating from the weight of the cargo and the fear of being blown to apart.

‘We need to keep off the roads,’ said the samurai. ‘Avoid any border checkpoints.’

‘I don’t like this place. Too many shadows.’

‘We’re not children. We’re men. We don’t have to be afraid of the dark.’

They reached a waterfall where run-off from the hills cascaded into a deep plunge-pool. They drank and washed, rested and raised their faces to weak sunlight. Tameyo and Masaie stripped naked and swam.

The girl massaged her sore feet. Ariyo prowled the edge of the clearing and kept watch.

‘So what about you?’ asked the girl.’

‘What about me?’ said Ariyo. He paced back and forth and peered into undergrowth.

‘How did you find yourself in the stockade?

‘Why do you care?’

‘It’s a long journey. I’d like to know who is walking by my side.’

‘I killed a man.’

‘Why?’

‘We met in the street. We’d both been drinking. He wouldn’t step aside and neither would I. A few angry words, a little push and shove. He slipped, hit his head on cobbles and that was the end of him.’

‘Doesn’t sound like a capital offence. You didn’t intend to kill him.’

‘He was the nephew of a treasury official. I didn’t expect any justice and I didn’t get any.’

The samurai found a small Buddhist prayer pillar hidden in undergrowth near the falls. He tore away a couple of maple branches to expose the weathered figurine, knelt in front of the pillar and prayed.

The samurai continued to hack through undergrowth. He slashed through a curtain of bamboo and emerged onto a forest track. He held up his hand and brought the company to a halt. He crouched and inspected churned soil.

‘Bandits. Or soldiers. Lots of them. They passed along here a few days ago. See? Overlapping prints. They headed up this path then marched back down later on.’

They cautiously followed the track. As they turned a bend the samurai brought the group to a halt once more and mimed hush. They hid in bushes. The girl pushed forward and took position next to the samurai. They could see a small hamlet through the trees – four huts arranged in a semi-circle. Stacked lumber and half-cut logs. Evidently the place was home to an extended family of carpenters. There was no movement. No people. No dogs, pigs, or chickens. An air of ominous desolation hung over the clearing.

‘Wait here,’ said the samurai. He pushed through the bamboo and reached the clearing. He walked into the centre of the hamlet and looked around. There were domestic items scattered on the ground. A pot lid. A crushed basket. A discarded sandal.

He signalled for the others to join him. They emerged from the undergrowth and surveyed the abandoned buildings. No one spoke. No need to discuss the massacre which had obviously taken place. They could smell death. A stench, a buzz of flies, carried on the air from behind trees to the east. None of them felt inclined to investigate.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ said the samurai.

They continued up the forest track and left the village behind.

‘I think we’re being followed,’ the girl told the samurai. ‘I can’t be sure. Just a feeling. Someone has been watching us since we entered the forest.’

‘Yes,’ said the samurai, looking round at undergrowth. Gut instinct told him they were not alone. ‘Yes, I think you might be right.’

She gestured to the village behind them. ‘Bandits?’

‘They must be desperate. Or extremely stupid. Most bandits learn to tithe local farmsteads rather than destroy them. Seize a little rice, snatch some livestock. It’s not in their interests to wipe everyone out.’

‘Do you think they’ll take us on?’

‘Not right now. But when night comes, when we set camp, we should be ready.’

The convicts laboured through thick underbrush. Daylight was waning and the forest began to fill with threatening shadow.

‘It’ll be dark soon,’ complained Tameyo. ‘We should stop.’

‘A little further,’ said the samurai. ‘Let’s try to find ourselves a decent place to spend the night.’

They kept walking. The girl kept pace with the men. At the outset of the journey she worried she might be an encumbrance and slow the company down but she was pleased to have kept up with the group and to have carried her share of the supplies.

She glimpsed something between the trees; the weathered beams and stonework of a partially collapsed building. ‘Is it some kind of palace?’ she asked as they drew closer.

‘I can’t imagine anyone would build a manor house this deep in the wilderness,’ said the samurai.

They hacked through bamboo and found themselves in front of the vine-draped façade of a temple. The stone walls were cracked and crumbled by subsidence. Bark roof shingles were scattered on the forest floor.

‘They must have hauled these blocks for miles. It must have taken hundreds of men,’ said Tameyo, stroking one of the walls.

‘Look,’ said Masaie. ‘Full-grown trees through the flagstones. The place has stood here for generations.’

The samurai looked up. Light was failing. ‘We should stop here for the night,’ he said.

‘This place?’ said Masaie. ‘No. Anywhere but here.’

‘These walls will give us wind-shelter. This is a good place to build a fire and rest.’

Masaie fingered the leather pouch hung round his neck. He regarded the ruins with undisguised dread.

‘Must have been built by the ancient clans,’ said Tameyo.

The rest of the party shifted foot-to-foot and looked around. They were exhausted but reluctant to make camp in such grim surroundings.

‘Time we cooked and ate,’ said the samurai, using the prospect of food as an enticement. He climbed steps and brushed creepers aside. He ducked through the arch and entered the interior of the ruined building. The convicts reluctantly followed his lead.

They found themselves in a vast roofless hall. Forest grass and stunted trees erupted from beneath buckled flagstones. A huge stone monkey lay on its side, sinking into the ground like it was slowly descending to the centre of the earth. The girl stroked weathered pine beams discoloured by moss and lichen.

‘Looks like a temple to Sarutahiko Ōkami,’ said the samurai. ‘He who dwells at the junction of the eight roads to heaven.’

‘We might be the first people to set foot in this place for a dozen lifetimes,’ the girl said, kicking at leaves littering the floor.

The samurai picked a corner spot, the intersection of two semi-intact walls. ‘This is a good place for a fire. Good shelter.’

The convicts threw their packs on the ground. Masaie carefully unhitched the consignment of explosives and laid it on flagstones well away from the planned fire. The samurai picked up a branch and tried to snap it with a stamp of his foot. He stumbled. The girl pretended not to notice as he struggled with his disability. She broke a couple of branches over her knee and began to build the fire. She scrunched some dead grass, crouched and sparked a flint. It took a while for the wet sticks to catch light. They steamed and popped in the flames.

Masaie and Ariyo checked out the roofless hall. A gnarled tree had erupted through the centre of the floor splintering flagstones. Tendrillar roots snaked across the slabs.

‘No time to set traps,’ said Masaie.

‘No.’

‘Seems we’ll be eating dry rations.’

‘Yes.’

They looked around at deepening shadows.

‘Ever seen a ghost?’ asked Masaie. ‘I have. Felt them all my life. Moving around and through me. Spirits. In the street, in the barracks. I feel them.’

‘Do you feel them now?’ asked Ariyo.

‘Yes. We’re not alone.’

The company sat round the fire and warmed their hands.

‘We’re being followed,’ said the samurai. ‘We’ve been tracked ever since we entered the forest.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Tameyo.

‘Instinct tells me someone is out there, watching us, right now.’

‘We’ve made ourselves very visible,’ said Tameyo, gesturing to the fire. ‘We’re practically inviting them to attack.’

‘That’s the idea,’ said the samurai. ‘If there’s to be a confrontation, let’s choose the time and place. So keep calm. If I’m right, if there are hostiles watching us from the forest, they’ll attack later tonight. They’ll watch us eat and settle to sleep. They’ll wait a while and make their move. But we’ll be ready.’

Droplets of water hit the campfire with a hiss. The samurai looked up.

‘Here comes the rain.’

Night fell. The commander and his men were soaked in the saddle by torrential rain and leant forward to shield their faces from the downpour. They urged their horses onward down the forest track.

‘We need to stop,’ shouted Tadasue, struggling to be heard over the deluge.

The commander turned in his saddle to face his companions and wiped water from his eyes.

‘They’ll stop. The assassins. They’ll take shelter from the rain. That’s why we must keep going. This is our chance to overtake them.’

‘The horses are dead on their feet, Commander-sama. They have to rest.’

Raku mulled it over. The imperative to keep moving pitched against the need to rest their horses. He reluctantly nodded assent. ‘We’ll stop. But just for a couple of hours.’

They continued onward down the track, peering around in the failing light, looking for cover.

They rode through woodland, ducking low branches as the horses picked through the brush. They reached a rock face. They rode parallel with the rocks a while until they found an overhang wide enough for the men and their horses to shelter from the rain. Tadatoo found some sticks, broke them over his knee and built a fire.

‘A waste of time,’ said the commander, watching the man work. ‘We aren’t going to be here that long.’

‘The horses need rest, a proper rest. And so do I.’

Raku normally wouldn’t accept such insolence from a subordinate. If a regular infantryman dared to speak to him in such a manner he would have had him executed on the spot. But Tadatoo and Tadasue were a couple of Motohide’s most experienced men. Veteran troops that had risen up and out of the ranks and were now part of an elite cadre that could be entrusted with a covert mission. They had earned their autonomy.

Tadatoo knelt next to the woodpile, struck a flint and tried to spark damp tinder. The commander stood at the cave mouth. It was too dark to see much. He listened to torrential rain beat the forest leaves.

‘Every minute we waste, our quarry gets closer to the general,’ he said. ‘You can bet the assassin won’t rest until he has reached his objective.’

‘And if our horses collapse under us?’ asked Tadasue. ‘What then? Travel on foot with packs on our backs? We have to pace ourselves.’

Tadasue and Tadatoo sat close to the flames and warmed their hands. The commander paced a while then sat beside them. He stared into the dancing firelight and waited for the rain to stop.

They rode into a village. Relentless rain had turned the square to a quagmire. The horses stood ankle deep in mud. The ponies shook their heads, tried to get water out of their eyes and ears.

The commander jumped from his horse. The hamlet was deserted. The villages had retreated to their homes. ‘Imperial business,’ he shouted. ‘Come out of your houses.’

Doors remained closed. The commander walked to the nearest house and climbed the plank-steps. He pulled back the tatami curtain that screened the doorway.

‘You in there.’

A family clustered round a fire – women, children and an old man. Their scared faces were lit by flame-light. Raku stepped inside and stood over them.

‘I’m looking for a samurai,’ said Raku. ‘A man with one arm. He’s most likely travelling with friends.’

‘We haven’t seen him,’ said the old man.

‘Have you seen anyone at all? Any strangers come through here?’

‘No one. Just you.’

‘You’re sure? Could you have missed them?’

‘Ask at the inn,’ said the old man. ‘It’s the other side of the square. If anyone passed by, the folks at the tavern would know.’

Raku left the hut. He pulled the curtain back across the doorway and headed across the square.

Raku pounded the wooden door of the tavern until the innkeeper opened up. ‘Imperial business,’ he stated.

They stood in the doorway and shook water from their cloaks. The innkeeper knelt, bowed and pressed his forehead to the floor. He relit the fire and brought water.

‘Don’t you have any wine?’ asked Tadatoo.

The innkeeper disappeared into a backroom and returned with a dusty shō of saké. He emptied the bottle into a kettle and hung it over the fire to warm.

‘Do you have any food?’ asked Raku.

The innkeeper brought salted fish. They ate.

‘Sit,’ said Raku.

The innkeeper nervously knelt beside them.

‘We have horses. They need to be fed.’

‘I have some oats. Not much. But some.’

‘Good. Feed them later.’

The men propped their feet in front of the fire and let their leather boots steam dry while the innkeeper poured saké and handed round bowls

‘Has anyone passed through here lately?’ asked Raku. ‘Any strangers?’

The innkeeper hesitated, reluctant to get involved in city affairs.

‘There were some men here last night. They didn’t have much to say. They ate, they spent the night on the floor and then they left in the morning.’

‘Describe them.’

‘They wore ordinary travelling clothes. Some of them carried old swords but that’s nothing unusual round here. No one travels without a weapon.’

‘What about the men themselves? What did you make of them?’

‘A couple of them had scarred faces. Old soldiers, perhaps. They paid. They didn’t cause any trouble.’

‘How many of them were there?’

‘Three. And a cripple.’

‘A cripple?’

‘A man with one arm. He was with his daughter.’

‘And they were here last night you say?’

The innkeeper nodded.

‘You know the roads round here,’ said the commander. ‘How far could they travel in a day?’

‘Not far. Most roads are impassable.’

The commander drained his cup and got to his feet. ‘Feed the horses. We need to get going,’ he ordered.

The innkeeper hurried away to comply. Raku turned to his men.

‘We’re gaining ground. We’re almost upon them.’

They climbed back in the saddle. The rain didn’t let up. The track leading from the village began to flood. Hooves churned mud. Raku’s newly dried clothes were soaked once more.

‘They’re only a few hours ahead of us,’ said the commander. ‘We can close the distance.’

‘So what’s the plan, Commander-sama?’ asked Tadatoo. ‘You wanted to overtake them, reach the castle and warn the general. Have you changed your mind? Do you want to take them on?’

‘We have a chance to surprise them, a chance to wipe them out. We can’t waste this opportunity.’

‘Three soldiers and a cripple,’ said Tadasue, mulling the odds.

‘Don’t discount the cripple. He is a veteran shinobi. His companions will be easy to overcome. He is the true threat.’

‘A shinobi with one arm,’ said Tadatoo. ‘What can he do? He’s not a daemon. He’s just a man. A crippled man.’

‘Never underestimate a dedicated bugeisha. It’ll be your last mistake. He doesn’t fight for a wage. The sword is his life, his Way. He will have put dozens of men, experienced warriors, in the ground. Men who were supremely confident of their skill with a blade. Men like you.’

Raku looked up. Clouds had begun to disperse and the moon shone clear.

They reached the forest. Their horses shied and refused to enter the undergrowth. Raku left the track and found a break in the treeline. Bamboo had been cut back with a sword creating a dark passageway into the woods.

‘Seems our friends have been kind enough to make a path.’

Raku pulled a torch from his pack. Wood bound with rope and dipped in tar. He lit it with a flint, geed his horse and advanced into the forest holding the flame above his head, Tadatoo and Tadasue following behind.

The samurai and the girl explored the spectral ruins. They crept among deep shadows and pools of silver moonlight. They walked across the acre of buckled flagstones that had once been a grand hall. The girl imagined the hall roofed and restored, the space filled with incense and candlelight and hundreds of robed men bowing in obeisance to their monkey god.

‘This must have been a monastery,’ said the samurai. ‘Maybe they cleared some of the forest for farmland. All gone now, of course. Trees grown back. Fields overwhelmed by bamboo. You can’t oppose nature. You can hold it back a little while but it wins in the end.’

The samurai found a couple of lengths of bamboo, tore away stalks and tossed one to the girl. The girl probed a broken flagstone with her foot.

‘The ground is uneven.’

‘Novice swordsmen often practise barefoot with broken pots scattered on the ground Any moment of inattention is instantly punished.’

‘Did you train like that?’

‘My feet still bear the scars.’

They faced each other. The samurai swung at her head. She blocked. She swung at his right side. He blocked. They danced backwards and forwards trading blows. She felt awkward striking a man with one arm, a man who had to defend one-handed, but he would expect nothing but her most intense, competitive attack.

The samurai’s missing arm left him vulnerable to attack from the left. She exploited this disadvantage, made him work to block a succession of strikes. It was no longer a fight between teacher and pupil. They were both novices, both learning how to survive.

A feint, like she was about to swing at the samurai’s ankles, then she swung at his head. It was a killing blow intended to lop his head from his shoulders. He blocked the blow without effort, twirled the staff and brought it down in a blur coming to a halt gently resting against her neck. She smiled, acknowledging defeat. They resumed their fight.

‘You think they’re watching?’ she asked as she blocked and manoeuvred.

‘Yes, I think so. They, whoever they are, are out in the tree line right now, watching our every move.’

The girl took a surreptitious glance at the back of the hall. The wall had collapsed leaving the rear of the hall open to the forest. The deep shadows between the trees were pregnant with menace.

‘I can feel eyes on me.’

‘Heightens the senses, doesn’t it?’

They continued to trade blows.

‘Be calm. Let your reactions become instinctive. I can read your thoughts. I can see every move before you make it. I can see your muscles clench as you prepare to strike. Try to be unreadable.’

She relaxed, let tension drain from her arms and shoulders, let her face become an impassive mask. She would become like wind, like water.

‘It comes from down here,’ he said, patting his gut. ‘Not up here.’ He tapped his temple.

They continued the fight. Their sandaled feet rasped and scuffed on crooked stones. Their poles cracked as they slammed together.

‘In some ways I’m sad to see you with a weapon in your hand,’ said the samurai. ‘I wanted you to have a long and happy life.’

‘My life. My choice.’

She sliced at his ankles. He evaded the blow with a light skip but signalled a halt until a brief coughing fit had passed.

‘To be a samurai is to live with death, to be ready to step out of life anytime,’ he said, like he was lecturing himself. ‘Only then can you act without hesitation, without fear. That’s what my master used to tell me. I don’t think I fully understood what he meant until now.’

The girl nodded and parried a blow. The impact made her hands ache.

‘Don’t allow yourself to be lulled into a rhythm,’ advised the samurai. ‘Your opponent will use it against you. The moment he feels you adopting a smooth back-and-forth flow, he’ll pull a quick double-strike and take you down.’

She drove the stick straight at his belly. He knocked it clean out of her hands. It clattered across flagstones.

‘That’s enough, for now,’ he said throwing his staff aside. His shoulders sagged as if weighed down by age and illness. They faced each other and bowed low, then headed back to the campfire.

‘Are you ready for combat?’ asked the samurai.

‘Yes.’

‘You may have to fight a man face-to-face. You will enter that strange zone where time comes to a standstill. The prolonged moment when your will to survive is pitted against his. It lasts an eternity, and it is over in an instant.’

‘Understood.’

‘The moon. Is it quarter, half or full? No, don’t turn round and look. Just tell me.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You should notice,’ said the samurai. ‘You should notice everything. ’

She nodded.

‘When it’s time to fight, keep the light behind you, if you can. You will be nothing but a silhouette. Your opponent won’t be able to read your face, whereas you will be able to see your opponent in detail and anticipate his every move.’

They sat round the camp fire. The samurai addressed Ariyo.

‘It’s your turn to cook.’

Ariyo snorted in derision and spat into the flames.

‘Everyone takes a turn,’ said the samurai. ‘I cooked yesterday. Masaie cooked the day before that.’

‘Women’s work,’ said Ariyo, gesturing to the girl. ‘What about her? She can boil a pot.’

‘She’s not your maid.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Tameyo, trying to diffuse the argument.

‘No,’ said the samurai. ‘It’s his turn.’

Ariyo stared the samurai down like he wanted to kill the man. The samurai calmly stared back. Neither of them moved. Exquisite stillness as each of them waited for the other to snatch their swords from their sayas. Ariyo broke the moment. He got to his feet and turned his back like he intended to walk away.

‘Don’t,’ advised the samurai. He gestured to the treeline. ‘Don’t go out there alone.’ Ariyo looked at the moonlit forest and moment then reluctantly sat down. Tameyo filled a pot with water from a skin and hung it over the fire to boil rice.

‘Can’t say I’m hungry,’ said Masaie.

‘Eat anyway,’ said the samurai. ‘We’re being watched. We need to act as normal as possible.’

They sat round the camp fire and ate a while.

‘The forest has gone quiet,’ said the girl. An expectant hush had settled on the woodland around them.

The samurai nodded. ‘They’re here. I can feel them. They’ve moving in close. Probably only a few yards away from us. They’re ready, waiting for the moment to attack.’

He looked around at the men. Anxious faces lit by flame light.

‘You want to run, don’t you?’ he said. ‘I can see it in your eyes. Each of you tempted to flee into the woods, abandon the mission, abandon everything. I understand. A perfectly reasonable instinct. A rational man will always seek to avoid danger. But you need to put it from your mind. This is hostile territory. None of us stand a chance on our own. Our only hope is to keep together and act like soldiers.’

The convicts reluctantly nodded agreement.

‘Good luck, everyone,’ said the samurai. He got up and stretched before raising his voice. ‘Well. Goodnight.’

He retreated to the deep shadows beneath a wall. He unfurled his bedroll and lay down.

‘What if they have archers?’ said Masaie, prodding the rice in his bowl, pretending to eat.

‘Then this will be a short fight,’ said Ariyo. He glanced at the moonlit treeline while discretely adjusting his obi and sword.

‘I should have worn a chest plate,’ muttered Tameyo

They sat in silence a while.

‘We ought to talk,’ said the girl. ‘We should make an effort to look relaxed.’

‘So talk.’

She contemplated her companions. Frightened faces lit by firelight.

‘So what will you do?’ she asked. ‘All of you. If you make it through this, if you get back to Kyoto and receive a pardon. What will you do with your lives?’

Tameyo shook his head with a wry smile.

‘If you were Emperor, what would you do with men like us if we returned from a clandestine mission? Let us tell our tale in tavern after tavern? Convicts. Lowlifes. The kind of scum who will take a solemn oath of silence, swear on all they hold dear, then next day break their vow for the price of a drink. No. We are dead men, no matter what. Our reward for undertaking this mission is this moment, right here and now. We should have been executed. Instead we enjoy a few more days of life. That’s all we get.’

‘I’m not giving up that easily,’ said Masaie. ‘I heard they keep our families in the debtor’s prison next to the river. I’ve seen the entrance. It’s poorly guarded. A couple of bored sentries manning a gate. If I make it back, I’ll snatch my wife and son then flee Kyoto. Don’t know where I’ll go after that. Maybe I can find work on the coast. A new name. A new life.’

The samurai listened to his companions talk. He lay on his side and scanned the tree line. He watched shifting shadows, moonlight projected through branches disturbed by the wind. He squirmed deeper into shadows hoping the attention of any unseen observers would be focused on folk sitting round the fire. He crouched and drew his sword. He got to his feet and stood with his back to the wall. He looked away from the fire and surveyed the darkness surrounding the camp. Crumbling walls overwhelmed by rot and forest growth. He picked a central spot and stared. A technique he had been taught by his master: if you are searching for an enemy in low light, use the periphery of your vision. It is more sensitive to movement than the central focus of your gaze.

There it was. A tell-tale shift in shadows twenty paces to his left. Plenty of twigs and vines were shaking in the wind but something moved among them with controlled, muscular deliberation that betrayed the presence of man stalking prey. The samurai slid along the wall. He padded silently towards the shape. He insinuated his way through shadows, each foot finding firm purchase on buckled stones before he lifted the other.

He watched an archer crouched on the top of the toppled money god draw back his bow. A look of grim determination as he took aim at the silhouettes seated round the campfire. He was unaware of the samurai hiding in shadows to his left. He prepared to loose his arrow then gave a muffled choking cough as he samurai lunged and drove the tip of his katana clean through the archer’s thorax.

Moonlight allowed the samurai to see the expression of astonishment on the archer’s face. The man turned towards the samurai like he intended to speak but then his eyes rolled and he toppled forward. He released the bow. The mis-aimed arrow buried itself in the fire sending up a shower of sparks.

The girl and the convicts rolled clear of the fire as arrows whistled from the treeline. They scrambled to put themselves behind a clump of underbrush and covered their heads as arrows sliced through the thicket splintering bamboo.

Ariyo crawled the length of a large toppled trunk, knife in hand. He looked up and saw an archer above him silhouetted against the stars. The man was trying to thread a bow with trembling hands. Ariyo reached up, gripped the man’s ankle and pulled him from the trunk. The archer emitted a terrified scream as he fell to the ground meeting Ariyo’s knife on the way down. The tip drove beneath his chin up into his brain. Ariyo wrenched the knife free. The man was dead but Ariyo took out his eyes with a quick double-stab anyway. He looked around for the next assailant.

Masaie drew his sword, screamed and charged. He hurled his katana so it became a spinning, scything wheel of flickering moonlight. His opponent ducked. Masaie barrelled into the man and they hit the floor. They wrestled. A wretched looking creature. He stank. His clothes were rags.

Masaie sat on the man’s chest and pummelled his head, punching left and right, breaking cheekbones, breaking teeth. The man flailed then his movements grew feeble as he began to lose consciousness.

Masaie sat back a moment. His knuckles were abraded raw and dripping blood. He picked up a rock and shattered his opponent’s skull. The stricken man’s body trembled. His legs danced – last signals from a damaged brain.

Masaie experienced a sudden flashback to the time he saw a young fisherman dive for the wreck of a ship that went down off the southern coast carrying a cargo of porcelain. The man dove deep, too deep, and went into spasm when he reached the surface. He thrashed and flailed on deck while his friends tried to hold him down. After a while he lay still, eyes staring sightlessly at the sky. He was taken back to the fishing village where he lay in bed for days, spoon-fed, staring at the ceiling, until he developed a wracking cough and died.

Masaie looked down at his hands. They were slick with blood black as tar in the moonlight. He wiped his hands on the dying man’s cloak and got to his feet. He stamped on the bandit’s shattered head as a mercy.

Tameyo drew his sword and stood circling at the centre of the ruined hall. ‘Get out here,’ he screamed at shadows. He twirled the sword and cut the air. ‘Come on. Face me.’

Bushes were thrashed aside and a man emerged from the undergrowth holding a knife. He was emaciated, his face part-obscured by a veil of greasy, matted hair. He took a couple of hesitant steps towards Tameyo and adjusted his grip on the knife.

‘Ready to die?’ screamed Tameyo.

The man threw down his knife and fled. Tameyo gave chase. He hurled his sword. The blade tangled the man’s legs and brought him to his knees. The man scrambled to his feet and glanced behind him in terror as Tameyo approached. He whimpered in fear. He resumed his flight, ran headfirst into a wall and knocked himself out.

The girl watched the battle unfold. A moment of adrenalin-fuelled indecision as she tried to decide which fight to join. Instinct told her to run to the samurai, but he would be least in need of help. She should back up the convicts and make sure they didn’t get jumped. She took a couple of steps towards Masaie but a man stepped from shadow and blocked her path. She backed up and found herself hemmed into a corner, the intersection between two buckled, vine covered walls. Cold dread sapped her strength and left her trembling. The man held a sword. The blade reflected moonlight and shone like he was holding a staff of pure, white light. He approached the girl with his sword raised.

‘Please,’ she whispered. She edged left, putting the moon at her back and got a clear view of the man’s face. He looked starved and exhausted. The man took a couple of steps forward to match her retreat and stumbled on a lose flagstone. The girl gave a banshee scream, unsheathed her sword and drove the katana into the man’s belly. He stepped back in surprise. He looked down at the spreading red stain above his belly button. He dropped his sword and clumsily tore at his clothes like he intended to plug the wound. His legs gave out and he sprawled on his back. The girl stood over him, sword gripped tip-down like a dagger. She screamed and stabbed him in the chest five times in quick succession. He convulsed each time the blade punctured his lungs. The last stab drove straight through his heart. He gave a final, bubbling exhalation as he died.

Masaie crouched and looked around. He tried to estimate numbers, tried to assess how many attackers they faced. Not many. A handful of weak, unfed bandits. He felt a sudden pang of disappointment as he realised the fight would be over almost as soon as it began. He was hungry for another kill.

He glimpsed movement on the other side of the courtyard. He could see someone in the shadows, observing the action, trying to judge whether they should attack or retreat. It looked like the man’s attention was fixed on Ariyo. He was trying to summon the courage to run at Ariyo while his back was turned and drive a blade into his spine.

Masaie dropped his knife. The dead man beside him had a longbow and a quiver of arrows. He snatched up the bow, strung an arrow and fired at the figure. He heard a distant yell of pain. Branches thrashed as the injured man fled into the forest. He looked around. He saw Tameyo chase a man across the courtyard. Masaie snatched up his sword and ran in pursuit. Tameyo’s quarry ran into a wall and knocked himself out. Tameyo stood over the prone man unaware that two figures had emerged from the moonlit treeline behind him, knives drawn.

‘Dogs,’ yelled Masaie. He picked up a chunk of flagstone and hurled it at the men. They fled back into the undergrowth.

‘Thank you,’ said Tameyo.

They examined the unconscious man sprawled at the foot of the wall.

‘He’s still alive.’

‘Let’s see what he has to say.’

They grabbed an arm each and dragged the bandit back towards the camp.

The samurai stood at the centre of the derelict space with his sword raised and listened to the forest silence around him. He studied the treeline. No movement. The skirmish was over. The remaining attackers had fled back into the woods. He wiped his sword clean on a dead man’s cloak then re-sheathed.

‘We did it,’ said Tameyo, face flush with victory. ‘We won.’

The samurai nodded. ‘Is anyone hurt?’ he asked.

They looked around. Each convict stood alone in the moonlight, victor of their own personal battle.

They threw the unconscious man by the fire.

The girl sat cross-legged beside the bandit she killed, sword in her lap. The samurai stood beside her and regarded the corpse. The bandit lay on his back, multiple stab wounds, chest wet with blood that steamed in the cool night air.

‘Do you remember the first time you killed a man face-to-face?’ she asked.

‘I was a boy,’ said the samurai, crouching down beside her. ‘I left my village and became a traveller. I went place to place, studied bushido when the chance arose. One day I was walking down a track between towns when I met a boy much like myself. He challenged me to duel and I accepted. It was the life both of us had chosen – the life of a bugeisha. Travel, seek out a worthy opponent then fight to the death. So we prayed together, then fought by the side of the road, fought with wooden staffs. He landed a few heavy blows. He swung low and nearly broke my legs. Thought I was out-classed. Thought I was a dead man. But he dropped his guard for an instant, let his concentration flag. So I hit him on the side of the head. Later, I dug dirt with my hands and buried him by the side of that road. Never even knew his name.’

‘How did you feel?’

‘Exhilarated to be alive. For the next few days the grass was intensely green and the sky impossibly blue.’

She nodded.

‘It’s cold,’ said the samurai. ‘You should sit by the fire.’

‘Do you think they’ll be back?’ asked Tameyo.

‘No,’ said the samurai. ‘We killed most of them. The remaining men won’t be foolish enough to try again.’ He looked up at the starlit sky and tried to estimate time by the revolution of the constellations. ‘It’ll be a while before sunrise. We had best stay here until first light. Put more wood on the fire. I doubt any of us will sleep tonight.’

Masaie contemplated the bodies sprawled on the buckled flagstones.

‘Look at them. Desperate bunch. Starved. Filthy.’

Tameyo nodded. ‘Almost feel sorry for them.’

‘Wish we had some wine. Whole lake of wine.’

‘We should move these corpses. Don’t want to be looking at them all night.’

They grabbed the dead men by the wrists, hauled them to the trees and dumped them in undergrowth. They sat round the fire and stared into the flames. Five faces lit by dancing light. Post-battle euphoria: each of them exhilarated to be alive, every sensation painfully sharp.

‘We should keep look-out,’ said the girl. ‘Just in case.’

The samurai nodded. The remaining bandits wouldn’t attack. Not unless starvation and despair had left them yearning for death. But the convicts were in hostile territory and he couldn’t allow them to become careless. A true warrior should be constantly on guard. Waking. Sleeping. Always on the battlefield, the samurai’s master used to say. Always on the battlefield.

‘We’ll take turns to keep watch,’ he said, addressing the company. ‘Right now, you feel alert, more awake than you’ve ever been. But in while exhaustion will hit. So, when it’s your turn on lookout, walk around. Don’t sit staring into the fire.’

Ariyo crouched and examined the captive lying sprawled on the stones. ‘She’s waking up,’ said Ariyo.

‘She?’

The bandit woke squirming, her limbs bound by twine. Her eyelids were gummed closed by dried blood. She prised them open and saw men standing over her, looking down. She tried to crawl away but the samurai blocked her path and sat cross-legged in front of her.

‘Who are you?’

The woman didn’t reply. She glanced around in terror.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Ako,’ she said.

‘You’re not a fighter, are you?’

‘From the village.’ She gestured south down the valley towards the empty huts the team had passed earlier that day.

‘What happened?’

‘Soldiers came. They raped and murdered for sport. A few of us fled into the forest and survived.’

‘Why did you attack?’ asked the samurai. ‘What did you want from us?’

‘Food. Warm clothing.’

‘You should have asked. We would have shared. Come over here, by the fire.’

The woman dragged herself towards the flames.

‘These soldiers are still in the area, neh? Is that why you haven’t left the forest and travelled elsewhere?’

The woman nodded.

‘Here,’ said the samurai. He handed the woman a flask and let her drink.

‘Those of us that survived the raid approached a village to the north,’ she said. ‘A little hamlet a few miles from here. Too small to deserve a name. We have been trading with them for generations. Meat. Grain. Leather. We know their names, they know ours. When we arrived we discovered they had fortified their village, erected a palisade in case the soldiers decide to descend on their hamlet and wipe it out. We approached the gate and shouted for help but the villagers pelted us with rocks and drove us away.’

‘Do you have any idea where these soldiers are from?’

‘They are the Daimyō’s men.’

‘They have no commander?’

‘These are lawless times. Soldiers. Bandits. There is no difference. They watch the roads, steal from travellers.’

The samurai nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘Maybe we could help them,’ said the girl gesturing to the captive. ‘These villagers. They have no food, no shelter. They are more deserving of our aid than the Emperor.’

‘I took an oath,’ said the samurai. ‘An oath to complete the mission.’

‘Remember,’ said Tameyo, ‘the lives of our families hang in the balance. We keep going. Forget about these folks. They are victims. The world is full of victims.’

‘Yes, the world is full of victims,’ said the girl. ‘Maybe we should be fighting on their behalf.’

The samurai smiled and shook his head. ‘I have a code I’ve lived by all my life. I’ll live by it until I die. I swore to undertake this mission and I have to finish what I have begun. But maybe you could bring justice to some corner of Honshu. Maybe that could be your life’s work.’

The samurai drew a knife from his belt and crouched beside the captive. Ako flinched like she expected to be stabbed in the gut. Instead the samurai cut her bonds.

‘We can’t let her go,’ said Masaie. ‘What if the soldiers pick her up? What if she talks?’

‘She won’t talk.’

Ako got to her feet.

‘Here,’ said the samurai. He picked up a dead man’s cloak and threw it to her. Ako looked down at the balled fabric in her hands. Minutes earlier the cloak had belonged to a friend.

‘Take it,’ said the samurai. ‘I’m sure your companion would want you to have it. Given the circumstances.’

Ako put on the cloak.

The samurai gave her dry rations wrapped in cloth. ‘Get out of here.’

‘Thank you.

‘Good luck.’

Raku and his men rode single file along the narrow forest track. Twigs and creepers clawed at their faces and clothes. They brushed them aside. The commander kept the lead. He held his torch high and studied the track ahead of him for prints. He raised his hand and signalled halt. He jumped from his horse, crouched and inspected churned mud.

‘What can you see?’ asked Tadasue.

‘Fresh footprints. Men have walked this path in the last few hours. We’re gaining ground. We’re almost upon them.’

He thrust the torch into pooled rainwater to smother the flame. Water hissed and boiled.

Raku glimpsed bamboo structures through the trees. The track widened into a moonlit glade. Crude shacks ringed a clearing. They rode into the village square, dismounted and looked around, spooked by the eerie silence. Tadatoo and Tadasue drew their swords.

Raku made a cursory exploration of the village. Empty houses. Scenes of interrupted domesticity. Scattered pots, scattered clothes, half eaten meals spilled on mats. He inspected a doorframe. A blade hack and blood splash on the wood.

‘Someone put this village to the sword,’ he said.

‘Sheep are meant to be sheared,’ said Tadasue with the contempt of a man who was born into rural poverty and had been running from it ever since.

Raku examined the ground for tracks. Nothing. The soil surrounding the shacks was too packed to take impressions.

‘Maybe we should stay here a while,’ said Tadatoo, looking up at the starlit sky. ‘Get a couple of hours sleep before dawn.’

The commander sniffed the air. ‘Smell that?’ he asked.

‘No.’

The commander approached a track that led north through dense brush away from the village. He raised his head and took a slow lungful of air.

‘Wood smoke. They’re close by.’

‘Think it’s them?’

Raku nodded.

‘What do you want to do?’

‘We have the element of surprise,’ said Raku. ‘We should use it.’

‘But what if we fail?’ asked Tadasue. ‘There will be no one to warn the general. We should leave them well alone and stick to our original plan: overtake them, reach the castle and fetch reinforcements. We could chase down the assassins with a thousand men. They wouldn’t stand a chance.’

The commander thought it over. Warrior instinct versus tactical advantage. He breathed deep, cleared his mind, and looked up at the moon. He closed his eyes and prayed. Then he nodded like he had received the answer to an unspoken question.

‘We attack.’

They unsaddled their horses and left them to graze in the clearing. They prepared for combat. They checked their armour and weapons. Tadatoo opened his pack and took out a compact crossbow and a quiver of bolts. Tadasue slung bandoliers over each shoulder. Each leather strap held ten bo shuriken: heavy iron throwing-darts with silk fletching. They checked gauntlets, checked helmet straps. Commander Raku adjusted his belt making sure his sword hung comfortably at his hip. The man faced each other.

‘For glory,’ said Raku. His companions nodded assent.

They headed down the track.

They crept through the undergrowth. Moonlight shafted through the branches. Every trunk and leaf seemed etched silver. The forest shone like it was sculpted from glass. They waded through tall grass weaving left and right to avoid bamboo thickets. There was no way of hacking through undergrowth without creating a cacophonous noise. They kept their progress silent as possible moving lithe as panthers, like liquid shadow. The commander raised his hand and signalled halt. The smell of wood smoke was getting stronger. He glimpsed flickering flames up ahead. He glanced back at his companions and received confirmation nods they were ready for combat. He drew his sword, crept forward and prepared to attack.

The girl kept watch. She sat by the fire mesmerised by the dancing flames. She began to succumb to sleep. Her eyelids grew heavy and her head nodded towards her chest. She snapped awake, angry at herself for neglecting her watch.

She stood, stretched and walked to shake off fatigue. The team slept curled by the fire. Ariyo, Tameyo and Masaie. Their mean faces had softened in repose as if revealing their secret selves: the lonely, damaged, hand-shy children that, in their waking moments, wore a tough carapace of cynicism and distrust. The samurai sat cross-legged and stared into the flames, breathing deep and slow. His eyes were half-closed and it was hard to tell if he were awake or asleep. The girl wondered if he had watched her drift into unconsciousness, observed that moment of failure. She wanted to be a warrior but knew she was just a child. She had killed a man but he had been half-dead anyway. More of a mercy killing than a victory, like drowning a sick dog.

She leant against a tree and surveyed shifting moonshadows. She looked up and checked the constellations, tried to estimate how long before she could shake Masaie awake to take over her watch.

She snapped alert. A sudden, skin-prickling sense of threat. The past couple of hours had been accompanied by faint scuffling sounds that suggested rats had discovered the bodies in the undergrowth and had begun gnawing extremities. But the sound suddenly ceased. The forest was ominously still. Her hand drifted down to the tsuka at her hip. She gripped, ready to draw. The samurai rose to his feet in a silent, fluid movement. He felt it too. Something not right. He stood and listened to the oppressive silence then crouched by the sleeping convicts and woke them one by one. He mimed hush as they each blinked awake, scrambled to their feet and drew knives.

‘What’s going on?’ hissed Ariyo.

‘Someone out there?’ asked Tameyo. ‘Are the bandits back for another try?’

‘No.’

‘Who then?’

‘Someone else.’

The samurai scanned the treeline and drew his sword.

Raku crawled through undergrowth towards the campfire and pulled aside a curtain of grass. He watched figures move back and forth in front of the flames. Tadasue and Tadatoo slithered through the grass and lay beside him. Tadasue pulled a couple of bo shuriken from a shoulder belt. Tadatoo slotted a bolt into his crossbow and carefully pulled back the string until it locked with a discrete click. He put the bow to his shoulder and took aim at the silhouette of a man standing in front of the fire. The man had turned to look their way, like he heard movement in the underbrush. Tadatoo glanced at Raku tensed for the signal to go.

Raku raised a fist then let it drop: attack.

Tadatoo fired. A sharp clack as the bolt released. The target’s head was immediately thrown back, a bolt buried in his forehead. He toppled backwards into the campfire. An explosion of sparks and flames. His clothes, hair and beard started to burn.

A flicker of movement beside the fire as a figure got to its feet. Tadasue hurled a shuriken. The man howled in pain and fell to the ground.

Raku sprang up and charged from the brush into the clearing, sword raised. A man ran at him, a stumbling charge, a shuriken bedded in his neck. Raku bellowed a war cry. The assailant skidded to a halt, shocked by the scream and held up his hands to defend himself. Raku cut off the man’s arm with a down-sweep of his sword. The man fell to his knees, mouth open in shock, stump pulsing blood. A second sweep of the sword took his head.

The fight was over in a few heartbeats.

Tadatoo glanced at the body sprawled in the fire. Bubbling, cooking flesh filled the air with meat-stink. He loaded a fresh bolt into his crossbow. Tadasue found a frightened man lying on a bedroll, an arrow protruding from his shoulder.

‘This one’s alive.’

They stood over the injured man. Raku checked him out. He was ragged, starving and filthy.

‘These aren’t the men we’re chasing,’ he said. ‘These are bandits.’

Raku crouched and addressed the man. ‘Who are you?’

He didn’t respond, clearly too terrified to reply. Raku reached forward and gently twisted the arrow wedged in the man’s shoulder. He arched his back and screamed.

‘Who are you?’

‘Village.’

‘You’re from the village? The group of hovels down the valley?’

‘Soldiers. Soldiers came. Everyone killed.’

‘When was this?’

‘Days ago.’

‘But they didn’t do this to you, did they?’ said the commander, gesturing to the arrow. The wound look fresh. The blood had yet to dry.

‘No. Men. Travellers. We tried to rob them. They were armed and ready.’

‘How many?’

‘Five or six. Not sure.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Don’t know.’

Raku reached for the arrow.

‘Don’t. Please,’ said the man. ‘They’re close by. There are ruins north of here. They built a fire and cooked a meal.’

The commander nodded gratitude, unsheathed his knife and drew the blade across the injured man’s throat. The bandit choked and convulsed and Raku cupped his hand over the bandit’s mouth to quiet his guttural scream. He waited patiently for the man to bleed out and die.

‘Commander-sama,’ shouted Tadatoo. ‘More of them.’ He raising his crossbow and took aim at undergrowth.

Raku turned round. A figure watching them from the treeline. A woman wrapped in a patched leather cloak. Ako. She turned and fled thrashing through the undergrowth.

‘Find her,’ said Raku. ‘If she blunders across the assassins she could warn them we’re nearby.’

Tadatoo set off in pursuit.

The Commander headed into undergrowth and gestured for Tadasue to follow.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To find that camp.’

The convicts stood with their backs to one another and scanned the shadows of the ruined hall for movement. They listened hard and tried to gauge if attackers were close at hand.

‘Bandits?’ whispered Masaie.

‘No,’ said the samurai.

The deep urgency in the samurai’s voice and the grave look on his face filled the girl with apprehension. It was as if he could read the silence, the oppressive stillness that had settled on the forest, and knew they were facing a far more formidable foe than the ragged bandits who attacked them earlier that night.

‘Get your stuff together,’ he said. ‘All of you. Pack your things. We’re leaving, right now.’

The girl and the samurai stood guard while the convicts hurriedly rolled their blankets and stuffed gear into their packs. Masaie shouldered the explosives quick as he could without jolting his cargo, the urge to flee into the woods tempered by the need to treat the explosives with care.

The team froze as they heard a distant scream echo through the forest. A gurgling, choking howl that rose then abruptly ceased.

‘Sounds like those bandits drew a lot of bad luck tonight,’ murmured Tameyo.

They finished shouldered their packs.

‘Head north as fast as you can,’ said the samurai. ‘I’ll catch you up.’

He turned to the girl and stepped close so no one could overhear. ‘Go with them. You are in charge. Make sure they do the right thing. Don’t give orders. They won’t take it from a girl. Suggest. Nudge. Persuade. Don’t let them feel the guiding hand.’

She gave a reluctant nod. ‘What about you?’ she asked.

‘I need to see who’s following us.’

‘You’re not going to take them on alone, are you?’

‘What chance would I stand? A man with one arm?’

‘Promise me.’

‘Head north. Lead the men out of the forest. Don’t use the path. Head through the woods. Vary your route, maybe double back a few times. Make yourselves difficult to track. I won’t be far behind.’

She and the team ducked branches and headed into the undergrowth.

The samurai gripped his sword, hugged the broken walls of the temple ruins and merged with the moon shadows.

Raku crept through moonlit undergrowth. He could make out a huge structure half-hidden by trees. He ducked beneath branches and worked his way closer to temple ruins silhouetted against the stars like jagged teeth instinctively reaching out and touching the stonework to check the building was real and not some kind of waking dream. He moved along the length of a vine-choked wall while Tadasue crept behind him. They reached the entrance archway and stopped. Tadasue stared in apprehension at the derelict precincts around him. A temple deep in uncharted woodland. The place was no doubt the home of kami, yōkai, and other malevolent spirits.

‘What can you see?’ he hissed, as Raku peered round the edge of the archway into the temple interior.

‘A big open area,’ said Raku. ‘Some kind of hall. Can’t see anyone. But there’s a fire.’

Raku entered the roofless temple hall, sword at the ready. He crouched and scanned the shadows surveying tumbled walls, encroaching trees and buckled flagstones. No sign of movement. He slid along the wall towards the fire, Tadasue following close behind.

Raku gestured to the camp fire. ‘Fresh logs,’ he whispered. ‘They can’t have been gone more than a few minutes.’

‘Maybe they’re still here.’

They edged round the wall and tried to get a better view of the roofless hall.

‘What would you do, if you were them?’ whispered Tadasue ‘If you heard us coming. Would you run, or would you stay and fight?’

‘I’d stay and fight,’ said Raku, adjusting his grip on the sword.

Tadatoo chased Ako through the forest. He did his best to keep up but Ako had lived in the valley all her life and knew the terrain. She jumped every log and root, swerved every low-hanging branch. Tadatoo blundered behind her, clothes ripped open, face slashed by thorns and twigs.

He emerged from trees and found himself facing a sheer valley wall. It seemed as if his prey had run straight into a granite cliff like some kind of ghost. He scanned the moonlit rock face then spotted an aperture, a narrow crevice. He cautiously approached and peered inside. It was pitch dark but the steady echo of a water drip told him he was standing at the mouth of a deep cave. Fresh mud prints led into the gloom.

Tadatoo took a step inside the cave. He pushed a pile of tinder-dry twigs and grass together with his foot while keeping his eye on the dark interior of the recess. He crouched and sparked a flint, fanning glowing embers with his hands. Twigs caught light and he added a couple of branches to the fire. Flames danced high. He held up one of the burning torches in his left hand and gripped the crossbow in his right.

‘Might as well come out and face me, bitch,’ he shouted. His voice echoed back at him from the interior of the fissure. ‘Don’t want to die like a cornered rat, do you?’

He held the torch high and cautiously advanced into darkness.

Tadasue stood in the moonlit hall and surveyed the treeline.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘There’s something in the bushes over there.’

They crossed the derelict hall. Raku crouched and examined the undergrowth. He saw a bare foot among bracken. He pulled branches aside and uncovered the body of a bandit. The dead man lay on his back, chest wet from multiple stab wounds.

‘There are a couple more bodies over here,’ said Tadasue, peering into the brush.

‘These dogs saw a group of travellers sitting round a fire,’ said Raku. ‘Assumed they would be an easy target. A fatal mistake.’

Tadasue found a break in the treeline. Snapped bamboo and fresh footprints.

‘Looks like they left in a hurry.’

‘Some of them,’ said Raku. ‘But maybe not all.’

‘Shall we go after them, Commander-sama?’

The commander opened his mouth, intending to say: We had better wait for your brother. Then something was hurled from the shadows. It hit the flagstones and rolled coming to a halt near the campfire.

They cautiously approached. Tadatoo’s severed head. His jaw was slack and his eyes half-closed. His neck had been cleaved by a clean sword stroke. Breath left Tadasue’s body like he had taken a gut punch.

‘Don’t look,’ said Raku. He held Tadasue’s shoulders, turned him around and pushed him away from the spectacle of his brother’s head. They stood back-to-back in the centre of the derelict hall, swords raised.

‘My brother,’ said Tadasue, struggling to retain his composure.

‘And later we will mourn and bury him. But now we fight.’

They peered into the treeline, tensed for attack.

‘I accept your challenge,’ bellowed the commander. ‘Come on out. Let’s settle this like samurai.’

There was no reply.

‘I am Commander Raku of the Takeda clan, sworn to General Motohide of Etchū. Identify yourself.’

Silence.

‘Coward,’ bellowed Raku.

‘We need to build the fire,’ said Tadasue, peering into the shadows of the ruined temple. ‘We need more light.’

They threw more wood on the fire. The flames grew higher. They stood fearfully by the fire and peered into surrounding gloom: the broken stonework and arches, the thickets of bamboo. They put their backs to a crumbled section of wall.

‘Maybe we should search the bodies,’ suggested Tadasue, gesturing to the corpses lying sprawled in underbrush. ‘They might have weapons. Things we can use.’

‘A waste of time. The bodies will have been stripped.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Common sense,’ said Raku. ‘If I killed a bandit, I’d take their money, their knives. Wouldn’t you?’

‘We should run for it.’

Raku shook his head.

‘We need to stand and fight.’

‘Surprise. That was our advantage,’ said Tadasue. ‘And that advantage is lost. We should get out of this valley as quickly as we can.’

‘Flee like women, like children? We would earn his contempt. Give him permission to swat us like flies.’

‘And your alternative? My brother was the finest swordsman I knew. Now he’s dead. We can’t win this battle. All we can do is survive. I say we run.’

Raku hesitated.

‘All right. Let’s go.’

They bolted for the forest path and hurled themselves into the undergrowth. They clawed their way through the brush for a few paces, then the commander grabbed Tadasue’s shoulder and dragged him to a halt. Something hung from a branch up ahead. Raku crept forward and squinted at the moonlit object. Tadatoo’s headless body hoisted by rope. His belly had been slit open and entrails hung down, glistened black and wet. Tadasue took a step forward, intending to cut his brother’s body down.

‘Don’t,’ warned the commander.

A crossbow bolt slammed into a tree beside them. They ran back towards the ruins.

The commander raced across the derelict hall and threw himself down beside the campfire. ‘He won’t let us leave. He’s toying with us,’ he panted.

Raku looked around and realised he was talking to himself. Tadasue was no longer with him. He lay on the other side of the hall clutching his leg, a bolt buried in his shattered ankle. Raku ran, gripped his wrists and dragged him towards the fire. Tadasue’s leg left a blood-smear across the flagstones. He was blue-lipped with shock.

‘Clean through the bone,’ said Raku, inspecting the wound.

‘He’s torturing us,’ panted Tadasue. ‘Like a cat tormenting a mouse.’

‘I’m going to pull the bolt from your ankle,’ said Raku.

‘No.’

‘You’re numb with shock. It might best to remove it now, before feeling returns.’

Raku unsheathed his knife. He sawed through the wooden shaft and removed the barbed iron tip. Then he gripped the headless projectile by its fletched tail and, with a wrench, jerked it free. Tadasue arched his back, mouth wide in a silent, juddering scream. Raku threw the bolt on the fire. Blood fizzed and boiled. He ripped Tadasue’s cloak and bound the wound with torn fabric.

‘Do you think he’s watching us?’ asked Tadasue. His eyes rolled and his lids drooped like he was about to pass out.

‘Yes, I imagine he’s watching.’

‘Why doesn’t he kill us?’

‘I think he’s curious to see how we will respond to our predicament.’

Raku pulled logs from the fire and hurled them towards the four corners of the derelict hall. Flame-light illuminated broken walls and arches, the surrounding forest. He pulled off his gauntlets and threw them aside then unbuckled his armour.

‘What are you doing?’ croaked Tadasue.

The commander stood at the centre of the quadrangle and spread his arms.

‘Here I am,’ he shouted, slowly pacing a circle, addressing the moonlit ruins, the sinister shadows of the undergrowth. ‘Shoot me in the back, if that’s the kind of man you are.’

There was no reply.

‘Or come out here and face me.’

Silence.

‘I know who you are. You’re the assassin. You tried to kill the Emperor. You dared to kill a god. And now you’ve been dispatched to kill my master. Tell me. Why do you fight on behalf of the Imperial House? What hold do they have over you?’

No reply.

‘I heard you lost an arm. But they sent you on this mission anyway. They must have great faith in your abilities. I have no doubt their faith is well placed.’

No reply.

‘Will you face me? Will you grant me that honour? I am Raku, a commander in General Motohide’s guard. You won’t shoot me from the shadows. You won’t debase yourself. So come out and face me. Let’s finish this.’

Something hit the stones in front of him with a clatter. Raku bent and examined the item. The crossbow. Raku looked towards the moonlit trees from which the crossbow had been flung.

‘All right,’ he shouted. ‘You want to play a game? We’ll play your game.’

He pulled a burning branch from the fire and set light to withered vines hanging from a wall. He hurried round the perimeter of the hall setting over-hanging foliage ablaze. Vines and branches crackled as they caught light. Boiling sap popped and hissed. Wooden support beams, the remains of the roof frame, began to burn and lit the ruins dancing, infernal red. Raku returned to the campfire and snatched up his sword. He hauled Tadasue upright, He supported the injured man with an arm round his shoulder.

‘We’ll head back to the village,’ he said. ‘We’ll recover the horses. The flames and smoke will give us a little cover.’

‘Hold on,’ said Tadasue. He limped to the crossbow, Raku supporting him as he hobbled towards the weapon. He scooped it up.

‘You should leave it,’ said Raku.

‘We need any weapon we can get.’

‘It’s a coward’s weapon. That’s the way he’ll see it. You’ll forfeit your right to live.’

‘I’m not going to face him defenceless.’

They shuffled through the entrance arch ducking low to avoid the burning vines. They headed down the path back towards the village. Tadasue was white with trauma, his face twisted in a rictus of pain and fear. Raku supported his comrade, grim with the knowledge they would both most likely be dead by dawn.

The men limped down the track towards the village. The samurai followed a parallel course to their left. He matched their route, skirting trees and moonlit undergrowth bending beneath branches and squirming between thick trunks of bamboo. He glimpsed the men struggling down the path, could hear their blundering progress as they thrashed underbrush aside. Tadasue panted through gritted teeth as he hopped along the track occasionally losing his balance and planting his injured foot on the ground, triggering a muffled shriek of pain. The samurai could hear the man struggle but didn’t feel pity. His adversaries were samurai, like himself. This was the life they had chosen. Combat and death. To spare their lives out of pity would be an insult. The shame of being treated like a child would be crueller than any sword-thrust.

Raku and Tadasue reached the hamlet. The samurai crouched among undergrowth and watched them enter the village square. An involuntary sob of despair came from Tadasue as they found their horses lying dead. Raku helped him sit on the steps of a bamboo longhouse then turned away and crouched beside a horse. He inspected the crossbow bolt protruding from the creature’s throat.

The samurai had drawn out the confrontation to give the girl and the convicts a chance to pull ahead. He knew he should leave the injured men and re-join the group, yet he felt compelled to test himself against the commander. It would be his first fight since losing an arm. Maybe he was still a samurai. Or maybe he was nothing. He had to know.

Tadasue sat slumped on the bamboo steps and reached down to unlace his leather shoe.

‘Don’t,’ warned Raku. ‘Your foot’s swollen. If you take off your shoe, you’ll never get it on again.’

Tadasue ignored him and finished unstrapping his shoe before throwing it aside. He was finished. A dead man. He wasn’t going anywhere. He always assumed he would meet his end on the battlefield, his chest punctured by an arrow. If he was lucky he would be dead so fast he wouldn’t even feel it. Or maybe he would be dispatched by a swift knife-thrust during a tavern brawl, too drunk and numb to understand what was happening. But instead he would die here on this bamboo step in an unnamed valley. He wouldn’t even get a burial but would simply rot where he lay. He leant back and looked at the stars. Commander Raku sat beside him.

‘A cold night,’ he said.

Tadasue nodded.

‘We should have stayed by the campfire. At least we’d have been warm.’

They sat a while rubbing their eyes with exhaustion and watching their breath fog the cold night air. The north sky was tinted orange. The temple ruins were ablaze. It wouldn’t take long for the flames to die. The surrounding foliage was too damp for the conflagration to expand into an uncontrolled forest fire.

They heard a faint rattle from a nearby shack, like someone nudged a shelf and caused clay pots to jangle together. Raku got to his feet, sword in hand and took a couple of steps towards the shack.

‘I’m tired of playing,’ shouted the commander. ‘Come out here. Let’s settle this like men.’

Tadasue struggled with the crossbow. He managed to draw back the string and lock it. He took an iron shuriken from his bandoleer and slotted it into the bow with bored indifference, knowing the battle was already lost.

Raku edged further towards the house on the other side of the moonlit square. Bamboo steps led up to a darkened entrance. He kept his eyes fixed on the doorway.

‘Let’s bring this dance to an end,’ he shouted. ‘It demeans both of us. Let’s finish this once and for all.’

Tadasue watched as the commander approached the house. Anyone can see it’s a trap. Just wait here. Let him come to us, he thought. Something looped over his head. He gave a stifled choke as a twine garrotte sliced into his neck. He scrabbled at his throat and tried to call for help. The samurai was behind him, pulling one-handed, a foot between Tadasue’s shoulder blades to stop him squirming free. Tadasue waved his arms and tried to signal the commander. The last thing he saw before his silent convulsions ceased and vision failed was his own clawing hands. He died. He slumped backwards. The crossbow hit the ground and discharged, the iron bolt nailing into the ground with a muffled thump. Raku didn’t hear the sound. His attention was focused on the darkened doorway up ahead.

‘You lower yourself. Skulking in shadows. I feel ashamed on your behalf.’

He climbed the steps and stood in the doorway. He stared into the interior and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. Chinks of moonlight shafted through walls woven from bamboo.

‘This is a trap. But I’m going to walk inside anyway. The shame is on you, understand? These pathetic games. The shame is on you.’

He stepped inside, sword poised, and found himself in an empty room. He looked around at straw bedding, pots, a loom and a cold hearth. A flicker of movement. A shadow washed across a wall. Someone was prowling around outside of the hut, blocking moonlight.

Raku dropped into a crouch and slowly swivelled on one leg. He tried to gauge the position of his opponent. Another flicker of movement. Raku crept towards the doorway, sword raised ready to strike a killing blow. A lightning blur of steel beside him. A blade suddenly thrust through the lattice walls of the house. Burning pain as his bicep was sliced open. He threw himself back into the room and rolled.

A second sword-thrust aimed low. He rolled. The tip of the katana missed his face. He crouched, ready to dodge the next blade-thrust, ready to strike back. A sixth sense warned him of an incoming sword-thrust a moment before it happened. He threw himself aside just as a blade stabbed upward from the crawl space beneath the house. He gripped his sword and stabbed downward, repeated thrusts through reed matting. He rolled for the doorway, vaulted the steps and hit the dirt in front of the house. Raku got up, sword raised, and span round ready to strike.

He froze in shock as he saw Tadasue slumped on the steps of a nearby shack. He took a couple of paces towards the dead man then saw the twine twisted round his throat.

A faint cough came from the other side of the clearing. Raku saw a one-armed man, bent double. The man dry-retched, spat, then straightened up. He wore plain robes, had a scraggy beard and his hair was tied in a neat topknot.

The samurai.

The figure turned and walked into moon-shade behind the main longhouse. His slow deliberation sent a clear enough message. Time to fight. Commander Raku was being invited to enter the killing ground. The commander sheathed his sword and followed the man into shadows.

The village burial ground. A half-acre of dirt and a cluster of crooked stone markers. The samurai stood in the centre of the burial space calm and ready. Raku faced him and bowed.

The samurai looked sick. Even in the moonlight Raku could see the man was grey and gaunt. He wondered if the samurai wanted to die. Maybe, deep down, he wanted a worthy opponent to end his life with a quick, clean stroke of the sword. They stood looking at each other a long while, each waiting for the optimum moment to draw and strike.

Training bouts at a dojo could be interminable. Pupils hacked at each other with wooden bokken from dawn to dusk. It was a test of endurance as much as skill. Who would tire first? Who would allow their focus to slip for a death-dealing instant? But real-world duels were over in seconds. The samurai had fought many men and none of those fights lasted more than a dozen heartbeats. The katana was such a perfect weapon, so exquisitely lethal, the slightest misjudgement would mean serious injury followed, a moment later, by a final killing stroke. That’s why sword techniques had to be drilled to the point of thoughtless instinct. When the moment came, when the fight began, there would be no time for hesitation.

The samurai and Raku prepared to enter that strange combat time-state when every moment seemed to last a year. Drifting moon-clouds slowed to a halt. The nearby stream froze like ice.

The commander drew first, sliding the sword from its saya and turning the movement into a slashing cut at the samurai’s waist. The samurai blocked and swung a diagonal stroke at the commander’s shoulder. Raku deflected the blow and swung his sword at the samurai’s knees. The samurai jumped the blade and jabbed at the commander’s throat. Raku stumbled then lunged at the samurai’s chest. The sword stopped dead as the tip of the blade impacted on the iron cuirass hidden beneath the samurai’s kimono. The samurai brought down his sword in an arcing blur of steel and severed the commander’s hands at the wrists.

The fight was concluded in seven breaths. Raku took a step backward, a look of woozy astonishment on his face as he contemplated the bloody stumps. His severed hands lay on the ground next to his fallen sword. He watched the samurai raise his sword and saw polished steel reflect moonlight. Then the blade fell and split his upturned face in two.

Raku fell across the mounded earth of fresh grave. The samurai knelt and cleaned his sword on the hem of the dead man’s shirt, then re-sheathed. He left the village and headed north.

The company trudged single file as the sun rose over dormant rice fields. Paddy water mirrored the sky. They followed the earth berms which marked each sector of cultivation. Mist hung heavy. There were no more hills, no more valleys. They had left the highlands behind and were traversing an agricultural plain; infinitesimally small figures crossing a vast patchwork landscape. The girl walked at the head of the team.

‘What if your samurai doesn’t re-join us?’ shouted Masaie from the back of the group.

‘He’ll join us,’ said the girl.

‘But what if he doesn’t? You expect us to keep going? The four of us?’

‘Maybe we should go our separate ways,’ said Tameyo. ‘I’d head back to Kyoto, see if I can snatch my family from under the watch of the Imperial Guard. You folks can do as you please.’

‘What about her?’ said Ariyo, nodding towards the girl.

‘A little girl won’t stop me choosing my own path.’

‘She can start a new life under a new name,’ said Tameyo. ‘She has no ties. She’s free as a bird.’

‘She would make someone a good wife, if she can swallow her pride,’ said Ariyo. ‘What do you say, girl? I wouldn’t mind a wife. Someone to keep me warm. Think about it. You could do worse.’

‘Why are we even walking?’ said Masaie. ‘We should stop, make some kind of decision.’

‘We keep going,’ said the girl.

‘For how long?’

‘For as long as the sun is in the sky. He’ll join us, sooner or later.’

‘I appreciate your faith in the man, but he’s a cripple. If he faced down a bunch of men on his own, then he’s already dead. We need to make other plans.’

‘He’s alive and he’ll be here soon. There’s nothing to discuss.’

The girl kept walking. She thought about the man she killed. This was the morning he would never see, the chill, invigorating air he was destined never to breathe. It would be the same for her, the same for everyone. Sooner or later the sun would rise and she wouldn’t be alive to see it. Dogs would bark, birds would sing, the world would continue regardless. But she would be nowhere, a soul returned to that mysterious dark realm that had been its home before she was born.

She had killed a man and would probably kill more men before the mission was complete. She wondered if people could smell it on her. If she walked into a village, would they know they were in the presence of a killer? Would they fling rocks and drive her away? Too many thoughts. She yearned for sundown and sleep. She watched a heron stand motionless in the middle of a flooded rice field. She contemplated the way the paddy water reflected clouds. After a while it seemed like she was walking on the sky. She threw her head back and let cold air caress her face. She enjoyed the world like she was seeing it for the first time.

‘That’s it,’ said Masaie. ‘I’m not taking another step.’ He came to a standstill, shrugged off the pack of explosives and sat on the edge of a paddy berm. He unlaced his leather sandals and massaged his feet.

‘We should keep going,’ said the girl. ‘We’ve got a lot of ground to cover before nightfall.’

Masaie shook his head. ‘No. The mission is over.’

She tried to reason with him: ‘The more we stop and sit around, the harder it becomes to get going again.’

Tameyo and Ariyo took off their packs and sat beside Masaie.

‘I don’t intend to get going,’ said Tameyo. ‘Look at us. We’re not about to storm a castle. Assassinate a general? We wouldn’t get close. This was a fool’s errand even when we were under the samurai’s direction. If he were here now I would look him in the eye and ask if he thought, for a single moment, we had any chance of success.’

‘Looks like you’ll get your opportunity,’ said the girl, gesturing to a distant figure striding towards them across mist-shrouded fields. ‘Here he comes.’

The samurai ordered the men to walk. Ariyo intended to argue but was silenced by droplets of dried blood across the front of the samurai’s kimono.

The team marched single file. The samurai walked at the head of the column. The girl walked behind him. The three sullen convicts brought up the rear.

‘Are you going to tell me about that hole in your kimono?’ she asked.

The samurai looked down at his chest and fingered slashed cotton. ‘Caught it on a thorn.’

‘Must have been a very sharp thorn.’

The samurai stopped and squinted at the sky, trying to locate the sun. ‘We are moving into Hida,’ he said, pointing north-east. ‘That way is Sekino, capital of Etchū, the general’s official seat. It’s tempting to head that way for food and shelter; a chance to rest before we continue our mission. But I suggest not. The more we delay, the greater the chance of discovery. Besides the snows are coming. If we delay much longer we’ll find ourselves marooned. I say we head directly north and make for the castle. Do what needs to be done.’

The men nodded reluctant agreement.

‘We don’t have much further to travel,’ said the samurai. ‘It won’t be long before we reach our target.’

They resumed their journey. The convicts reluctantly adjusted pack straps and followed the samurai deeper into hostile territory.

By early afternoon Masaie was lagging behind the back of the group. He complained his feet hurt. The samurai appeared to pay him no attention but when they reached a tree-lined river bank he said:

‘Maybe we should build a raft. We can float downstream, spare ourselves a little exertion.’

‘Anyone know how to build some kind of boat?’ asked Ariyo.

Tameyo nodded. ‘I grew up by the sea.’

‘I can’t swim,’ said Masaie.

‘Then you’d better not fall in the water.’

They kicked through bracken for thick lengths of bamboo they could trim and lash together. They dragged bamboo from the underbrush and began to assemble the raft on clear ground. The convicts were glad of the activity. They had started the journey euphoric to escape execution. The threat of imminent death had been lifted. They had spent weeks corralled in the prison compound with no hope of release, but suddenly they had been freed. They were through the prison gates, out on the open road, enjoying the changing landscape and wide spaces. But now they were nearing their goal and it seemed as if their death sentence was gradually re-imposing itself. Each step on their journey brought them closer to enemy swords. A growing sense of dread. They were glad of any delay.

They laid two bamboo trunks on the grass for a raft frame. They laid shorter lengths of bamboo across the trunks to form a platform on which they would sit.

‘Are you sure this will carry us all?’ asked the samurai.

Tameyo nodded. ‘My uncle’s boat sank years ago. He was fishing in a calm sea when the hull split below the waterline. The boat sank in moments and three crewmen were left floating in the water with no land on the horizon. They lashed wreckage together. Sections of mast, sections of deck. Bamboo, not unlike this raft. They floated for many days and rode out a storm before tides carried them ashore.’

‘Then it should do for our simple purpose.’

The samurai used his knife to cut the fibrous branches of a willow for cordage. They lashed the raft together.

‘Is it finished?’ asked Masaie, looking at the raft. He seemed downcast like he hoped there was more to do, some reason to further delay their journey.

‘Yes, we’re finished.’

They roped the packs to the raft making sure the consignment of explosives was well-wrapped and secure. The girl watched as the men each took a corner of the raft and carried it down to the water’s edge. It hit the water with a heavy splash. She climbed aboard and gripped reeds to keep the raft moored as the convicts waded knee deep then took a seat.

Tameyo pushed them away from the bank with a bamboo pole. The raft drifted mid-stream then was caught by the current and drawn down river. They sat cross-legged gripping the edge of the raft white-knuckle as it rode the swells. After a while they realised the bamboo platform was unlikely to capsize. They relaxed and watched the river bank slowly pass by.

After a couple of miles they turned a corner and saw a man crouching among reeds scooping handfuls of water to drink. He stood and watched as they drifted past. The samurai saluted the man.

‘Wave,’ he said quietly. ‘All of you. Wave.’

They waved and smiled.

‘Good afternoon,’ called the samurai.

The man didn’t respond.

‘A farmer,’ said Tameyo. ‘He won’t report us to the local militia. Not unless we give him reason.’

‘Don’t turn around,’ said the samurai. ‘Don’t stare at him. Travellers heading north. That’s all we are.’

They drifted onward, each of them staring resolutely ahead, acutely aware of the stranger on the river bank behind them observing their progress.

It was late afternoon. They continued to drift downriver. Low sun turned the water shimmering gold. Trees lined the bank. Beyond that lay miles of unseeded paddy fields.

‘It’s getting late,’ said Masaie. ‘We should camp.’

‘We’re making good progress,’ said the samurai. ‘We can cover a few more miles before nightfall.’

‘The temperature is dropping. We need a fire. We’ll freeze if we stay on the river.’

‘And I’m hungry,’ said Ariyo. ‘I’m not taking a vote. I’m telling you. We stop right now.’

‘Hush,’ said the samurai, suddenly tense.

‘What do you mean by that?’ said Ariyo, bridling at the samurai’s brusque tone, balling his fists like he had beaten men to the ground for less.

‘Shut up, all of you.’

They slowly turned a bend. A bridge spanned the river. The span was supported by pilings bedded in a mound of rubble midstream. There were bamboo guardhouses either side of the bridge. Motohide’s black sun standard flew from the roof of each guardhouse. The team were approaching Etchū. Once they were on the other side of the bridge they would truly be in enemy territory.

‘Everyone. Quiet as you can,’ urged the samurai.

They could see the silhouette of a sentry leaning against a guardhouse.

‘There’ll be more inside,’ whispered Tameyo.

‘We’re dead men,’ muttered Masaie.

‘Think they’ve got archers?’

‘Shut up. All of you,’ hissed the samurai.

They drifted closer to the bridge expecting movement from the sentry, a shout, a demand that they stop and identify themselves but nothing happened. They drifted beneath the bridge and Tameyo used the bamboo pole to push the raft clear of the rubble piling. They emerged from the bridge shadow. They looked up and saw the sentry slumped against his naginata. His hat was crooked.

‘He’s asleep,’ whispered the samurai.

They sat in silence, no sound but the gentle slap of water against the side of the raft as the current carried them downstream. The raft slowly took a bend in the river. They looked back and watched the distant sentry doze against his naginata. Then they turned the corner and the bridge was eclipsed by trees.

‘The gods must favour us,’ murmured Masaie.

The samurai shook his head.

‘Human frailty favours us. Lack of preparedness favours us. That should be the lesson we take from it. Let General Motohide and his men betray themselves by weakness, by indolence. We will maintain focus. We will not make a single mistake.’

Commander Raku woke in darkness.

Am I sealed in my tomb? Is this what lies beyond death? Cold nothing? Or maybe I have been reincarnated. Maybe I am a worm, squirming through the soil. Is that all I deserve? After a lifetime of service? To be reborn as a worm? Yes. I failed my master. I intended to warn him of imminent attack but succumbed to vanity. I took on the assassins and lost. So now they continue their journey to Nakatomi Castle unopposed. I am no better than a worm.

He struggled to open his eyes but they were gummed by crusted blood. He slowly plied the lids apart, tried to wipe his eyes clear but he had no hands. He could see his arms silhouetted against the starlight above him, his forearms terminating in stumps. He felt head-swimming horror. He was lying on a grave.

He wanted it to be over. He wanted to be below ground and gone from this life. He didn’t want to be alive, defeated and maimed. He wanted to join the honourable dead. But his heart kept beating. So cold. He passed out.

He woke again, his shivers turning to convulsive spasms. He lifted his head. He could hear a steady rush of water. Half of him wanted to lie still and freeze but a mutinous survival instinct compelled him to roll onto his belly and squirm for the nearby stream using his knees and elbows to drag himself along. He didn’t want to leave his hands behind. An essential part of him lay discarded on the ground. Ought to be buried at least. In the morning finger-flesh would be picked by crows, gnawed by rats. He made an addled resolution to return the following day and retrieve his hands.

He reached the river bank and found a small boat hollowed from a trunk. He crawled to the boat, rolled over the lip and tumbled into the dugout. He lay in a puddle of rainwater at the bottom of the craft. The boat was tethered at the stern. It took him a long while to unravel the knot with his teeth. The rope finally slackened and released. The log-boat drifted away from the bank and was pulled north by the gentle current. Raku lay on his back at the bottom of the dugout, somewhere between life and death, mutilated arms folded across his chest.

A cold dawn. The valley walls either side of the river shrank away and the dugout emerged from a wooded gorge. The stream became a river and meandered over a wide plain given over to farmland. The commander lay white with blood loss, numb with cold. He raised his arms. His first clear look at the stumps. He saw shattered wrists black with crusted, clotted blood.

Raku jolted awake. The boat had hit the bank. The hull ground against rocks. Willow branches brushed his face and he held up an arm to shield his eyes. Drops of blood hit his cheek as his wrists began to bleed afresh. Maybe he should gnaw at the stump. Re-open the arteries and release his remaining blood. He pressed the stump towards his mouth like he was going to take a bite then passed out once more.

Raku woke. It was noon or thereabouts. The sun was high in the sky. He was frustrated to find himself still alive. Why not throw himself in the river? An ignoble suicide but an easy death. A few moments of choking panic as water flooded his lungs then peace. He struggled to sit upright and hung his head over the side of the log-boat, face inches from the water. He squirmed and tried to heave his body over the side.

A heavy impact. The crack of wood-on-wood. He was thrown back to the bottom of the dugout. A couple of sailors looked down at him, faces filled with a mixture of pity and disgust.

‘What happened to his face?’

‘Look. He has no hands.’

They hauled the commander into their boat.

‘Hard to believe the man is alive.’

‘Ought to bind his wrists. He’s still bleeding.’

‘Look at him. White as snow. It’s a wonder his heart is still pumping.’

‘Let me die,’ begged the Raku. ‘Please. Just roll me over the side and put me in the water. Finish me.’

‘Did he say something?’ One of the sailors leant over the commander and tried to catch whispered words. ‘It sounded like he spoke.’

‘Kill me. I’m Commander Raku, sworn to General Motohide of Etchū. I order you to kill me.’

‘I can’t make out what he’s saying.’

‘He’s delirious. Fetch a cloth. Let’s try to clean his wounds. And bring the sail box. We’ll need a needle and yarn.’

They bent over him. They dipped cloth in a bowl of water and dabbed crusted blood from his face so they could examine head injuries a little better. He tried to resist but they held him still.

‘Must have been bandits,’ said one of the sailors. He pulled a torch from a bag jumbled with equipment and lit it with a flint. ‘Looks like someone split the poor dog’s head with an axe.’

‘Lie still as you can,’ instructed the other crewman. He leaned over Raku and crudely stitched his face closed with sail yarn. He sat back when he was done. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something comforting like: Don’t worry, your face will look better when it’s healed but couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t be a lie.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the other sailor, apologising for the pain he was about to inflict. He gripped the commander’s wrists while his companion pressed the torch to each wrist stump and cauterised the wounds. Raku screamed. They wrapped the injured man in furs to shield him from the cold.

‘Kill me,’ pleaded Raku. ‘Just kill me.’

‘Rest. We’ll find help.’

Raku watched wind fill the sails.

‘Kill me,’ he whispered as he slid into unconsciousness.

He woke in a straw bed. He was lying in a bare room. He looked around at mottled walls and crooked beams. Judging by the murmur of voices down below, the sound of good-natured laughter, he was in the upper room of a tavern. He watched a beam of evening sun slowly work its way across the floor.

A woman, presumably and innkeeper’s wife, brought a cup of water and set the bowl beside him. She helped him sit up. She didn’t seem disturbed by his ruined face. He assumed she had been looking after him for a while. She had cleaned his wounds, cleaned his sheets, all the while he lay unconscious. Her initial revulsion had been replaced by pity.

‘There was a purse tied to my belt,’ said Raku, his voice distorted by split, swollen lips. The woman looked shifty.

‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘I want you to have it.’

She raised the bowl of water to his lips and he caught a glimpse of his own reflection. He looked monstrous. His face was split down the middle. Crude stitches holding together crusted, inflamed flesh.

‘May I ask who attacked you?’ asked the woman.

‘A bandit.’

‘With a sword? An axe?’

‘A sword.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Like fire.’

‘I’m sorry. We have no poppy.’

‘I don’t need poppy. I need food. I need my strength.’

The woman brought food. She helped him sit up. He threw back his head while she lowered noodles into his mouth. He gave a wry laugh:

‘I feel like a baby bird being fed a worm.’

She held up the bowl so he could drink the remaining broth. Another glimpse of his face reflected in the rainbow oil-sheen of the liquid.

‘How long have I been insensible?’

‘A day and a half.’

‘Bring me clothes.’

‘You need rest. Lots of rest.’

‘I’ll rest when I’m dead. Bring me clothes and shoes. I need to reach General Motohide. Lives depend on it.’

Early morning. The river took a right bend. The samurai checked the position of the sun and tried to estimate their bearing.

‘This is drawing us off course,’ he said. ‘So I suppose this is where we leave the river. Bring us in to shore.’

Tameyo used the bamboo pole to bring them to the bank and they jumped ashore. They dragged the raft out of the water and unlashed their packs.

‘Hide the raft under some reeds,’ said the samurai. ‘If any of you survive this little adventure, you might need it for the return journey.’

The convicts tore reeds and camouflaged the raft. They bent and stretched, resentful to be travelling by foot once more. They clapped their hands to get warm.

‘Not long now, by my estimation,’ said the samurai. ‘The mountains lie beyond those hills. Two days at the most.’

He set off.

The girl followed him. The convicts shouldered their packs. They could almost feel the debilitating proximity of their goal. As they drew closer to the castle their breath came a little shorter and their feet hurt a little more than before. Cold dread weighed them down.

They climbed a hill. The samurai got half way then turned and waited for the others to catch up. Tameyo and Ariyo strode without difficulty but Masaie struggled to climb the heavy gradient.

‘What’s wrong with your leg?’ asked the samurai.

Masaie ignored him.

‘Do you need me to carry your pack?’

Masaie limped past and continued his doggedly resentful climb of the hill.

‘There,’ said the samurai pointing north-west. A distant mountain capped white by the first winter snows. ‘The castle is on the other side of that peak. They say a dragon slumbers beneath the mountain. Once every hundred years he shifts in his sleep, and the mountain shakes.’

‘Godforsaken,’ said Tameyo, contemplating the distant peak. ‘No wonder they chose that place for a fortress. An army would exhaust itself reaching the foot of the mountain, let alone lay siege.’

‘Motohide’s choice of home says a lot about the man,’ said the samurai. ‘He could stay in Sekino, the provincial capital, the administrative centre of his domain. There is a fine palace. Small by Imperial standards but impressive. On the one hand, he would be more vulnerable to assassination, but on the other hand, he would be well placed to govern his kingdom. He could monitor the factions and rivalries that inevitably divide any court. Instead he has shut himself away. He is physically secure but fatally remote from the governance of his lands. If I had any influence with the Imperial House, if I had been one of their counsellors, I would have advised against attacking the general. He might be a charismatic commander, the perfect man to lead troops into combat, but he will fail as Daimyō. He does not need to be toppled by an external aggressor. The machinations of his own court will ensure his downfall soon enough.’

‘You doubt his intelligence?’ asked the girl.

‘He lacks guile. An ugly trait but necessary for a lord. And despite his superficial courage in battle he is ruled by fear. We shall of course find some way to turn that weakness to our advantage.’

‘So what do we do when we reach the castle?’ asked Tameyo. ‘How do we get inside the walls? How do we get past the guards?’

‘I have the seed of a plan,’ said the samurai.

They emerged from trees and saw a building up ahead. An ancient temple at the centre of farmland with weathered walls and a cypress-shingle roof.

‘The Temple of the Blue Skies,’ said the samurai. ‘They will give us a bed for the night.’

‘I’d rather keep moving,’ said Ariyo. ‘We came to Etchū to fight. Let’s get on with it. Confront our fate.’

‘This will be our last chance to pray, to lighten our souls. Let’s not squander the opportunity.’

They walked through acres of cleared forest. Monks in blue linen samue tended the ring of farmland surrounding the temple. They fed penned cattle, tilled vegetable plots and readied them for spring.

‘I couldn’t do it,’ said Tameyo, gesturing to the monks as they walked the path towards the main temple building. ‘Volunteer to live and die on the same little plot of land. No women. No anything.’

‘They have embarked on a voyage of inner exploration,’ said the samurai. ‘They cross endless deserts and uncharted oceans. It all happens behind their eyes as they sit in stillness and silence.’

They climbed a long flight of stone steps to the temple doors. An iron bell hung from the wall. A hammer hung on a rope beside it. The samurai beat the bell and they waited for the doors to open. It would be impolite to knock twice so they stood and restlessly shifted foot to foot. The convicts looked around, uncomfortable to find themselves at a monastery. They felt the serenity of their surroundings as a reproach for chaotic, dissolute lives.

They heard the rasp of metal latches pulled back. A novice in black robes opened the door and bowed greeting. The samurai bowed in return.

‘We are travellers. We’ve come a long way and we have far to go. We request shelter for the night.’

It was a routine request. The monastery was honour-bound to offer succour to the sick, the elderly and passing travellers. They would provide basic food and shelter from the wind and rain.

The novice nodded and pulled the door wide. They stepped into the inner hall and let their eyes adjust. Vaulted shadows inadequately lit by grease lamps. A cloying smell of incense. The drone of meditation from a nearby hall. Multiple voices produced a harmonious nasal hum which seemed to gently vibrate through the ancient timbers of the building.

‘Please follow me,’ said the novice.

The monk led them down a low-ceilinged passageway. He carried a lamp. Crooked walls and roof beams were lit by weak candle-flame. He led them to a bare room at the back of the building. The travellers’ lodging. There were rice-straw mattresses laid on the floor, a couple of tables and a couple of wash basins in the corner. The novice lit a charcoal brazier and stoked it with an iron rod. He set the lamp on a table and returned with a jug of water and some cups.

The convicts propped their packs against the wall. Masaie carefully laid the explosives in the corner well away from the fire, sat on the floor and massaged his leg.

‘Reckon they’d sell us food?’ he asked. ‘Supplies? For the journey?’

‘Maybe. No meat. But I’m sure they’d give us a little rice, a little bean curd.’

‘Appetising.’

‘As a wise man once said, hunger is the best chef.’

Tameyo unlatched the shutters, pulled them wide and looked out the window onto the monastery graveyard. Countless stone markers surrounded a three-tiered pagoda, testament to the generations of monks who had lived and died within the temple precincts. He looked beyond the graveyard and could see low hills and, in the distance, the mountains. He watched cloud-shadows wash over the landscape. Wind rippled through wild grass. In a few more days it would be the depths of winter and the landscape would be white with snow. Roads would be impassable and the monastery would be sealed against the cold. The monks would rely on stored food and a wood pile to survive until spring. The surrounding land would be an unforgiving wilderness and any foot travellers caught in the open would risk hypothermia. They would shiver, then experience the treacherous warmth that lies beyond cold. They would stop at the roadside to rest tired limbs and freeze stiff as statues. Their flesh would turn to ice. Their black mummified bodies would be revealed by the spring thaw.

‘I should have been a monk,’ said Masaie.

‘It’s not too late,’ said the samurai. ‘There are countless monasteries in and around Kyoto. When this is over you could present yourself. Plenty of warriors spend their later years in contemplation. It’s a well-trodden path. I understand the abbot of this temple used to serve in the Imperial guard.’

‘Let’s not kid ourselves there will be a life beyond this,’ said Masaie without turning from the window. ‘We’ll die on that mountainside and even if we don’t the Emperor will have our heads as soon as we return. Let’s enjoy our last days free of illusion.’

He stood at the window and drank in the view until Ariyo said:

‘Close the shutter. It’s freezing in here.’

The sun headed towards the horizon. The samurai knelt on the terrace and prayed. There was an altar inside the building for monks to venerate. It was, presumably, a massive and elaborate structure. A huge stone Buddha at the end of a great, windowless hall, glimpsed through a broiling veil of incense fumes and weak candlelight. The Amida Buddha: a blank-eyed, impassive effigy surrounded by elaborate stone filigree that had taken lifetimes to carve. A halo of swirling, intertwining designs intended to suggest the cyclic impermanence of the material world, but a stranger such as the samurai would never see it. He would never be permitted to enter the inner sanctum. Instead he and fellow travellers were directed towards a more modest altar on a terrace at the rear of the building. A fat, laughing Hotei radiating happiness and abundance – the public face of the Awakened One for common folk who hadn’t the opportunity to choose monastic seclusion and explore deeper mysteries. They hadn’t had the time to meditate upon the texture of awareness, the falsity of personal identity.

The samurai knelt on a cushion. He leant forward and placed his forehead on the cold granite flagstones, the first time he had executed the gesture with one arm. It felt awkward like a one-armed press-up, but he repeated the gesture for each of his relatives.

He lit incense and prayed to his grandparents. He had no recollection of them. They died before he learned to walk. But he prayed to them anyway, prayed to an ancestral lineage that stretched back into unrecorded history. He asked for their blessing and support. The samurai was the last of his line. His ancestors had pulled themselves up from farm folk. They had, by a process of incremental, generation-by-generation advancement, managed to secure extensive lands and title and establish the family as minor gentry. But all their work and ambition had been undone in a single season when a provincial turf war saw their land seized and home burned to the ground. The samurai swore, as the last of the line, not to disgrace his forebears.

He lit incense and prayed to his mother and father. The samurai had kept the memory of his parents secure in a lock-box in his head. Since the death of his master he had been compelled to drop his family name. He embraced anonymity, found melancholy strength in becoming a ghost. He told himself he had no parents. He was simply a piece of the world, like trees or rocks, like sunlight or snow. But on occasion he chose to turn the key and lift the lid and there were his mother and father, the recollection of their faces, the timbre of their voices. He asked them to bless this final mission and to grant him strength to see it through.

He lit incense and prayed to his elder brother. The last time the samurai saw his elder brother he was sitting on horseback in full armour. His brother bowed to his parents as they stood under the eaves of their house. He nodded farewell to the samurai before spurring his horse and heading down the road to join his cavalry regiment. Later that month the regiment rode into battle and the samurai’s brother was swallowed by history. The samurai suppressed this heartbreaking recollection and instead recalled happier and younger days. He and his brother chasing each other through a nearby meadow, laughing and duelling with sticks. The samurai asked his brother to accompany him into combat, to strengthen his remaining arm and help him strike with lethal speed and accuracy.

Finally, when his filial duties were done, he prayed for himself. He prayed for clarity. He prayed to be free of the attachments of this world so he could move to the next life unencumbered. Then he sat quietly and listened to the oceanic breeze as it rippled through tall grass on the hillside below. Most men would say, if pressed, they weren’t scared of death. When the end comes, in whatever form, they assure themselves they will look it in the eye and walk into oblivion proud and courageous. Easy to say when you’re young and in good health. Quite another to stare death in the face knowing your days are short and you are doing most things for the last time. He sat and watched the sunset. He became absorbed in the immediacy of his own existence. Priests called it naka-ima. The eternal present.

The girl joined him and sat by his side.

‘Your illness is getting worse, neh?’

‘Is it obvious?’ asked the samurai.

‘I haven’t seen you eat for a couple of days.’

‘It’s difficult to digest food.’

‘Have you tried the emetic?’

He shook his head.

‘You must eat. You need your strength.’

‘The pain is constant,’ he said.

‘Use the poppy.’

‘Not yet. Only at the very end.’

The sun dipped below the horizon. The landscape turned red.

The girl was forbidden to sleep in the same room as the men. The novice led her to the kitchens to help prepare food for the monks. She was to provide a few hours domestic service as payment for food and shelter.

The kitchen was a wide room with preparation tables and open fireplace. The tables were cluttered with stacked wooden trays and teetering towers of bowls. The fire was dark and unlit. The cook was a large woman well used to ruling the kitchen, well used to bossing the maids. The cook gave the girl a bunch of carrots and a knife.

‘Peel and chop.’

‘How many monks are there?’ asked the girl as she diced carrots.

‘A hundred and fifty.’

The girl looked around as staff brought vegetables from a storeroom.

‘Two cooks? For so many men?’

‘Rice and steamed vegetables,’ explained the cook. ‘The same meal every day. And jugs of water from the well. A simple menu.’

‘The food never varies?’

‘This is a temple. There are no luxuries, nothing that can distract the monks from their devotions. Food is sustenance, nothing more.’

The girl filled a cauldron with water drawn from the well. She heaved the pot up the steps and back into the kitchen then hung it on an iron tripod over the fire. She fetched fresh logs from the woodpile, stacked them beneath the pot and set them alight. Tinder flared and the logs smouldered and burned. Smoke was drawn through a flue-hatch in the ceiling. The fire transformed the room. The gloomy space was filled with warm light and comforting wood-crackle. The cook bustled, oblivious to the flames, but the girl turned her face towards the fire and relished the heat. Maids lingered by the fireside and enjoyed the warmth each time they collected a tray loaded with jugs and cups for the refectory. A black cat squeezed through the gap in the kitchen door and curled in front of the hearth. The room filled with steam and became hot as a sauna. The girl wrapped a rag round her forehead to absorb sweat. She stood next to the bubbling cauldron and threw in scoops of rice from a burlap sack. She stirred the pot with a wooden paddle.

An old woman knelt at a little table in the corner of the kitchen ignoring the heat and hubbub around her. She dipped a brush and with deft strokes drew a single kanji symbol on sheets of coarse linen paper. She laid the sheets on the floor to dry. Maids stepped over the calligraphy barely sparing the woman a look.

The cook knelt next to the girl and trimmed beans with a little paring knife.

‘Who is that?’ asked the girl, gesturing to the old woman. ‘The lady with the brush?’

The cook didn’t look round but continued to strip beans and drop them in a bowl.

‘She’s the niece of local nobility. Her family fell out of favour with the previous Daimyō and were put to the sword. She was brought here as a baby, the sole survivor and has lived here ever since. I suppose that is how warlords convince themselves they are good men. Slaughter thousands but let the occasional sweet child live to convince themselves they still have a soul.’

‘There are nuns? Here?’

‘They have their own prayer hall and their own dormitory.’

‘What is she doing?’ asked the girl, nodding towards the old woman.

‘She feels a connection to everyone she has ever met. If she shared a moment with someone, no matter how inconsequential, she believes their lives are inextricably linked. So once a year she sends a greeting.’

‘To everyone? Everyone she ever encountered?’

‘Every servant, every farmer, every washer-woman and maid.’

The cook spoke matter-of-fact. Metaphysical speculation was an everyday part of her work environment. She served men and women trying to commune with the core reality of the universe same as she would serve folk who spent their waking hours making shoes.

‘She’s mad,’ said the girl.

The cook shrugged and continued to peel beans.

‘Maybe we’re the ones with clouded vision,’ she said. ‘Maybe we are all dreaming, and she is awake.’

Later, the girl helped carry steaming bowls of rice through to the refectory. Bald novice monks sat in rows in front of long dining tables. They sat with their heads bowed until the women left the room. She drank in the atmosphere of the monastic hall, the transcendent calm.

She was a girl. Most of the opportunities of the wider world would be denied her. She could be a wife and mother, but little else. Yet as a nun she could voyage inward and explore the infinite vastness of her own consciousness without hindrance. She could sit cross-legged in monastic silence, close her eyes and be free.

The girl slept beside the extinct kitchen fire, cat curled by her side. She opened her eyes. It was still dark. The kitchen was empty and starlight shafted through the window. Innate time-sense told her it would be another hour until dawn. Soon the cook and her helpers would wake, light and heat the kitchen and prepare breakfast for the monks. She got up and lit a lamp. She drank a cup of water and enjoyed the silence. She unhooked a rice paddle from the wall, opened the kitchen door and stepped out onto the terrace. A moonlit landscape. Woodland white with frost. Spectral mist hung over the monastery graveyard and surrounding meadows. It was ice cold. Each exhalation produced a broiling plume of steam-breath.

She jumped. She crouched. She swung her arms. She performed a bunch of high-kicks and a flurry of punches to galvanise stiff limbs. She swung the paddle back and forth, gently at first, then with increasing strength and aggression. She executed slashes, slices and cuts. She imagined she was surrounded by opponents on all sides. Assailants moved in, swords at the ready. She ducked and skipped, sure-footed and lithe. She became a lethal blur. The ghost-battle executed as a dance, fluid cuts until each apparition lay felled by a decisive killing stroke. She twirled the rice paddle in her hands, span it back and forth.

A deep voice: ‘Is he really your father?’

She squinted into shadows and discerned a figure sat against the wall. She gripped the paddle ready to defend herself. The figure got up and stretched. Tameyo with a blanket hooded over his head like a shawl.

‘Couldn’t sleep?’ asked the girl.

‘No.’

‘He’s my father.’

‘You don’t look alike.’

‘He saved me. He looked after me. So he is my father.’

‘You’ve been very fortunate. A girl on her own. Lucky to find a decent man to take care of her.’

‘Yes,’

‘My father was a good man,’ said Tameyo. ‘Dirt poor, but a good man. I wish I had been a better son. That’s my chief regret.’

‘Where did you learn to be a thief?’

‘A backstreet. I was starving one day. I came across an open window and the smell of food.’

‘You must have picked up some skills over the years. Someone must have trained you. Show you how to pick a pocket, how to open locks. You don’t learn those kind of tricks on your own.’

Tameyo shook his head. ‘Nothing to it. Keyholes have a little latch inside, a little lever. Press it and the lock will pop right open. My teacher was hunger, misery and desperation. He was all bad things. And he taught me well.’

There was a broom propped against the wall. Tameyo picked it up.

‘Swordcraft. You should practise with more than one man.’

‘I have a master.’

He jabbed her in the belly with the broom handle.

‘He fights a certain way. He has a style, a rhythm. Everybody does. Shouldn’t get too used to it. I mean, I’m not a sword master. Not like him. But I’ve trained with a naginata. When you train for the army, when they teach you how to fight, they make you constantly switch partners. Train with a single person long enough you get too comfortable with their height, their reach. That’s not how it is in combat. In a real fight you’re up against a stranger. You won’t know what to expect.’

She tried to formulate a polite refusal. He lunged. She parried. He lunged again. She didn’t know what to make of the attack. She wondered if there were some sexually aggressive undertone to the conflict.

‘I would prefer not to fight,’ she said.

‘Do you think that approach will work face-to-face with an enemy? Sorry, not in the mood today? You don’t get to choose a time and place.’

He twirled the broom and stabbed forward once again. She parried and stepped back.

‘Seriously. I don’t want to do this.’

‘Fight.’

She dropped her guard a little and fooled him into taking a shot at her torso. He lunged. She jumped aside, swung the paddle and knocked him out with a blow to the side of the head.

The company rose before sunrise. The monks had already been awake an hour and the temple reverberated with their collective chant. The somnambulant convicts ate a bowl of cold rice in the kitchen then shouldered their packs. They left the temple and set out down the dirt track that led through farmland and into the woods, shocked alert by the dawn cold.

They waded through tall grass. The morning sun had turned frost to dew. Water soaked through the crude seams of their leather shoes and their feet were soon wet and numb. They had left the monastery far behind. Each time they breasted a rise a fresh tract of meadowland stretched ahead of them. Their legs felt heavy and their supplies weighed them down. Masaie adjusted the rope straps of his pack-frame and walked bent forward, burdened by the weight of explosives on his back. His leg hurt. His limp was getting worse but he was too proud to ask for help.

Masaie had, as a child, seen a condemned man led to the town square and beheaded. For days afterwards he wondered why the man consented to be marched by local militia to the execution spot. Why had the prisoner been so docile? Why had he compliantly knelt and bowed his head? Why didn’t he resist? Why didn’t he fight? Masaie concluded that, even in those final moments, the man couldn’t comprehend the finality of death. Even as the executioner raised his sword, the prisoner on some level didn’t fully understand his life was about to end. Part of him expected some kind of reprieve. Masaie looked down and watched his feet kick through tall grass and wondered if that same mix of resignation and incomprehension was carrying him to his doom, driving him forward onto a sword tip that waited on a remote mountain far from home.

He tried to ignore the pain in his leg but now and again his ankle was twisted by a stone hidden beneath tall grass and he winced and stumbled like his leg was struggling to support his weight. Next time they reached a decent bamboo thicket he would need to cut himself a staff.

The girl walked by Masaie’s side and could hear his laboured breathing and the sharp intake of breath each time uneven ground caused his leg to jolt. She glanced at him now and again. He looked weak and tired. The pack seemed to weigh him down like it was full of rocks. His kimono was wet with perspiration. Sweat steamed in the cold morning air. His clothes fumed like he had been dragged from a fire. He stared straight ahead, locked in his own private misery.

‘Are you okay?’ asked the girl. ‘Is your leg still giving you trouble?’

‘I’m fine,’ he snapped and wiped sweat from his eyes.

‘Maybe I should carry the pack a while.’

He bridled at the idea; choked at the shameful suggestion a girl should carry his burden.

‘Just stay away from me.’ He hobbled fast to get away from her.

‘Well there it is,’ said the samurai.

The others joined him at the top of the hill and contemplated the mountain ahead of them. Their first sight of the castle – a sinister, mongrel structure built into the side of the mountain. The stone foundations and outer ramparts of the building were a product of Honshu’s pre-history, a relic of the emishi, the earlier races long since driven to extinction by Chinese settlers. Massive granite blocks built into a cliff face, weathered like they had endured countless winter storms. There was no way of knowing how the gargantuan slabs had been hauled up the mountainside and positioned to form impregnable ramparts. The ancient foundations of the castle had been topped with a more recent wooden structure. A white bailey, five storeys high, stood at the centre of the citadel compound. The general’s black sun standard flew from a pole over the gatehouse. Hard to judge from a distance, but the gate itself seemed to be built from pine bulwarks ribbed with iron bands. Alternate teams of men propelling a battering ram would labour for hours to make any impression on the castle entrance, dead from a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts long before the portal gave way. A road zig-zagged down the side of the vertiginous slope to a cluster of houses at the foot of the mountain. They could see a white smudge, probably a cart, labouring up the steep gradient to the castle.

‘It’s an impossible task,’ said Ariyo, with an air of finality. ‘The strongest army in the world couldn’t take that castle. It’s unassailable.’

‘Maybe we could smuggle ourselves inside,’ said Tameyo. ‘Hide in a cart when they take in supplies from the village.’

‘You can bet they search everything that goes through that gate,’ said Ariyo. ‘Stab a knife into every box, every barrel, every sack of corn. The general isn’t a fool. He knows his life is in danger. They will have been ordered to check and double check every consignment that comes over the threshold.’

‘Maybe we could dress as soldiers.’

‘The men garrisoned at the castle won’t be regular infantry. They are his praetorian guard. The best of the best. They’ll guard against infiltration, change their password every watch rotation. As I said: impregnable.’

‘There’s always a way,’ said the samurai. ‘We just have to banish our preconceptions and look with fresh eyes.’

‘So let’s hear it.’

‘Look. Look closely. There’s a big blind spot. An open avenue of attack.’

The convicts studied the castle.

‘I don’t see any blind spots,’ said Tameyo. ‘The castle commands an uninterrupted view of the surrounding terrain. It’s an excellent vantage point. We couldn’t get close to the place without being observed. In fact a sentry with good eyesight could see us standing here right now. There’s no cover, no chance of getting over those walls. Grappling hook? Hopeless. They’d hear us. They’d see us. Archers would pick us off at their leisure. Best we can do is wait for the general to ride out and try to ambush his caravan. And that could be a long wait.’

‘Look again,’ said the samurai. ‘See? All their attention, all their sentry points, are directed downward in anticipation of attack from the valley below. They expect the enemy to come marching up the mountain road en masse.’

‘So?’

‘So we shall attack from above.’

‘You want to scale the mountain? Climb down to the castle from the summit?’

‘Yes. It’s quite clear they don’t expect an enemy to descend on them from the mountain top. It is an open channel of attack.’

‘Winter is closing in,’ said Ariyo. ‘If the weather turns bad, if we get stranded on that mountainside, we wouldn’t last long.’

‘We can do it,’ said the samurai. He contemplated the desolate peak a while. ‘Yes. If we set our minds, our hearts to the task, we can do it.’

They entered a wooded gorge which wound through the increasingly vertiginous foothills clustered at the base of the mountain. They stopped by the side of a stream to rest and refill their flasks. Masaie sighed with relief as he unstrapped his pack and set it down. He sat, then lay back on the grass and looked up at the trees.

‘Show me your leg,’ said the samurai.

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Show me.’

Masaie reluctantly unlaced his leather sandal and pulled the tabi from his foot. His foot was red. The samurai crouched beside him, lifted his hakama and examined his leg. The calf was purple and inflamed, flesh hot to the touch.

‘Does it hurt?’ asked the samurai, gently prodding the wound.

Masaie winced and flinched.

‘When did this happen?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Masaie. ‘I got scratched a couple of days ago. A thorn, an insect bite. A tiny wound, so slight I didn’t notice it happen. Then it started to itch. Then it started to swell.’

‘We should make a poultice.’

‘How? Do you know medicine? There are no physicians out here.’

‘We can get some honey on it, at least.’

‘You’re not taking my leg,’ said Masaie with sudden vehemence like he was voicing fears that had dogged him the past few days. ‘I’ve seen this before. A canker. Rot leading to amputation. I’d rather die than lose my leg. Seriously. I’d rather die whole than be half a man. I don’t want to end my days a street beggar. I don’t want to be a cripple rattling a cup.’

The samurai gestured to his missing arm, as if to say: I’ve lost a limb, yet I still consider myself a capable man. Masaie shook his head, refusing the unspoken consolation.

‘No,’ he said. ‘If it comes to it, I’d rather die. Anyway it will probably clear up by itself, right? A little wound. A few days from now it’ll be nothing but a fading scar.’

The samurai nodded, unconvinced and gestured to the pack.

‘You look a little unsteady on your feet, though. Might be best if someone else carried the explosives from now on.’

They walked all afternoon. The samurai carried the explosives. They built a fire as evening fell.

‘Don’t burn too much wood,’ advised the samurai. ‘We don’t want to create a big smoke plume. People might see it over the trees. We shouldn’t attract attention.’

An oak leant from the bank and overhung a stream. Ariyo hung lines in the water. He sat on the bank and watched until each length of twine pulled taut. He hauled in four fish. He gutted them, impaled them on twigs and set them to cook over the fire. They ate with their fingers. Then they stripped and washed themselves with rags in the stream. They rinsed their hair and beards. They dried, dressed, retied their topknots then sat round the fire.

‘This is our last meal together,’ said the samurai. ‘Tomorrow morning we split up. We will each have a responsibility. A task to perform. Our own little piece of the plan. I have to be honest. I doubt we will see each other again.’

He looked at the faces of the convicts.

‘You’re good men. Strong men. Whether you know it or not. You’ve led very ordinary lives. Other people might regard you as worthless. You stink. You’re clothes are filthy. You can’t read. You can barely sign your names. But each of you carries the seed of greatness. You weren’t born to lead, to conquer. But each of you holds the potential for one great act. This is it. This is the moment. One way or another people will know about us whether we succeed in our mission or not. They will hear of our exploits. Songs will be sung. Stories will be told. So play your part. Don’t let yourselves down. You are about to become the stuff of fables.’

The confederates stared into the dancing flames of the camp fire, each of them turned inward, lost in their own anxieties. Tameyo pulled the black debt-stone from a fold in his obi and turned it in his hand. Ariyo sharpened his sword.

The girl and the samurai chose a patch of level ground away from the camp and fought with sticks. The samurai attacked. The girl cleared her mind and defended with fluid strokes.

‘Let’s try something a little different,’ said the samurai, tiring of the routine sword-play. He tied a scrap of fabric round the girl’s head as a blindfold.

‘Now. Defend yourself.’

The girl stood still as she could. She could see nothing but the glow of evening sunlight through woven cotton tied over her eyes.

A sudden impact. The samurai’s staff hit her right thigh. She stumbled and tried to mask the hurt. She shook her head clear and resumed an alert posture.

Another impact. The staff hit her left shoulder. She couldn’t suppress a snarl of pain. She flexed her shoulder and resumed a ready stance. Each strike had been preceded for half a second by the tell-tale fabric rustle of the samurai’s kimono. She listened for the sound.

A faint rasp to her left. She blocked. A sharp crack as their staffs slammed together.

A faint rasp to her right. She blocked.

She didn’t hear the third blow but felt a sudden change of air pressure. She instinctively knew something was coming at her so she raised the sword in an overhead block to protect her head and intercepted a down-cut aimed at the top of her skull.

‘Good,’ said the samurai. ‘You are starting to employ all your senses.’

She stood still as she could. The samurai circled, waiting for the next propitious moment to strike.

‘I have every sympathy with the general,’ he said. She followed the sound of his voice to gauge his location. He was circling to her right. ‘He isn’t an evil man. He found himself in an impossible position.’

The samurai swung from the left. She blocked too late and took a strike to the shin. She struck back and slashed thin air.

‘How do you mean?’ she asked, ignoring the pain.

‘He was one of the Emperor’s most competent soldiers. A good tactician. A man who inspired loyalty among his troops. These are dangerous virtues. A man like that inspires envy among his peers. And he inspires fear in his Imperial masters, always on the look-out for anyone who might challenge their rule. They already have a rival in the Shōgun. A second ascendant warlord would double their problems.’

The samurai swung at her right shoulder. She blocked the blow then quickly swung her staff to parry a second cut coming in from the left. She lunged forward and stabbed thin air.

‘He was sent to this province to defeat his brother,’ said the samurai, from behind her. ‘A cruel test of loyalty. He had to choose between his family and the Imperial House. He couldn’t win. To fail would mean death. Seppuku. Intolerable shame. But success would also mean death. If you study the histories you will find many successful generals died in mysterious circumstances. A great chieftain needs military men to enforce his will but must ensure they do not become a threat to his leadership. If Motohide retook Etchū in the Emperor’s name, he would have returned to Kyoto a hero. And later succumbed to an unfortunate riding accident or sudden illness.’

‘So he stayed and fortified his position,’ said the girl, blocking a head strike.

‘I doubt he was concerned for his own life. But he feels the weight of his ancestral lineage, the responsibility he owes his favourite wife and their son. He won’t throw them away. Not for the Emperor. Not for anyone.’

‘So the Emperor forced his betrayal.’

A strike to her back. She felt it coming. She span and sank to one knee, sword raised, and blocked the blow. The angle of attack betrayed the samurai’s position a yard to her right. She counter-attacked, scythed her staff at ground level and tried to knock his feet from under him. He skipped to avoid the blow.

‘Very good,’ he said, and took the blindfold from her eyes. ‘Yes. There is a lesson you can take from the Emperor’s actions, if you choose to heed it, about the nature of fear.’

‘If you fear something too much you can make it happen.’

‘Exactly.’

They returned to the camp. The girl snapped their duelling staffs over her knee and fed them into the fire. Later when the convicts were curled asleep the girl and the samurai sat side by side and stared into the flames.

‘You enjoyed your time at the monastery?’ asked the samurai.

‘Yes.’

He was wracked by a coughing fit. He got it under control.

‘I want you to do something for me. When this is over, when our mission is concluded one way or another, get out of Etchū as fast as you can. Don’t go back to Kyoto. Head south. Travel to Iga, the village of Kōga. Go to The Temple of Suijin. Ask for the abbot.’

‘You know the place?’

‘The men of Suijin are skilled in the art of ninjitsu. They are warrior monks. Most have been drilled in unarmed combat since childhood. They can kill with supernatural stealth. If you choose to become a bugeisha, then you will need formal training. These men are the best.’

‘Why weren’t ninjas dispatched to execute this mission?’

‘Because the Emperor and his mother are terrified of them. And rightly so.’

‘Have they trained women?’

‘No. So you will be the first. Tell them you were my novice. Show them what you can do. Prove you deserve their tutelage.’

The girl didn’t reply.

‘You will be safe there,’ urged the samurai, sensing her reluctance to commit to the idea. ‘I doubt the Emperor will send men to chase you down. You’re just a girl. That’s your greatest weapon. Nobody thinks you matter.’

She nodded.

‘Anyway, you will be safe at Kōga no matter what. They make their own law. They don’t answer to the Emperor. They answer to heaven.’

The girl thought it over.

‘Please,’ said the samurai. ‘For my own peace of mind I need to know you will have a future after this.’

‘All right. That’s where I’ll go.’

The samurai nodded gratitude. He pulled the box of ampoules from his pack. His hands were shaking and he was sweating with pain.

‘Are you all right?’ asked the girl. ‘Can I help?’

He broke the neck of an ampoule and knocked back poppy resin.

‘No. There’s nothing you can do.’ He closed his eyes and waited for the opiate to hit.

The woods thinned out as they approached the mountain. They stood at the tree line, half-hidden by low branches. Crouching, they used thick underbrush for cover, and surveyed the valley. There were troops camped on the valley floor, a cluster of tents and grazing horses.

‘How many men do you reckon?’ asked Tameyo.

‘A couple of hundred,’ said the samurai.

The village and surrounding farm plots lined the valley wall. There were stepped rice terraces, irrigation channels and animal pens. They could see a shrine, a handful of houses and what appeared to be a modest tavern. Smoke curled from roof-flues.

Looming high on the mountainside above the valley was the castle itself – the closer they got the more formidable it seemed. Vertiginous mist-shrouded cliffs rose to an unassailable rampart part-veiled by cloud.

The Dragon’s Lair.

When they first heard the castle’s name in Kyoto they scoffed thinking it was the product of rural superstition. But now, as they gazed up at the bleak fortifications, they understood the dread the mountain could evoke, the visceral conviction that the crags were home to daemons and monsters. The upper reaches of the mountain, the ridges and outcrops surrounding the summit were white with ice. Driving wind blew wisps of snow from high crags making the mountain smoke like hot coals.

The travellers couldn’t get closer to the hamlet without crossing open ground. They would be visible to villagers and sentries patrolling the castle battlements.

The convicts grew restless and retreated into the woods to pace and stretch. The samurai and the girl remained crouched in undergrowth so they could observe the valley.

‘See that cart?’ said the samurai. There was a four-wheeled wagon behind the tavern. ‘That’s the one that was travelling the castle road a couple of days back.’

‘You think it brings them supplies?’

‘Consignments of fresh food, at a guess. I’m guessing they make a delivery every day or so.’

‘You want me to hitch a ride, yes? Get inside the castle.’

‘Do you think you can do it? You’ll be on your own. You’ll have nothing but your wits.’

‘I can do it.’

‘We’ll be relying on you.’

‘What about the others?’

‘Masaie stays here in the forest with the explosives and waits for the signal to attack. Tameyo and Ariyo will come with me and climb the mountain. I estimate it will take two or three days for us all to be in position. Then, when I give the signal, we make our move.’

The samurai got to his feet and mustered the men. ‘This is where we part,’ he declared.

Masaie leant against a tree to rest his leg.

‘You understand what you have to do, neh?’ said the samurai, addressing Masaie. ‘You must stay hidden until the time comes.’

‘Understood.’

Masaie held out his hand and dropped his debt stone into Tameyo’s palm.

‘Look after this for me, would you? If anything happens to me take it back to Kyoto. Free my wife and son.’

Tameyo nodded.

‘Will you be okay?’ asked the samurai, gesturing to the Masaie’s leg.

‘I’m fine. I’m feeling better.’

‘When the hour comes you need to be ready. It’s vital you play your part otherwise the plan will fail.’

‘I won’t let you down.’

The samurai turned to Tameyo and Ariyo. ‘You two are with me a while longer, I’m afraid. How do you feel? Ready to climb?’

The men didn’t reply. They looked up at the mountain. It looked like a wind-blasted hell.

The samurai turned to the girl.

‘And you understand what you have to do?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m asking a lot. It worries me. You’ll be alone. But I’ve taught you as best I can, given our short time together. Hopefully enough to keep you alive.’

She nodded. He couldn’t think of parting words that that would fully convey his emotions so instead he laid a hand on her shoulder and smiled. He turned away. Tameyo and Ariyo followed him and they were soon lost among trees. They skirted the edge of the forest, planning to leave the cover of the woods and approach the mountain once they were out of sight of the village and castle.

The innkeeper’s wife found Commander Raku trying to dress. Her initial instinct was to back out of the room until he made himself decent but she saw he needed help. He had managed to pull on his hakama using his stumps but hadn’t been able to tie the waist string. He had shrugged on his kimono but been unable to tie the sash.

He stood while she secured his clothes feeling like a child dressed by its mother. He explored his emotions. Why am I not angry? I am a samurai. Why am I not enraged by this humiliation? He was still in a state of shock. Everything around him, the room, the woman helping him dress, his own mutilated body, felt unreal. The head wound had caused his face to swell and his vision to blur. Maybe I am dead. Maybe this is a place of subtle torment. Maybe my soul is marooned in this grey netherworld, doomed to drift incomplete through this place of drab ghosts forever trying to complete my mission, forever struggling to reach my goal. The eternal punishment of those failed in their duty during their lives. He swayed like he was about to topple over. The innkeeper’s wife held his arm to steady him.

‘You are sick, Commander-sama,’ she said. She didn’t truly believe the injured man was a great soldier but called him commander as a courtesy. It wouldn’t be the first time a madman had stopped at the tavern a while then moved on. Plenty of lunatics and mystics walked the rural roads. They deserved compassion and a little basic hospitality. They were repellent, filthy and wretched. But they had once been somebody’s brother, somebody’s son.

‘You should rest, commander. Rest for many days.’

‘It’s imperative I reach Etchū. Does anyone in this village own a horse?’

‘You should ask downstairs.’

The tavern was busy. Raku could hear laughter from the room below. He stepped into rope sandals and headed for the door, unsteady like he crossing the deck of a storm-tossed ship.

‘Wait,’ said the innkeeper’s wife. She left and returned a moment later holding a wooden mask. She gestured to his face: the bloody, swollen mess, the crusted blood and crude stitchwork. ‘A gigaku troupe stayed here, years ago. They left this.’

Raku examined the blank mask. It was white with delicate red lips.

The tavern was busy. As darkness fell the men of the village came to the hostel seeking warmth and company. They sat round the fire. They laughed and talked.

The room turned quiet as the stairs creaked and sandaled feet slowly descended from the upper room. The villagers had heard there was a horribly disfigured stranger in the room above the tavern. Whenever they had asked the innkeeper about the stranger, asked him to describe the man’s horrific injuries, the innkeeper simply shook his head and said: Monstrous. Monstrous. They waited with a mix of fear and excitement to see if the stranger’s face was as grotesque as the innkeeper had implied.

The innkeeper’s wife provided a supporting arm as Raku negotiated the steps. A murmur of unease from the villagers. Eyes regarded them from behind the white perfection of a mask.

Raku sat with his back to the men. The innkeeper set a cup of water in front of him.

Raku lifted the mask. He clamped the cup between his stumps, lifted it to his mouth and drank. The villagers craned to catch a glimpse of the stranger’s nightmarish visage and flinched as Raku pulled down his mask and turned round to face them.

‘Who wants money?’

No one replied.

‘Money. Coins. Coins you can use to buy cattle and land.’

Silence.

‘Etchū. North of here. There’s a castle on a mountain. They call it The Dragon’s Lair. Money, lots of money, for the man who can get me there in three days.’

Raku looked round the room. ‘What do you want? Any of you? A plot of land? Cows? This is a chance to change your miserable lives. Something for your children, your grandchildren.’

‘Hush now,’ said the innkeeper. ‘You’ve been housed, nursed and fed. Don’t go spinning tales.’

‘I am Commander Raku of the Takeda clan, sworn to General Motohide of Etchū. Look at me. Look into my eyes. You know it’s true.’ He stared the tavern keeper down. The man averted his gaze.

Raku addressed the tavern crowd once more.

‘The Dragon’s Lair. Get me there in three days, and I’ll put a purse in your hand. My solemn word. So. Who wants to be rich?’

A man sitting near the fire slowly raised his hand.

The man sat opposite the commander. Raku pulled off his mask and exposed his ruined face. The man breathed fast, shocked at the sight, but held the commander’s gaze.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Chisato.’

‘Raku.’

‘You’ll pay me? If I take you to Etchū?’

‘The castle.’

‘I’ve never seen it. But I know where it is.’

‘You have a horse?’

‘And a cart.’

‘Then you are already a prince in these parts.’

‘Money could stoke a lot of envy round here,’ said Chisato. ‘Turn friends into enemies. I might have to head for Kyoto, buy a shop or something.’

‘Well, that’s a fine problem to wrestle with. A moment ago you were destined for a lifetime raking dung. Now you’re planning how to spend more money than you’ve ever seen. But like I said. You have to get me to Nakatomi Castle. You have to do it in three days.’

‘How much money? Give me a figure.’

‘Ten gold ryō.’

‘Ten?’

‘Yes.’

‘Gold?’

Raku nodded.

‘Three days,’ he said. ‘Three days or you get nothing.’

‘Then we’d better get started.’

The commander waited outside the tavern while Chisato ran home to hitch his cart. Raku stood shivering in the cold and listened to shouts and laughter from inside the tavern. He needed a piss and walked to the side of the building so he could be unobserved by those entering and exiting the inn. How could he urinate with no hands? Just let it run down his leg? Walk around reeking of piss?

He wriggled his hakama down using his stumps. He pissed. Then the long battle to raise his hakama once more and pull it over his hips. But what would happen when he needed to defecate? Who would wipe his ass? He leant his forehead against the side wall of the tavern and released a slow, shuddering sigh. The degradation of his condition was overwhelming.

Three days. Three days, then he could die.

He heard hoof beats as Chisato pulled up outside the tavern. He rode a two-wheeled cart hauled by a short Yonaguni cross-breed. The farmer tried to help Raku into the cart but Raku pushed Chisato away and hauled himself up without aid. He sat in the wagon on planks dusted with straw. The farmer fetched a couple of flasks of water and some apples from the tavern, stuff for their journey.

‘We’ll have to take it slow,’ said Chisato. ‘Hard to avoid pot-holes in the dark.’

‘There’ll be a clear sky and a full moon. You should be able to see clear enough.’

Chisato said a brief prayer to Batō Kannon then he geed the horse and they set off down the road.

The horse died noon the following day. It plodded down the track then stopped and jerked its head a few times like it was trying to shake off some kind of dizzy spell.

‘Are you all right, girl?’ asked Chisato.

The horse lurched right then collapsed. The cart tipped on its side throwing Raku and the farmer into the undergrowth.

Chisato crouched by the stricken animal and stroked its head as the creature panted. It foamed at the mouth, its eyes rolled crazy. The farmer reluctantly drew the knife from his belt. Raku walked down the track a little way so Chisato could spend a last few moments alone with the animal. A brief bark of fear and pain from the horse indicated Chisato had put an end to its suffering.

‘You owe me a new horse,’ said the farmer. He strode past Raku and headed down the track, a bag and blanket slung over his shoulder.

Raku and Chisato reached a river mid-afternoon. They were exhausted. They sat on the bank, took off their sandals and soaked their sore feet in the water.

‘They will be a boat, sooner or later,’ said Raku. ‘We’ll flag it down. Ask them to take us as passengers.’

‘They’ll want payment,’ said Chisato. ‘Not promises. Something they can hold in their hand.’

‘What’s that round your neck?’

The commander gestured to a band hanging round the farmer’s neck on a leather thong.

‘My father’s ring. It doesn’t fit my finger.’

‘Where did he get it?’

‘He found it in the middle of the road when he was a young man. It was just sitting there in the mud. Must have been dropped. He spent the rest of his life looking down. Everywhere we went he checked the ground hoping to find another treasure. He never did.’

‘Silver?’

‘A little, I think.’

‘Then give it to the boatman.’

Chisato shook his head. ‘It belonged to my father.’

‘You have children?’

‘Yes.’

‘You want to give them a better life?’

‘Yes,’

‘If your father were here now what would he tell you to do?’ asked Raku.

Chisato didn’t reply. They sat in silence a while. Then, as the afternoon wore on a single-sailed boat turned the bend. The farmer stood and flagged his arms.

The two crewmen reacted in terror when they steered the vessel towards the river bank and saw Raku’s white, impassive mask. They wrenched the rudder trying to steer clear and leave the travellers on the bank but it was too late. Raku and Chisato jumped aboard. Chisato quickly assured the terrified crew Raku wasn’t a leper. He took the ring from around his neck and held it up. Silver glinted in the sunlight. The boat’s captain snatched it from his hand.

The commander sat in the prow of the boat with a blanket pulled over his head like a shawl. On a whim he lifted the mask, leaned over the side of the boat and inspected his reflection. A blurred monster stared back at him. A face split in two and crudely jammed together. Flesh pulled tight and out of shape by crude stitches.

Raku sat back and experimented with the mask and blanket. He pulled the shawl low, manipulated the fabric with his stumps. That’s how he would need to travel from now on. Cloaked and hooded.

Some of the boatman’s equipment lay beside him in an oil cloth bag. The shaft of a hatchet protruded from the flap. Raku thought about all the times he gripped his sword. He could feel the heft of it, the silk weave of the tsuka, in his non-existent hands. He’d never hold a sword again, never hold anything again, couldn’t blow his nose without the aid of a nurse. He closed his eyes. When he reached Nakatomi Castle and warned General Motohide of the assassins heading his way, he wouldn’t even be able to commit Hari Kiri. He couldn’t hold a knife. He would have to request one the guards put him out of his misery the way Chisato dispatched his lame horse. A wave of pure despair engulfed him and blotted out the world. He panted for breath. It felt like he was drowning in black.

They travelled all day. The crew at the back of the boat manning the rudder, too scared of the commander’s face to approach the travellers. Chisato stood at the prow alongside Raku so he didn’t have to see his father’s ring hanging round the neck of the boat captain.

The river swung right and Raku realised this new direction would steer them away from the castle.

‘Seems like this is as far as we can go by water,’ he told the Chisato. ‘Get them to drop us on the bank. Imagine they’ll be happy to be rid of us.’

They trudged across farm land, Raku stopped for frequent rest breaks. The physical trauma of losing his hands was still fresh. He was weak and shaky. He tried to keep moving by sheer force of will but his body was starting to mutiny.

‘Can I ask you a question, Commander-sama?’ asked the farmer.

Raku nodded.

‘Are you married?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Your injuries. Hard for a wife and children to adjust. You were a warrior. When you return home you will be a very different man. It will be a shock.’

‘I had a wife but she died. There is no one waiting for me. And I’m glad. It’s one less burden to bear.’

They walked in silence a while. The wind picked up. A whispering breeze turned to a blistering howl and sleet drove hard into their faces. Raku lowered his mask. Flecks of hail crackled against the lacquered wood. Chisato lowered his head, shielded his eyes and leaned forward into the wind.

‘Can barely see where I’m going.’

‘Keep your eyes fixed on the ground,’ said Raku. ‘Maybe you’ll find another ring.’

‘Are you sad you survived?’ asked the farmer, hoping conversation would divert them from the misery of wet clothes and foot-sucking mud. ‘No hands. A face that makes folks run in fear. If it were me, well, I think I’d rather be dead.’

‘Duty,’ said Raku. ‘Duty keeps me going. I am bound by an oath of loyalty. When I’m released from my obligations, then I can rest.’

It felt good to declare his purpose aloud. It renewed his determination to reach the castle. He straightened his back and lengthened his stride. Then his legs gave out and he pitched forward in the mud.

Chisato carried Raku on his back. The rain had stopped.

‘Two days to reach the castle,’ said the farmer, panting under the strain. ‘We’ll never make it. Not at this speed. I can’t carry you all the way.’

‘Just keep going. We must be passing into Etchū soon.’

‘Using me like a donkey.’

‘A couple of days from now you will have money in your hand and this little humiliation will be a fading memory. So keep going.’

‘Ten Ryō.’

‘You have my word.’

They staggered onward. The commander pointed at a distant tree line. A thin plume of smoke rose from beyond the trees.

‘A big fire,’ said the commander. ‘Must be soldiers. Put me down. I have to walk. They mustn’t see me on your back.’

Raku and Chisato circled the copse of trees and found twelve samurai resting their horses, throwing brushwood on a fire. General Motohide’s men. His black sun nobori was staked in the ground. Raku assumed they were some kind of border patrol policing the outer reaches of Etchū.

Raku and Chisato trudged across grassland and approached the group expecting to be met with hostility. Most junior troops would have been drawn from farming backgrounds. They were destined for a circumscribed, dirt-poor life. But each of them had survived harsh selection trials and entered the general’s service. They had travelled, learned to read, taken a role in the affairs of great men. They were contemptuous of peasant folk, secretly fearful that just as they had been raised up by good fortune, an unforeseen twist of fate such as an injury or perhaps the overthrow of General Motohide himself, could tip them back into poverty.

Raku and Chisato looked so tired, so ragged, the sentry blocking their path didn’t bother to draw his sword.

‘Be on your way.’

Chisato bowed deep. ‘Could I speak to your officer?’ he asked.

‘Get out of here. Go on.’

Raku looked around. He spotted a soldier sitting cross-legged on the grass examining a scroll while troops erected a tent behind him.

‘On your feet, lieutenant,’ bellowed the commander. ‘On your feet and salute your superior.’

The shout was enough to prompt the soldier to roll the paper and get to his feet to investigate the commotion. The lieutenant approached the filthy vagrants and looked them up and down. Evidently lunatics, the type of demented beggars often seen wandering the byways shouting at the sky or pulling out their hair.

‘Food,’ said the lieutenant. He spoke loud and slow like he was addressing someone deaf or dim-witted. ‘We’ll give you some rice, then you go. Go, understand? You can’t stay here.’

The lieutenant’s voice trailed off. Raku’s face was hidden by a hood but he could see the white chin and painted lips of a mask.

The commander raised one of his stumped arms and clumsily pushed away the blanket that cowled his head. A murmur of apprehension as the soldiers saw the gigaku mask tied round the stranger’s head with a lace. Raku lifted the mask to reveal his bifurcated face. The soldiers got to their feet and backed away. The man in front of them was the embodiment of all their fears. The only thing worse than dying in battle, experiencing the brief agony of a naginata gut-thrust, was the prospect of being maimed. They had each heard horror stories of soldiers who lost their arms and legs and spent the rest of their lives helpless. Grown men who were stretchered back to their villages to be fed, dressed and cleaned by their relatives. And stories of soldiers who suffered head injuries which robbed them of sight and hearing and left them alone in the dark forever. Better to die a clean death than to become a monster.

‘Look at me,’ said Raku. He said it with such force the lieutenant was compelled to meet his gaze. ‘Look me in the eye.’

The lieutenant cautiously approached and examined the commander’s ruined face. A look of dawning realisation as the lieutenant recognised the man in front of him.

‘Commander Raku,’ he murmured. ‘I’m sorry, so sorry. What happened to you?’

‘A team of assassins are on their way to kill the general. They are travelling as we speak. We have to reach the castle before they do.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m certain. And this is as much of a debate as I will allow, lieutenant. There is no time to waste. Muster your men. We ride. We ride until we reach the Dragon’s Lair.’

The samurai climbed the wooded valley wall. Ariyo and Tameyo followed close behind moving through the forest twilight like fluid shadow. They paused now and again to survey the woods around them to make sure they were unobserved. They were passing close enough to the village that they might encounter a trapper checking his snares.

They moved tree to tree to help haul themselves up the steep gradient. Sometimes the slope became so sheer they had to scramble upwards on all-fours, grabbing fistfuls of bracken as hand-holds. It was an arduous climb.

The samurai was seized by a wracking cough and leant against a tree until the spasm passed. Ariyo and Tameyo took the opportunity to rest and catch their breath. They waited for the samurai to regain his composure. They knew better than to offer help.

Tree cover allowed them to circle away from the castle and village. They were manoeuvring round the base of the mountain so they could climb free from prying eyes. It was a simple plan: scale the rear of the mountain then descend on the castle from the summit.

They left the woods at noon and made directly for the mountain. Undergrowth become sparse and they found themselves skirting bare granite knuckles protruding from the soil.

‘Let’s get as high as we can before dark,’ said the samurai.

They jumped boulder to boulder.

‘This way,’ said the samurai.

He led them on a detour towards a couple of dead trees. The trees had grown to a good height but thin soil had stopped them bedding deep enough to survive a fierce wind. They lay on their side among rocks – exposed roots and gnarled, weathered, bark-less trunks.

The samurai snapped and trimmed a branch to make himself a staff. Ariyo and Tameyo turned their backs so he wouldn’t feel eyes on him as he struggled to strip the branch one-handed. He didn’t ask for help, didn’t give in to self-pity. His missing arm turned even the smallest task into a laborious chore and it took an age for him to strap his boots each morning. He couldn’t raise the bowl to his mouth when he ate. A weaker man might have grown frustrated and angry, but the samurai drilled himself to face each difficulty with serene acceptance. Life threw up obstacles. One day a person is fit and vigorous, next day they are laid low by injury or age. It was simply the ever-turning wheel.

The samurai continued to trim the branch. He paused to stretch. His body was lop-sided, permanently out of balance. His muscles had to adapt to a subtly shifted centre of gravity and he had to lean to the right to steady himself. The twist in his spine triggered excruciating muscle spasms. Pain set in fifteen minutes after he started walking each day and burned sharp like a knife to the back until sundown. He consoled himself with the thought these were his last days on earth. All he had to do was endure a little while longer then he could rest forever.

He tested the staff. It would make it easier to walk. Maybe he should have swallowed his pride and walked with a stick from the outset.

The mountain was the highest in a cluster of granite peaks – a line of crags ridged like a row of teeth. The summit was sharp as a canine, a vicious stone fang. It was utterly barren. No sign of human hand. The place was in hiking distance from the village but the samurai couldn’t imagine anyone came here. The rockscape held nothing a person could want. No one could look up at the bleak landscape and feel anything but dread.

They strode towards the peak despite the urge to turn and run. Tameyo looked up. The grey mountain merged with a bruised sky. It was like they intended to climb into the heavens.

The samurai tried to break the sombre mood.

‘I heard that when the Mongols came, generations ago, they brought tales of a land called Tövd. Great mountains to the east of China. Very remote. Only a handful of men have laid eyes on them. They say the mountains are so high they almost touch the moon. I would have liked to see them. One of the many things I shall never do, I suppose. Maybe in the next life.’

The gradient grew steeper and they found themselves clambering over barren terrain. Titanic rubble, slabs and boulders sheered from the mountainside.

The travellers stood a while, caught their breath and looked up. Barren rock. Crags and ledges. Treacherous scree slopes. The upper traverses of the peak were white with snow and veiled by cloud.

‘That’s a monumental climb,’ said Tameyo. ‘Has anyone done it before? Has anyone climbed to the top?’

‘Perhaps,’ said the samurai. ‘A place like this attracts ascetics, holy men determined to commune with Buddha-nature. Wouldn’t surprise me if men have come here and climbed into the clouds.’

‘But did they come down again? That’s the question.’

‘It’s a simple journey,’ said the samurai. ‘Not easy, but simple. We can do it. It’s a continuation of the trek we’ve already made. We are down here. The peak is up there. All we have to do is put one foot in front of another and climb.’

Ariyo looked unconvinced, as if a hard life had left him with a deep contempt for optimists.

‘Don’t look at the summit,’ said the samurai. ‘You will be overwhelmed. Look at that ledge instead.’ He pointed to an outcrop of rock ahead of them. ‘See how it can be climbed? Concentrate on that, the immediate obstacle, and stage by stage we will make it to the top.’

‘This place makes my skin crawl,’ said Tameyo, looking around in trepidation. ‘It’s evil. I can feel it. Nothing can live here.’ He suppressed a shiver. ‘A dragon sleeps beneath the mountain? Isn’t that what people say?’

‘I consulted the archives in Kyoto before we began our journey. Read all they had concerning the castle and the surrounding peaks. They say the ground here shakes every couple of generations. Old folks in these parts still remember the last time the dragon shifted in its sleep. The earth shook and split open. Great fissures opened in the hillsides. Houses collapsed. Cows dropped dead in the fields.’

‘Is that why Motohide made this place his seat? To defy the gods?’

‘They say there are crude stone blocks littering the lower slopes of the peak beneath the castle. Something older, much older, something built before recorded history, used to stand on that ledge. It was wiped out by an unimaginable cataclysm. No idea who built it or what it was for. Might have been a castle. Or it might have been a fortified temple constructed for the worship of ancient gods. The foundations and outer walls remain. But the old castle itself was scattered like pebbles. Perhaps one day the current castle will be razed. The mountain will shake it off like a dog shaking off rainwater. All that wood and stone cascading onto the village below. Yes, I would say, on some deep level, Motohide is compelled to court disaster.’

‘And this is your plan? Climb the mountain? Invade the dragon’s domain? We’ll be swatted like mosquitoes for our presumption. There will be ghosts up there. The ancient dead. Inhabitants of the previous castle; the one that was destroyed. They’ll want to keep us. They’ll want us to join their ranks.’

‘We are not children,’ said the samurai. ‘We are men. No reason to be conquered by our fears. Whatever is up there, whatever lies in wait, we will face it like warriors and we will fight.’

The samurai knelt in front of a boulder. He splashed water and left an offering of rice. He bowed low and prayed to the mountain for safe passage. Ariyo and Tameyo reluctantly got to their knees and joined him in prayer.

‘… Miroku Oomikami, you bless us and protect us. Meishu Sama, you bless us and protect us for the enrichment of our soul and the fulfilment of your will …’

They continued to walk across rubble-strewn terrain. Tameyo looked at the summit once more, at the dark peak and a backdrop of scudding cloud. As he stared it seemed like the sky was still and the mountain was toppling and threatening to crush them. He looked away and shook his head clear.

‘Two nights on the mountain,’ said Tameyo. ‘No real shelter. They say cold seeps into your bones. Freezes your very core. They say death comes like a welcome sleep.’

Tameyo held up his hand to gauge the breeze. ‘This wind could bring us all kinds of weather. Blizzards. A deluge. Anything at all. A sailor wouldn’t set to sea if he saw a sky that grim. He’s stay moored in the harbour and wait for calm.’

‘Enough talk. If we wait for the perfect moment to set out, we could wait forever.’

They scrambled up a scree slope. The samurai planted his staff deep in the shingle and levered himself upward step by step.

They reached a fissured rock face, the true foot of the mountain, the point where the upward gradient became a vertiginous vertical climb. Tameyo said a prayer then they inspected the surface for hand-holds. They rubbed their hands in scree to matt them with rock dust.

They began their ascent. The samurai climbed slowly. He couldn’t rely on his arms to pull himself higher so had to use his feet to find purchase and push upward. They climbed until they reached the top of the outcrop then stopped to rest. They sheltered in a cleft to escape a cutting wind.

Ariyo examined blistered palms abraded by sharp gneiss handholds. He tore strips from his cloak and wrapped them round his hands. The samurai had some spare boot leather in his pack and wrapped it round his hand then sat while Tameyo lashed it in place with a thong.

‘Beautiful,’ said the samurai, drinking in the view while Tameyo tied his hand. He surveyed wooded hills and the cultivated plain. ‘All of it. Beautiful.’

‘High-born,’ said Ariyo with a derisive snort. ‘Only folks who grew up warm and well-fed romanticise the wilderness. Rivers and hills seems pretty from a mansion window. Peaceful. Uncomplicated. But people who’ve known cold, known hunger, don’t look on the wilds with any kind of relish. Out here, you’re either hunter or prey. There is no beauty in it.’

They continued to climb.

‘We should be able to get a little higher by nightfall,’ said the samurai as they laboured onward. They retreated into themselves, each acutely aware of the drop behind them, the long fall onto bone-splintering rock below.

The samurai reached for an outcrop and lost his footing. He slid. He scrambled. His sandals raked stone. He tried to grip a fissure in the rock. His hand slapped and pawed granite. He halted his fall and hung by his arm. He watched his staff tumble, spinning in free-fall until it hit the side of the mountain. It skittered down a scree slope and precipitated a minor avalanche of stone. Tameyo wrapped an arm round the samurai’s waist and hauled him to surer footing on a nearby ledge.

‘I appreciate your determination to stick to the plan,’ said Tameyo. ‘But set your pride aside. Forget about the man you used to be. You have one arm. What are the chances of you finishing the climb? Be honest.’

‘I’ll be all right.’

‘You could have broken your neck. The mission was almost over before it began.’

‘I said I’ll be all right.’

‘We can’t afford those kind of mistakes when we reach the other side of the mountain,’ warned Ariyo. ‘Here we can dislodge stone, start a rockfall, make as much noise as we want. But on the other side we’ll need to move with stealth. If we draw attention to ourselves the sentries will pick us off with crossbows. Remember: this is your idea, your plan. Don’t lead us all the way up here then get us killed.’

The samurai nodded, chastened. A momentary flash of anger at himself then he got it under control. He acknowledged the lesson the mountain was trying to teach him. No point being proud, turning himself into a fortress. The response of a weak man, a man afraid to ask for aid.

‘I’m going to need your help to climb,’ he said.

Tameyo nodded. ‘We’ll rope ourselves together.’

Tameyo pulled a coil of rope from his pack. They lashed it round their waists, the samurai roped in the middle of the group. If he slipped his companions could halt his fall.

‘Everyone ready?’ he asked, when the knots were tested and secure.

They resumed their climb.

They were half way up the mountain when they got hit by an avalanche.

Biting wind stung their eyes. Numb hands gripped rock dusted with snow. The first flurries of winter had mounded the ledges and plateaus with loose, powdered ice. Ariyo climbed at the head of the group while the samurai followed, doing the best he could to haul himself one-handed. Each time he shifted grip there was an instant when he had no support, a moment when he was leaning unaided against the rock face trying not to fall backwards and topple into space. He narrowed his focus to the granite surface inches from his face. A couple of times the samurai’s rope pulled taut and he looked back to see Tameyo panting and immobile, the man’s face a mask of anguish. He was locked in his own private hell. Exhaustion had closed round him like a fist and his world had shrunk to blistered fingers and endless stone. When he glanced up all he could see was a vertical vista of rock stretching upward into the sky. No respite. No summit.

‘Wait,’ the samurai shouted to Ariyo. All three climbers came to a standstill while Tameyo gathered his strength.

‘Are you okay?’ asked the samurai.

‘I’m fine,’ said Tameyo, angry and defiant.

‘We’re all tired. About time we found somewhere to stop and rest.’

‘Said I’m fine.’ A slight break in Tameyo’s voice. His words came out like a sob. ‘Don’t patronise me. I’m not a child.’

The samurai checked him over. Tameyo was in dreadful pain but there nothing to be done. They had to keep climbing. The samurai could insist they rest. They could stay still a while clutching the rock face but it wouldn’t help in the long run. The act of hanging from the sheer granite wall took intense muscular effort whether they were moving or not. The longer they stood clinging to the face the weaker their limbs would become. And even if they found a ledge on which they could sit a while and catch their breath, the pain would be worse when they had to resume their climb. Their legs would stiffen, blisters would bloom on the pads of their fingers and palms. Best to keep moving.

They resumed their climb and moments later the avalanche struck.

‘There are some good hand-holds along here,’ said Ariyo. Then, with a sharp crack like a bullwhip, an over-hanging slab of snow calved from the mountain wall above him. A cascade of powdered ice swept him from the rock face. No time to scream. One moment he was there, next moment he was gone.

The rope snapped taut. The samurai tried to brace and keep his grip but the rope round his waist jerked him from the granite wall and he fell. He span and swung. He looked down on jagged rocks far below and saw Ariyo hanging beneath him.

‘Hey,’ called the samurai. Ariyo was unconscious. He had a cut to his forehead. Blood drips fell into space. The samurai looked up. Tameyo gripped the rock face, arms hooked round an outcrop, supporting the weight of both men. The rope round his waist was pulled tight, threatening to cut him in half. His face was a rictus of agony. He could maintain his grasp a few seconds longer then all three of them would fall to their deaths.

‘Hold on. Just hold on a little longer.’

The samurai swung his legs until the pendulum action brought him close enough to the rock face to grip and pull himself up onto a ledge.

‘Get down here,’ he shouted. ‘Help me with Ariyo.’

‘We need to find shelter,’ said the samurai. ‘Almost nightfall.’The traumatised men nodded, still speechless with shock. They continued to climb. Tameyo was in a place beyond pain. His face had become an impassive mask as if his soul had left his body. Ariyo insisted he had recovered from being hit by the avalanche but his movements were woozy and uncertain. His cut forehead still wept blood.

‘Here,’ said the samurai.

He had found a crevice in the rock. A deep aperture.

‘We shall rest here.’

Tameyo and Ariyo got on their hands and knees and crawled inside the cave. The samurai sat closest to the cave mouth to shield the others from the cutting night wind. Judging by the state of his companions, he would be the only one able to stay awake to ward off hypothermia.

They crouched with their backs to bare rock. The samurai dug in his pack for a small oil lamp. He unwrapped it, scratched a flint and sparked a flame.

He could see strange symbols on the rock beside him and held up the lamp to get a clearer look. The granite walls of the cave were decorated with clusters of white palm prints. Someone in the distant past, a dedicated shaman planning to touch the heavens, had climbed to this elevated vantage point, daubed his hand and pressed it to the rock. The cave was a sacred place, perhaps a shrine, dedicated to ancient deities that walked the earth at the very dawn of the world. The samurai reached out and matched his fingers to the palm print. He felt an intimate connection with the yamabushi who sat in that exact spot aeons ago.

He looked round at his companions and inspected their exhausted faces by weak candlelight. He would need to find some way to raise their spirits a little otherwise they might never leave the cave.

‘Eat something,’ he said. ‘It will give you strength.’

He handed round a pouch of food. They ate dried meat. They tore strips with their teeth and chewed a long while to prolong the meal.

Tameyo looked in bad shape – gaunt and drained. He wrapped his arms around himself and stuffed a hand under each armpit for warmth.

‘Show me your hands,’ said the samurai.

Tameyo held out a hand. His palms were bleeding and blistered. The tip of each finger was black.

‘Do your fingers hurt?’ asked the samurai.

Tameyo shook his head.

The samurai massaged the man’s hands. They were stone cold, like the flesh of a corpse.

‘Tear fabric from your robe. You need to protect your hands. We’re only half way to the summit. And it’s going to be as cold as hell.’

He turned his attention to Ariyo. The cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding, but there was something in his manner, his expression, which betrayed a deep fragility. It was obvious the man was far from well. The samurai had, during his years as a soldier, seen men suddenly overcome by the conviction their time had come. Doom settled on them like a sickness. Courageous samurai arming themselves for battle, men that had ridden to arms countless times, seemed suddenly pale and diminished as if Izanami-no-Mikoto herself had laid a hand on their shoulder. He could see the same death-trance in Ariyo’s gaze. He seemed physically robust but the certainty that it was time to die infused his body. The samurai was sharing the cave with a dead man.

He offered Ariyo some more dried meat but he declined as if to suggest the team’s meagre supplies would be best used by the living.

‘Maybe the weather will improve by morning,’ said the samurai, for conversation. ‘Maybe we shall have some sun.’

His companions didn’t reply.

Masaie crouched in undergrowth. He parted a couple of branches and looked out at the distant village. A cluster of single room farmhouses had been built into the side of the valley. Plank walls and turf roofs. He wondered how long the houses had been standing. It was a precarious settlement. He guessed it would only take one unusually heavy rainy season for a mudslide to wipe out half the village, or maybe it had already happened a couple of generations ago. Maybe the village had been destroyed and rebuilt countless times by folks who had learned to accept periodic catastrophes, folks for whom there was no world beyond the valley, no choice but scratching a hand-to-mouth existence in the mud.

He watched children play and women walk to and from the stream that cascaded down the side of the valley and filled a network of irrigation trenches. Men worked the fields, twists of cotton wrapped round their heads. They used handcarts to haul soil and rebuild tiered paddy berms ready for spring cultivation. None of the men seemed inclined to approach the woods. Hopefully they would regard the forest twilight with dread, regard it as place of ill omen, home to oni and other nameless monsters.

Masaie backed deeper into the brush. He moved slowly. He didn’t want to draw attention by thrashing branches and maybe scaring some birds into the air.

He decided to move further into the woods.

The samurai had laid out a clear timescale. He and the rest of the team would need three days to get in position and be ready to launch their assault on the castle. In the meantime Masaie would need to make camp in a remote part of the woods and remain undiscovered, ready to emerge and play his part when the attack was due to begin.

No doubt villagers came to the woods to hunt, but they probably wouldn’t venture too far into the forest. They’d keep open fields visible through the trees. They wouldn’t want to get lost. The forest was an ominous place. Deep shadows. Oppressive stillness. The kind of place daemons and the unquiet, cannibal dead might reside.

Masaie passed through a small clearing. He took the opportunity to kneel on a bed of twigs and leaves, scatter rice and ask the forest gods allow him to pass through the woods in safety.

Masaie limped through the forest. It was hard to navigate. He looked up at the branches above him and tried to gauge the position of the sun from glare shining through the forest canopy but the day was too dull. He tried to commit the topography of the forest to memory. The undulations, the mounds and gullies. The distinctive lean of a certain tree, the partially exposed roots of another.

He was forced to make frequent stops to rest and massage his injured leg. He leant against a trunk, rubbed his shin and peered at surrounding bamboo thickets. He kept glimpsing movement out of the corner of his eye but each time he turned his gaze directly on the deep undergrowth there was nothing to be seen. He was convinced the forest was alive and watching his every move.

He found a toppled oak. It looked like a good place to hide the pack of explosive arrowheads. No point carrying them around for days. Best stow them somewhere safe. The tree was a distinct landmark, the kind of place he could find again with ease.

He made sure the pack was securely wrapped against the rain then shoved it into a small depression beneath the fallen trunk. He obscured the hiding place with a couple of dead branches and handfuls of leaves. He stood back and admired his handiwork. The stash blended in with surrounding brushwood. There were no signs of disturbance. No indication anything was hidden.

He wandered deeper into the forest wanting to be far enough from the village to escape discovery. He wanted to light a fire without alerting anyone to his presence.

It would be dark soon. He needed shelter for the night. Partly to protect himself from the elements, partly to hide from the phantasmagoric creatures that owned the night. The ghosts and spirits which haunted the dark remote places of the world and emerged to prowl after sunset.

He found a massive granite knuckle, big as a house, projecting from the wooded hillside. A titanic slab of rain-streaked rock mottled with lichen. The overhang would provide shelter from rain but he would need to construct some kind of lean-to as a wind break. It would be easy enough, he reasoned. He had a poor man’s ingenuity. He could hunt, patch clothes and fix up a shelter. All the skills a person had to learn if they couldn’t pay others to labour on their behalf. He had a sturdy knife tucked in his waistband and there was plenty of brushwood scattered nearby. It was just a question of summoning energy, willing himself to ignore the constant aching throb from his injured leg. And once he had built a serviceable den he would need to lay traps before sunset to ensure he got some substantial food.

He rubbed his eyes. It was hard to think straight. One minute he was planning a shelter from stacked branches, next moment he was staring blankly into space trying to remember his own name. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He dabbed sweat with his sleeve. Illness was starting to cloud his mind. He was running hot and cold. One minute he wanted to strip out of his kimono, next moment he wanted to curl shivering in blankets. It was the onset of fever.

He shook his head again and tried to focus. He counted off tasks on his fingers. Build a shelter. Light a fire. Collect water. Find food. He had to do it all before nightfall. And he had to do it all before he was overcome by sickness otherwise he might spend the night delirious on the forest floor as the temperature dropped, lie helpless and trembling, assailed by leering hallucinations as he slowly succumbed to exposure.

For a moment the creases and depressions scored in the rock made the granite pinnacle seem like a titanic skull. He rubbed his eyes to clear his vision and dragged branches from the undergrowth. He stamped on them to break them into usable lengths and propped them against the granite wall. He strung a couple of crossbeams using stripped nettles for cordage and patched the cavities between the branches with bracken. He stood back and surveyed his work. The shelter was big enough to lie inside. It would shield him from the wind and trap a little body heat.

He walked through surrounding woodland and set a bunch of twine snares but didn’t stray far from the camp. He worried that in his disoriented state he might forget where the snares had been laid. He watched his hands set the traps, fingers numb like they didn’t belong to him. If he had been in good health he would have foraged for berries, roots and fungi, maybe prepared himself a feast, but he didn’t have the strength. Any attempt to scour the underbrush for food would burn more energy than he’d gain. He tore clumps of ivy from tree trunks and hung them from nearby branches as markers.

He returned to his camp and built a small fire. One of his father’s old sayings: A fool builds a big fire and sits far away. A wise man builds a small fire and sits close. And a small fire would reduce smoke. He didn’t want a column to rise above the tree tops and betray his position to folks living in the village.

It took a while to spark a flame. Recent rain had left the forest floor mud and mulch. The sticks were wet and disinclined to burn but eventually tinder caught light, dead leaves curled, smouldered and flared into flame. Branches popped as sap cooked off. He lay beside the fire, closed his eyes and slept a while.

He woke up as night fell and decided to check the traps. If he had snared an animal in the past couple of hours he ought to retrieve it. If he let the creature struggle all night, let it thrash and keen in the darkness, a predator would snatch it by morning and there would be nothing left of his prize but an empty snare and a blood trail.

Masaie walked through the forest twilight surrounded by lengthening shadows. He was unbalanced by dizzy spells and violent chills. He moved tree to tree, holding each trunk for support before moving on. Maybe food would set him straight. Food and more rest. He looked up at the surrounding branches and searched for the hanging clumps of ivy he used to mark his trap-trail.

He found one of the snares. A strand of ivy hanging from twigs and something thrashed among the bracken beneath. A rabbit with its leg caught by twine. The rabbit renewed its struggle as he approached. The creature’s eyes rolled white with mortal terror. He grabbed the rabbit by the back legs and smashed its head against a tree. The first blow made it fight harder. The second blow made it flop dead. He reset the snare.

He lay by the fire wracked by a high fever. A seemingly unending cycle of muscle cramps, hot sweats and cold shakes. He curled foetal and hugged his chest.

Once, when he was a child, he had seen the burned body of a man pulled from the ruins of a house. It was a bamboo shack, home to an old man who had fallen into the habit of cutting poppy bulbs and licking the resin. One night his house caught fire. It burned fierce and turned the sky orange. Sparks and flames rose into the dark. The villagers scooped river water in pots and tried to douse the flames. Later a couple of villagers, ex-soldiers used to horrors, kicked through the smouldering debris and retrieved the body. The old man was twisted into a ball. An effect of the intense heat. Cooked muscle had caused the man’s head and limbs to curl like a sleeping infant. He seemed shrunken, little bigger than a child. Masaie looked down. For a moment he expected to see his forearms seared by flame. He expected to see bubbling, charred skin.

The dead rabbit lay a couple of paces away and stared at him with dull eyes. He tried to summon the energy to gut and skin the animal.

‘You look ill,’ said the rabbit.

‘What?’

‘I said you look ill. You’re pale. You’re sweating. I’d say you’re beyond the help of any physician.’

‘You spoke.’

‘Yes.’

‘What are you?’

‘A rabbit.’

‘You’re dead.’

‘And you’ll be joining me soon.’

‘You’re not real,’ croaked Masaie. He fingered the leather pouch hung round his neck. ‘You aren’t here.’

‘Forget your charms. It will take more than bones and a few cloves to drive me away.’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘You’re going to die. It’ll take a while, a couple of days at least, but you are going to die. I’m your guide. I’m here to escort you across on your journey.’

‘To the underworld?’

‘That’s right.’

So these were the spirits waiting in the woods. Not daemons wreathed in fire. Not shuffling, undead spectres. But monsters that entered your head and spoke with your own voice.

‘So what’s waiting for me in the underworld?’

Another vision of flames, like the rabbit was projecting images in his head. Crisped skin cracked and fissured like dried mud. Boiling body-fat. Grease fizzed and dripped from incinerated flesh.

‘Judgement. Think of all the things you’ve done. You indulged every squalid impulse. Disappointed and betrayed everyone who put their faith in you. There will be a reckoning. You will have to account for your actions.’

‘Get out of my head.’

‘I’m here to stay. I’ll be by your side until the end.’

Early evening. The girl arrived in the village. She climbed a steep mud track into the heart of the hamlet, prayed at the cairn which served as the local shrine then sat by the waterwheel and looked around. Women collected water from a stream cascading over rocks into the valley below. The girl bowed in greeting but they ignored her. The presence of a stranger made them nervous and they chose to pretend she didn’t exist.

The girl’s courage briefly faltered and she was tempted to run back down the road and hide in the woods. But she had promised the samurai she would play her part in the mission. She had begged for a role so she was honour bound to see it through – she had to be aboard the supply cart next time it journeyed to the castle.

She approached the inn. She pushed open the plank door and let her eyes adjust to lamplight, ignoring a handful of drinking, cursing infantrymen. She sat apart from the men and was ignored by the maids until she held up a coin for attention. The maids asked why she was there, shameless enough to sit in a room full of men. The girl pointed to her mouth, indicated she was mute. She mimed food. She mimed drink. The maids thought it over. The girl was dressed in ragged travel clothes, evidently a feral orphan. But she had, somehow, either by theft or sexual service, acquired a few coins so they reluctantly brought her water, a bowl of noodles and some bok choy.

The girl looked around. A ramshackle room filled with soldiers. She guessed the innkeeper had originally been a farmer. He must have watched General Motohide’s men move into the valley and establish a garrison, and smelled opportunity. If the general took permanent residence in the castle the hamlet would soon be transformed into a booming jōkamachi town seething with merchants and artisans. So the farmer evidently decided to convert his farmhouse into a tavern. Carted big clay jars of saké from town. The general’s guard were shut away in the castle but plenty of troops remained camped on the valley floor tending horses. They knew the farmer would provide wine and a warm fire of an evening and became his regular trade.

Later that evening the girl tugged the kimono of a passing maid and held out her noodle bowl for a refill. They brought more noodles but when they asked for payment she shook an empty purse. The maids returned with the innkeeper who threatened to beat her with a stick. She listened to his threats, slumping her shoulders and doing her best to appear a dull-eyed, slack-jawed simpleton. The innkeeper’s anger dissipated as he realised the futility of berating the mute girl. Might as well be raging at a mangy, half-starved dog.

She pulled the flute from her obi and indicated she would play to entertain the men. The innkeeper advised her to earn a little money as many itinerant girls did: sell sexual favours for a few coins, earn enough for food and board at the going rate. No point being proud. A girl on her own had to make her way by any means she could find. Endure a few distasteful minutes out back with some of the infantrymen. He doubted it would be the first time she had sold herself.

She held up the flute and insisted she play.

‘All right,’ he said, bored and reluctant to spend any more time arguing with the girl. ‘But the first two mon are mine. For the food.’

She walked to the backyard and prepared her face for the performance. She dug in her pack and pulled out a pouch and a couple of make-up pots. She knelt in front of a tree stump, placed the stub of a candle in front of her and sparked a flint. She greased her skin with abura oil then whitened her face with oshiroi. She rouged her cheeks and lips then used a small fragment of mirror to inspect her reflection.

The kitchen shutter was open. The innkeeper leant out the window now and again to check she hadn’t run off.

She played her flute three times that night. She wasn’t a master of the hichiriki – a connoisseur wouldn’t have been impressed with her faltering tune. But the tavern was full of low-born soldiers who had never visited a city, never heard much music beyond crude drinking songs and maybe a roughly strummed shamisen. The men laughed and shouted lewd comments at the beginning of her performance, then, despite themselves, they were drawn into the beauty of the melody. They became intrigued by her painted face and the gentle piping of the flute. It was as if she was evoking maternal comfort, moments of childhood tenderness from the very cusp of memory before the relentless brutalising effect of an impoverished life left them cynical and calloused.

A stillness settled on the crowd which lasted until her performance was done. She bowed and passed a cup around. Most soldiers sneered but a few defied the ridicule of their friends and dropped a mon in the cup. She earned enough money to pay off the innkeeper, with a little left over. She went outside, dipped a cloth in a water butt and wiped her face clean.

The girl gave the innkeeper her remaining coins in return for another meal and a roof for the night. When the infantrymen had drunk their fill and staggered back down the path to their camp on the valley floor, the girl helped cook another pot of rice with a little shredded chicken and peas.

The innkeeper and his daughters sat round the fire while the girl stood over the pot and stirred. When the food was ready, she served. She gave bowls to the girls. Then she filled bowls for herself and the innkeeper. Later that night the innkeeper’s daughters got sick. The girl lay on the dirt floor beneath a blanket and listened as they coughed and retched, ran down stairs and outside to vomit.

The innkeeper checked on his daughters the next morning. They were wrapped in blankets, curled on packed earth by an extinct fire. They normally slept upstairs, but all three of them had been struck down by sickness the night before and had elected to stay near the back door so they could run to the toilet pit in the yard each time fresh stomach cramps struck.

The innkeeper recoiled from the stink and opened the shutters to dispel the acid aroma of vomit. Bright morning light filled the room. The girls shielded their eyes. They stretched, groaned and reluctantly sat up. Their father poured them each a cup of water.

‘How are you?’ he asked.

They didn’t reply.

‘Come on. Up you get.’

They struggled to their feet, bilious green and exhausted. Clearly they had vomited the entire contents of their stomach during the night and dry-retched until their throats were raw.

‘Don’t suppose I’ll be getting much work out of you today.’

He turned to the girl curled in the corner of the room and kicked her awake. She stirred, pulled the blanket from her head, and looked up.

‘Are you sick?’ he asked.

The girl shook her head.

‘Then get up. You’re coming with me.’

The girl cautiously followed the innkeeper to the back of the building. He unlocked a storeroom. She let him enter the room first so she could stay near the door he case he tried to jump her. He didn’t look the type to try to take advantage of a vulnerable girl but it was hard to tell for sure. Trust no one, the samurai said before they parted. People can turn on you. That’s the sad truth. Best friend one minute, picking your pocket the next.

The innkeeper lit a lamp. Shelves held pots, cups and stacks of bowls. There were bags of rice and vegetables heaped against the back wall. The girl inspected the trove of supplies – far more than a tavern would need.

‘These are for the castle,’ said the innkeeper. ‘They need fresh food very day. Help load the cart. You will help me deliver supplies.’

She nodded meekly.

He carried sacks of rice on his back and threw them into the cart. The girl carried small stuff. She loaded bags and jars, herbs, salt, and a basket of eggs.

The innkeeper headed back inside to check on his daughters.

‘Stay with the wagon,’ he commanded. ‘Watch out for children. They’ll distract you. One will talk, another will snatch food from the cart. It’s become a game.’

The innkeeper led a pony from a patch of scrubland behind the tavern and found the girl sitting on the cart, ready to go.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked. ‘I have three daughters. Today they are sick, but tomorrow they will be well. I’m not your master. This place isn’t your new home.’

The girl didn’t move.

‘I’m going up the mountain. You can come along or you can move on to another village and get under someone else’s feet. But understand: you are not my responsibility. You are nothing to do with me.’

She nodded.

He hitched the pony and climbed into the cart. He geed the horse with a bamboo switch and the cart lurched forward and began to jolt and sway down the rutted track. The track led from the village and snaked through rocky terrain too barren for cultivation. They crossed a wooden bridge. The cartwheels rumbled. Hooves drummed the planks.

The gradient steepened as they reached the mountain and they began to climb a switchback road. The pony lowered its head and laboured to haul the heavy cart. Gravel crunched and popped beneath the wheels. It was a long journey. The pony plodded at a walking pace. The innkeeper let the horse rest each time they reached a bend in the road. He checked the basket of eggs was secure and unbroken.

The girl fought not to be flung from the cart each time it hit a rut or bedded stone while the innkeeper sat with his legs spread like a sailor braced against rolling waves. The journey was so familiar he seemed to anticipate each jolt and sway like the rise and fall of a familiar tune. He stared straight ahead, eyes half closed, seeing but not seeing, lost in some kind of trance state.

The girl glanced upward. At first she could see nothing but vertiginous crags rising into cloud, but later, as she passed beyond outcrops which had blocked her view, she glimpsed forbidding ramparts high above them. As they drew close she could see the stone base of the castle. The sloping blocks of the foundations offered ninjitsu plenty of handholds but if they reached the foot of the defensive wall itself they would find their progress blocked by a row of iron spikes. A projecting ridge of brickwork half way up the fortifications would thwart anyone attempting to use a ladder to scale the walls. The outer defences were topped with wooden awnings which would allow sentries to patrol the walkways sheltered from rain and snow. Rectangular ports gave archers a wide arc of fire from which they could pick off troops tenacious enough to climb the mountain and attack.

They reached the castle gate and the innkeeper brought the cart to a halt. The great doors were three times the height of a man. Slabs of pine reinforced with bands of iron. Even if an opposing force managed to haul a battering ram up the side of the mountain it would make no impression on the monumental gate. In fact the doors seemed strong enough to take a gunpowder blast. Detonate a couple of barrels and, when the smoke cleared, they would have done little more than scorch wood.

‘Hey,’ shouted the innkeeper. He sat a while with a resigned expression like the troops always expressed their contempt by keeping him waiting. The insult had become an unthinking part of his daily routine.

‘Hey,’ he shouted again.

One of the gatehouse shutters was pushed ajar. A soldier leant out.

‘Identify yourself.’

‘Supplies,’ shouted the innkeeper.

A heavy rasp as restraining bars were pulled back. The great doors were pushed wide by three sentries. A symphony of creaks as massive iron hinges pivoted. The innkeeper geed the pony and they passed through the shadow of the gatehouse. More fire-ports. A couple of sentries looked down at them, bored and disdainful.

They entered the castle courtyard. An acre of weathered cobbles hemmed by barracks, storerooms, stables and staff quarters. The buildings had black wooden beams, white plaster walls, roofs laid with thatch and bark shingles.

The great tower was up ahead. A five storey keep with heavy double beams and sweeping gables. Like most of the castle buildings, it was built against the rock face. It was the focus of the compound, the obvious seat of power. It was also a fall-back position. If the outer walls of the castle fell the remaining troops could seal themselves inside the keep. The girl looked up at the balconied top floor. It was safe to assume it was the general’s quarters, his private rooms and reception chamber. Impossible to reach without passing through four floors of staff and sentries.

The innkeeper was greeted by a humourless woman who bustled from one of the domestic buildings wearing the black kimono of a servant. She was apparently in charge of the kitchens and took the responsibility in deadly earnest. She counted off packages as they were unloaded from the cart. She oversaw a couple of maids as they hauled the sacks and bundles away to be stowed in the storerooms. She was illiterate. She worked from memory, accounted for the daily delivery of perishable food.

She allowed the girl and the innkeeper to sit in the main kitchen and gave them pickled plums and cups of water. The girl nodded thanks as a cup was put in her hand. She wanted to make eye contact with the woman, ingratiate herself in some way, but the cook didn’t spare her a glance. Instead she began to wipe down a couple of tables ready for lunch preparation. The girl got up.

‘Latrine is on the other side of the courtyard,’ said the cook, without glancing her way.

The girl slipped out the door.

Later, once the cook had counted coins in to the innkeeper’s hand and he was ready to leave, the girl was nowhere to be found.

‘You should wait for her,’ said the cook, as the innkeeper climbed onto his cart. ‘She can’t stay here.’

The innkeeper shook his head.

‘I need to get back home. She’ll have to spend the night.’

‘Doubt there will be much left of her, once the soldiers sniff her out.’

‘She’s not my responsibility. Don’t even know her name. If you find her, do as you please. She can cook. She can empty a bucket. Put her to work.’

He geed the pony. The sentries pushed open the main gate. He left the castle and made the long journey down the mountainside back to the village.

The girl crouched behind barrels in the corner of the courtyard and watched the cart leave. Once the sentries had hauled the great gates closed and dropped a restraining bar to seal the entrance shut, she came out of hiding and headed for the kitchen.

She found the cook and acted disappointed that she missed the cart. She kept her face slack and drooped her eyelids, did her best to appear slow-witted.

‘You must work,’ said the cook. ‘I’ll give you some food and a roof for the night but you must work. And if you missed the cart on purpose, if you plan to please the soldiers in return for a few mon, put it from your mind. Tonight you work for me.’

The girl nodded.

‘And let’s change your clothes. You look a mess.’

The cook made her strip. She took her ragged travel clothes and gave her a black hakama and kimono. She was now a kitchen scullion with no purpose other than to scrub and carry. What would the samurai say to her, if he were here? Fate is trying to teach you a lesson. It is trying to lead you another step on the road to wisdom. Be grateful.

The cook gave the girl a twig broom and told her to sweep the kitchen floor. The floor looked clean but the girl made a performance of sweeping non-existent dirt towards the doorway.

‘When you finished with the broom go round the dormitories and collect slop buckets. No dallying, you hear? There’s a sluice in the corner of the yard. Pour the buckets down there.’

The girl walked across the courtyard. None of the sentries looked her way – she was a maid with a bucket and therefore invisible.

She made a methodical tour of the out-buildings. She ducked inside a row of storehouses thatched with rice straw. Dark, cavernous spaces filled with stockpiled sacks of grain and rice cached in case of a prolonged siege. She guessed the stored food, in conjunction with water piped from a spring in the mountain wall, could keep the castle self-sufficient for more than a year.

She climbed creaking stairs and examined the rooms above the main storehouse. She pulled a candle stub from her pocket, struck a flint and sparked a flame. She held up the candle and looked around. Sloping roof beams. Coiled rope, stacked baskets, piles of burlap sacking. Dust and webs. It looked as if no one had visited the upper storeroom for a long while. It had become a dump for unwanted supplies.

She found a locked door, bent and put her eye to the keyhole. It was too dark to see inside. She checked nearby beams until she found a protruding nail. She pulled it free and used it to probe the keyhole. She twisted the nail until she heard the clack of a latch release.

She opened the door, candle held high. An empty room. Dust-matted boards suggested the room had been empty for years. Another sign the castle could hold more men than were currently in residence. Maybe it was another symptom of the general’s anxiety. He couldn’t trust a larger force. Only his most clan-loyal cadre was allowed within the fortress walls.

The room would make a useful bolt-hole. A place within the castle compound she could secret herself without fear of being disturbed. The girl shut herself inside.

She sat on the floor and set the candle beside her. She pulled a folded packet from her sleeve. A scroll of blank paper and a stick of charcoal. She spread the paper on the floor and began to draw a precise plan of the castle – storerooms, stables and barracks. She drew the courtyard and the perimeter walls and etched details of the outer defences. She sat back and inspected her work. A good survey of the fortress. Walkways, external stairs, sentry lines-of-sight, blind-spots. Good, apart from the interior of General Motohide’s stronghold, the central bailey, which remained an unknowable blank.

Later that afternoon she tried to enter the base of the tower. She walked past two sentries carrying a broom. She tried to walk with a purpose like she had been sent on an errand. The sentries guarding the main door let her through.

She explored dark, low-ceilinged passageways. The bottom two floors of the tower were largely empty. But when she climbed a spiral stairwell towards the third floor she found her path blocked by sentries who lowered their naginatas and shouted: ‘What are you doing?’

She held up the broom by way of explanation.

‘Get out of here,’ they bellowed and drove her back down the stairs.

That night she slept on the kitchen floor next to the cooling clay stove. She curled on straw next to a cat and tried to decide how best to gain entry to the upper floors of the tower. What would the samurai say if he were here? What would be his approach? Would he climb onto the roof, lift tiles and lower himself inside? No. Immediate discovery. A person trying to enter via the roof would most-likely be run-through by soldiers in the room below. Slumped dead in the tile-hole, half in, half out. She would have to find an alternate route.

She heard the kitchen door creak open. Probably the old man, the cook’s assistant, a miserable wretch who spent his days washing pots and hauling water. Maybe he thought the lone, mute girl was fair game. She crouched beside a couple of rice sacks with her knees pulled to her chin while the old man searched the darkened kitchen. He tripped over the sleeping cat and hit his knee on a table. He cursed, lost interest and left.

Later that night the girl was woken by the clatter of hooves in the courtyard outside. She pushed the kitchen shutter ajar and watched a cavalry patrol dismount.

The cavalry patrol climbed the mountain road at midnight, torches held aloft to illuminate the precipitous track. Horses stumbled and shied once in a while, threatening to tip their riders over the precipice, skittering stones pelting riders down below. The lieutenant commanding the patrol had wanted his men to camp on the valley floor then make their way to the castle at dawn but Raku insisted they make the nocturnal journey, adamant his warning for the general could not wait until sunrise.

The upper slopes of the mountain were wreathed in mist. Vapours charged almost phosphorescent by moonlight curled round the rocks. A cascading torrent of cold air. The riders huddled in their furs.

The commander couldn’t grip reins or hold himself in the saddle so he was forced to double up with one of the cavalrymen. He sat in front of the rider, propped in position like a child or a woman. He endured the humiliation with equanimity, no thought but the necessity to reach the castle quick as he could and deliver his message.

The patrol reached the top of the mountain road and came to a halt in front of the castle gate.

‘Hey,’ shouted the lieutenant. ‘Hey, open up.’

They heard feet hurry along the wooden walkway above the gatehouse. Archers took position, ready to cut them down if the captain of the watch gave the word.

A voice from one of the darkened ports above them:

‘Identify yourself.’

‘Lieutenant Okitsune with Commander Raku, here on urgent business.’

A long pause then the heavy rasp of the restraining beam being withdrawn. The gate was pushed open a fraction and a single soldier emerged holding a torch above his head. He approached Lieutenant Okitsune and checked him out, examined his face and livery by torchlight.

‘Urgent business,’ repeated Okitsune. ‘We need to get inside.’

The captain of the watch was distracted by the twin riders on the horse next to Okitsune. A guard supporting a cowled figure in the saddle. He raised his torch and tried to see the face of the cowled figure. The stranger lifted his head and the captain glimpsed a painted visage beneath the hood: chalk-white flesh, dark eye holes. Nothing to suggest the figure was alive apart from plumes of steam-breath from between the mask’s painted lips. The captain took an involuntary step backward.

‘We need to get inside,’ barked the lieutenant. ‘We have urgent business with the general.’

The captain turned and shouted to the men in the gatehouse: ‘Open up.’

The gates were pushed wide and the cavalry patrol entered the castle courtyard. A couple of soldiers helped Raku from his horse. He turned and addressed the captain of the watch:

‘I need to see General Motohide right away. Wake him up. His life hangs in the balance.’

The captain hesitated to take orders from the man in the mask.

‘The general,’ bellowed Raku. ‘Wake him. Now.’

The captain dispatched a guard to wake the general. Chisato dismounted from a horse.

‘Thank you,’ said Raku, laying a stump on the farmer’s shoulder, ‘for all your help.’

Raku turned back to the captain of the watch.

‘This man has given good service. He is to be paid ten gold Ryō. And give him a horse and a cart. Make sure it’s a good horse.’

The captain nodded and Chisato was led away to get paid.

Raku began to stride across the yard towards the tower but then his legs gave out and he toppled backward. Cavalry men ran to his aid and caught him before he hit the cobbles.

The girl watched from the kitchen window. She saw the cowled figure collapse. She saw the stumps of his arms and the porcelain-white mask with its painted lips and black eye holes. She watched as the unconscious man was carried away.

Raku woke on the floor of a dormitory cell reserved for officers, lying on a straw futon, his head supported by a wooden pillow. He looked to see if there was a chink of daylight between the shutters and saw it was still night.

‘I’m sorry for your injuries.’

A grey-haired soldier knelt beside him. The man was older than most of the troops stationed at the castle. He was clearly the garrison physician.

‘You did well to avoid a sickness,’ he said, gesturing to Raku’s stumps as he inspected pinched flesh, crusted blood and scar tissue. He held the commander by the chin and tilted his head to examine the crudely stitched gash bisecting the man’s face.

‘In fact, you did well to survive at all.’ He probed scabbed blood. ‘I think it’s time these stitches came out.’

He unlaced a canvas roll of medical instruments and spread it on a low table. The physician heated a knife and tweezers over a candle flame.

‘I must see the general,’ said the Raku, struggling to lift himself upright.

The physician pushed him down. ‘You’re injured. You need treatment.’

‘A cup of saké and I’ll be fine. I have to see the general. It’s vital.’

‘They are rousing him as we speak. He will be ready to receive you in a while. In the meantime, let me remove those stitches. After that we can get you washed and dressed. You should see yourself. Your hair. Your beard. You look like an apparition.’

An adjutant nervously pulled back a screen and entered the general’s bedchamber holding a lamp. Motohide was asleep next to his wife.

‘General-sama,’ whispered the adjutant as he knelt beside the general. He got no response. He wanted to nudge Motohide awake but didn’t dare touch the man. ‘General-sama,’ he said, louder. Motohide woke and rubbed his eyes. ‘Commander Raku has returned from Kyoto. He asks to see you. He says it is very urgent. He says it won’t wait until morning.’

The general threw off the bed cover and got to his feet. The adjutant helped him into a silk kimono. The general knotted the sash round his waist.

‘Bring him to me.’

‘Forgive me, General-sama, but I feel compelled to warn you Commander Raku has sustained significant injuries.’

‘Such as?’

‘He has lost both his hands.’

Motohide looked shocked.

‘Has the physician attended him?’

‘Yes,’ said the adjutant. ‘And I must further warn you that the commander also suffered a blow to the face.’

‘What kind of blow?’

The adjutant searched for appropriate words to describe Raku’s disfigurement.

‘He will not be how you remember him.’

The adjutant pulled back the shoji and the general entered the adjacent reception room. Lamps were hastily lit and a jug of water was brought. He knelt on a zabuton with a fan in his hand and composed himself. He sipped water. He gave the nod. The screen was pulled back and Commander Raku entered the room. The general looked his old companion up and down, hiding his unease at the blank mask looking back at him. Raku knelt and bowed, forehead to the floor. The faint click of wood-on-wood as his mask touched the boards.

‘Sit,’ commanded the general. ‘Take off that mask.’

Raku pushed back the mask with his stumps. Motohide hid his revulsion as he gazed at the monstrous, bifurcated face. He studied the eyes staring back at him from a mess of twisted flesh, studied a long while until he recognised his friend.

The general gestured with his fan. The adjutant handed Raku a cup of water. Raku drank. The sleeves of his robe slid back as he raised his arms, revealing stitched stumps. The General watched with a mix of pity and horror.

‘So what do you have to tell me?’ asked Motohide.

‘The Emperor’s mother has sent assassins to kill you, General-sama. A team of men. They’ve been running ahead of me, trying to reach the castle before I could warn you of danger.’

‘How many men?’

‘Four. Three ex-convicts led by crippled samurai.’

‘You know the samurai’s name?’

‘No. Nobody does. His identity is a secret.’

The general gestured to Raku’s stumps.

‘He did this to you? This cripple?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll have him flayed,’ said Motohide. ‘I’ll strip his skin then bathe him in vinegar – make it last days.’

Raku shook his head.

‘Don’t you want to hear him scream?’ asked the general.

‘He’s a soldier. Like you. Like me,’ said Raku impatiently, dismissing fantasies of revenge. ‘We need to take steps to secure your safety. The assassins are here. Right now. I know it.’

‘Inside the castle? Impossible.’

‘Do not underestimate this man. I may not know his name, but I’ve looked him in the eye. He is relentless. If there is the slightest weakness in the defences of this castle he will find and exploit it.’

The general took a sip of water.

‘I received an Imperial envoy a couple of days ago. They discussed a non-aggression treaty and discussed future trade arrangements at length.’

‘A transparent ruse,’ said the commander.

‘A transparent ruse,’ agreed the general. ‘Nevertheless, I had hoped to avoid war.’

‘We need to search the castle. The assassins almost certainly arrived ahead of me. They could be here now, within the walls. They will be anxious to exploit our complacency, our sense we are invulnerable behind these stone fortifications. We need to search. We need to go room by room, check every alcove, check every sack, box and barrel. And we need to do it right now.’

Motohide and his wife stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard.

‘You shouldn’t stand here,’ warned Asaji. ‘It’s too exposed. A single arrow. That’s all it would take. You should go back inside.’

‘I will not be ruled by fear.’

A walkway sentry rang the brass muster bell, the harsh tocsin ringing out over the moonlit courtyard. Groggy troops stumbled out of the barracks, buckling armour. The captain of the watch split the troops into teams. He shouted orders. Torches were lit. The search squads began to scour the castle for intruders. Stables and storerooms. Domestic quarters.

‘We’ll burn torches and braziers each night,’ said the general. ‘We won’t leave a single shadow. And we’ll bring troops from the valley and double the watch. The walls will be manned full strength, night and day. And the gate will stay closed. Anything we need, supplies, courier messages, can be hauled up the wall by rope. If emissaries come, messengers from the Kyoto, they can stay in the village. Written communication only. Nobody comes within these walls.’

‘The arrangement can’t be maintained indefinitely,’ said Asaji. ‘If you don’t exercise day-to-day control of your territory, someone else will.’

‘We will remain here until this assassin is smoked out. He will be given a public execution in the most severe manner I can devise. They will hear his screams all the way to the Imperial palace. Then the Emperor and his court will finally understand I am here to stay.’

‘You should make an exterior inspection of the walls,’ said Asaji. ‘Look for the slightest sign anyone has tried to place a ladder or hang a rope.’

Motohide nodded looking beyond the torches lining the perimeter walls, beyond the ring of light and out into the darkness of the mountainside. He was overcome by skin-crawling unease and suppressed a shiver.

‘Maybe fear is the assassin’s greatest weapon,’ said Asaji, trying to build her husband’s courage. ‘Maybe he wants us to scare ourselves, run around like frightened children.’

‘Commander Raku was the finest swordsman I ever knew,’ said Motohide, refusing to be consoled. ‘Look at him now. Sliced up. Butchered like a pig. We have every reason to be anxious.’

Raku stood in the corner of the flame-lit courtyard pacing as the captain of the watch shouted orders and directed his men. Soldiers glanced at Raku in apprehension, flinched in fear each time the porcelain-white mask turned their way.

He watched as the soldiers ran building to building and conducted a search of the dormitories and armoury. He heard horses shift uneasily in their stable stalls as mounds of straw were probed with naginatas. A couple of carts stood in the courtyard. Troops pulled back oil cloth, prised open barrels and inspected the contents. Soldiers hurried along the upper walkways to join sentries watching the moonlit slopes of the mountainside for any sign of sneak attack.

No mind had been a phrase repeated by Raku’s instructors as they schooled him in bushido as a child. The need to drill combat techniques until they become instinctive. No point facing an enemy with a pre-rehearsed sequence of moves. An easy way to get killed. Best to clear your head. Come at your enemy like wind or water, something elemental. Raku cleared his mind, centred himself, became still and calm. He couldn’t shake the suspicion that everything they were doing, reinforcing the sentries, sealing the gate, would have been anticipated by the samurai. His gut told him they were playing into the assassin’s hands.

The captain of the watch reported back. ‘We’ve searched the castle, inspected every room. Nothing.’

Raku nodded. ‘Begin the search again.’

Masaie lay in his lean-to shelter, weak morning sunlight shafting through the branches and leaves above his head. He tried to remember who and where he was.

He was on a mission. He was hiding in the woods. He was beset by daemons.

He was overcome by claustrophobia. The twigs above him felt suffocatingly close. He crawled from the shelter and shielded his eyes from daylight. A fierce thirst. He gulped water from his flask. Water splashed his face and his shirt. He drank deep then lay back and wiped his face with his sleeve.

‘Good morning,’ said the rabbit.

The gutted remains of the rabbit lay next to the extinct fire. The creature’s head, skin and giblets.

Masaie sat cross-legged a while. He tried to summon the energy to stand, walk a little way from the camp and piss. He tried to gauge the temper of the sky, the chances of rain.

‘Why fight?’ asked the rabbit, voice dripping false sympathy. ‘Two more days. Two more days before the team attack the castle. You’ll be long dead by then. Why drag it out?’

‘Maybe I’ll last. Maybe I won’t.’

‘It’s not your fault. None of it. You didn’t ask to take part in this escapade. Nobody asked your opinion. Nobody gave you a choice. And your current sickness. A cut which turned bad. It could happen to anyone, anytime.’

‘So I should give in. Lie back and close my eyes.’

‘Death can be gentle. A good friend to the old and sick.’

‘And wake in hell.’

‘You can’t escape your fate. So why struggle? Why add to your anguish?’

‘I have one last job to perform before I can rest. My friends are relying on me.’

‘Friends? Look back on your life. You’ve disappointed everyone you’ve ever known. You parents. Your wife. Your military unit. You’ve failed at every turn, broken every vow. You’re a thief. A lazy, impulsive, brawling drunk. What makes you think that now, in these final moments, you’ll change?’

Masaie didn’t reply.

‘I understand. You want to be a hero, don’t you? You want to make history. You want people to tell stories about you, sing of your valour. It’s a lovely daydream. But please. Wake up. A man of your age should at least know himself. Accept who and what you are. Make peace with it.’

‘Shut up.’

Masaie levered a stone from the soil and threw it at the rabbit. He missed. He carefully pulled up the leg of his hakama and examined his injured calf. The flesh was red and swollen, the suppurating wound yellow with pus. He gently probed the taut, inflamed skin. It was hot to the touch. He examined his foot, tested his toes for circulation. No doubt about it, he told himself. You’re dying. If you don’t take steps to slow the malady you’ll be dead by sundown. Stand outside your situation. If you were on the other side of this small glade, clear-headed, able bodied, looking at yourself, what advice would you give? How would you prolong your life? You’d say: Better clean out that wound and get some kind of poultice on it.

He drew his knife and sharpened the blade on a rock. He bit a small branch between his teeth, took a breath then dug the tip of the blade into the wound. White pain overwhelmed his senses, but he persisted. Blood and pus ran down his calf and dribbled onto leaves. He drew the knife upward and slit open the sore then he threw the knife aside, spat out the stick and lay back. He waited for the pain to subside a little, settle from the shriek of immediate injury to a dull burn.

He could see blood drips on the leaves beside him and hoped there were no wolves in the forest. They’d catch the metallic taint of blood in the air, pad through the forest and hunt him down, hungry to rip and tear. He might be able to fight them off for a while with his knife but they’d take him down eventually. They would wrench out his throat. A flash of teeth, the stench of fetid breath, then oblivion.

He ass-shuffled towards the remains of the rabbit and sat beside the giblets, skin and jumbled bone. Fresh maggots were at work digesting the creature’s guts. He picked maggots with trembling fingers and placed them on his leg wound. He watched the larvae squirm in blood and pus and begin to digest dead flesh surrounding the wound. Heaving nausea, he lay back and closed his eyes.

‘Look at you,’ said the rabbit. ‘You’ve pissed yourself. Have you noticed? Your hakama is wet. Ask yourself: is this horrible subsistence worth enduring? Isn’t this already a kind of hell?’

‘Talk all you want,’ said Masaie. ‘I don’t care what happens after I’m dead. I don’t care what netherworld awaits. I’m going to live long enough to do my job. You think you know me? You don’t know me at all.’

Masaie limped through the woods and followed a downward gradient. He stumbled tree-to-tree to keep his balance. He reached a brook. Water frothed over rocks. He stripped, stood mid-stream and washed the maggots from his leg wound. He examined the injury. It seemed a little less swollen, a little less inflamed. He felt a better, but didn’t know whether to trust his own judgement. Was it possible for a person to become so sick, so delirious, they were numb to their injuries and convinced they were well? Would his body’s final failure feel like a surge of vitality? Maybe the sudden cessation of pain was a blessing from the gods, a way of easing a dying man’s exit from the world.

Masaie dressed and climbed the slope back towards his camp. He took a detour and checked the remaining snare, suspecting the stench of the eviscerated rabbit would drive other animals away. It would alert them there was a predator in the vicinity. But maybe he would get lucky and make another kill.

He found a fox tethered by its hind leg. The creature lay on its side and looked up at him. It must have been trapped all night and exhausted itself struggling to break free. Twine had drawn tight cutting it into the animal’s flesh and its fur was gummed with blood. The fox lay resigned as Masaie stood over the animal and drew his knife. The creature didn’t struggle. It didn’t make a sound as he lifted its head and slit its throat.

Immersion in the stream left Masaie trembling with cold so he relit the fire, lent close and warmed his hands. He stripped and gutted the fox, speared chunks of flesh on the tip of a branch and held them over the fire. It was tough, dark meat. The flesh sweated droplets of fat which hissed and spat as they fell into the flames. He ate every sinew he could strip from the carcass then sat back replete.

He searched his pack and located a small pot with a cork stopper. He rolled up his hakama leg, uncorked the pot and dripped honey onto the lesion, made sure the gash and surrounding skin were fully coated in sticky amber. He sucked his fingers clean, lay on his side and pushed a couple more logs onto the fire.

The remains of the fox lay near the eviscerated rabbit. A jumbled of bones, strips of fur, a discarded head. Dull amber eyes watched Masaie roll on his back and stretch.

‘So you plan to go down fighting?’ asked the fox. ‘Die on your feet like a warrior.’

‘That’s right,’ said Masaie. He looked up at the forest canopy and tried to gauge the time of day. Mid-afternoon.

‘Strange, isn’t it?’ said the fox. ‘Everyone thinks they’re a hero. Murderers, pickpockets, rapists. On some level, they think themselves justified. Good men doing evil deeds, through force of circumstance.’

‘No,’ said Masaie, shaking his head. ‘I’ve known men who kill for pleasure, kill just to satisfy their appetites. Men like General Motohide. Do you think he spares a thought for the soldiers he leads into battle? The countless troops slaughtered and tossed in a pit to satisfy his ambition, to bolster the glory of his family name? Doubt he loses a moment’s sleep. That’s the mystery of it. Some men have no soul.’

‘But you want to be a hero. Redeem yourself. All those missed opportunities, all those people you disappointed and abandoned over the years. You’ve had an audience in your head. Parents, brothers, children. Felt their glowering disapproval your whole life. You’re performing for them, going to put it all right with one last grand gesture. Vanity. Pure vanity. Even at the brink of death, you care what others think. Can’t comprehend the absolute blackness that awaits. Face it. The manner of your death is meaningless. Whatever you do, no one will know, no one will care.’

‘He won’t see it through,’ said the rabbit, dismissively. ‘He won’t charge into combat. He’s a life-long coward. Think of it, Masaie. What do you imagine it feels like to be run through by a sword? How about arrows? Barbed iron tips punching through your flesh, bedding in your guts? Can you conceive of the pain? You’ve spent your life fleeing every obligation, every hint of hardship. Why delude yourself? You’ll turn tail when the time comes.’

The fox disagreed.

‘I reckon he’ll do it,’ he said. ‘He’ll try, at any rate. He’s fool enough to attempt some feeble heroics. He’ll fail, of course. Fail and die screaming. To be honest, I’m not sure why they brought him along. I wouldn’t trust him to carry the bed rolls let alone a consignment of explosives. Surprised he didn’t blow himself to pieces. No, he’ll try some kind of warrior antics then die an agonising, snivelling death begging for his mother.’

Masaie sipped water and laughed as the two decapitated animals argued among themselves. Later he threw their heads on the fire where they continued to bicker as their ears crisped, their fur burned and their eyes boiled away. The argument continued until Masaie kicked their skulls out of the fire and stamped them to shards.

The forest filled with twilight shadows. Masaie trimmed a branch to use as a crutch. It was time to head out. If he were to leave the forest, cross open land and approach the castle, he had better do it during cover of darkness. Villagers would be in their homes, eating and talking. There would be no one around to observe him move through the rice fields.

He kicked soil on the smouldering fire to smother it and smashed his lean-to reducing it to scattered sticks.

He limped through the forest twilight with the crutch wedged beneath his arm trying to recall landmarks as he made his way through the woods back towards the village. He stopped now and again to uncork his flask and drink. He felt sure he was being watched – the constant, skin-crawl sensation that he was under surveillance. The feeling came and went. Sometimes he was sure he was alone and was able to relax and retreat into himself. But sometimes he suddenly tensed as if someone were right behind him about to place a hand on his shoulder. Each time he span round there was no one there so he kept walking. The quicker he left deep woodland, the quicker he would leave the realm of daemons and return to the world of men. If the spirits of the wilderness would let him go. If they would allow him to slip from their grasp.

He saw movement in the periphery of his vision. It looked like someone was matching his route fifty paces to his left, but they hid each time he glanced their way, ducking behind tree trunks. When he looked forward and resumed his progress through the woods he could see them out the corner of his eye, running bush to bush, tree to tree. He checked his knife, made sure the sheath was arranged on his hip for a quick draw if necessary.

‘I’m leaving,’ he shouted. ‘Please let me go in peace.’

He reached the fallen oak and sat down to rest his leg. A moment of indecision. Should he retrieve the explosives buried beneath the great trunk knowing he was being stalked? Daylight was fading. He looked around peering into undergrowth. It would be dark soon. The spirits that haunted the woodland shadows would have no interest in weapons or treasure. But if he were being stalked by a flesh and blood pursuer; a thief or starving hunter? He might get jumped, might get robbed.

He would have to risk it.

He knelt and reached beneath the oak brushing aside twigs and leaves to retrieve the pack. He checked the oil cloth, made sure the clutch of explosive-tipped arrows were secure and dry. He stood and carefully shrugged on the pack turning to grab the staff propped against the log. He was shocked to see a man sitting on the fallen oak trunk beside him.

‘Hurt your leg?’ asked the man.

There was something familiar about the stranger. A slightly elongated version of Masaie’s face. The same nose and heavy brow he glimpsed each time he caught his reflection in water.

His father.

Masaie’s father died thirteen years ago swimming a river. Masaie saw it happen. His father was on the far bank and had managed to catch a couple of fish. He decided to swim back across the river carrying the fish rather than walk half a mile to use the bridge but half way across his legs had cramped and he sank. Masaie waited for him to resurface. Anxiety turned to desperation. He knelt and shouted at the river, yelled for his father, but time passed and eventually he had to accept that his father had drowned. His body was never retrieved. Presumably it sank among fish, weeds and algae and dissolved into the teeming life of the riverbed.

‘Doesn’t smell too fresh,’ said Masaie’s father. ‘Your leg wound. It smells bad.’

‘A small cut, but it has turned cankerous.’

‘Nasty.’

‘It’s getting better.’

‘Are you sure? Every soldier knows that stink. You might have to find a physician. A man skilled with a saw.’

‘Honestly, it’s getting better.’

‘Have you put honey on it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Maybe that’ll help.’ His father looked around. ‘Where are you headed?’

‘The mountain.’

‘That’s quite a trek.’

‘A couple of ri.’

‘I’ll walk with you.’

‘I’d like that,’ said Masaie.

‘You look older. How long have I been dead?’

‘Quite a few years.’

‘Then we shall have a lot to talk about.’

They reached the edge of the forest. Masaie parted the undergrowth and looked out onto a clear sky and a fabulous dusting of stars. Moonlit fields. Hearth smoke from the village shacks. Steaming breath from a handful of corralled cattle. Masaie and his father watched a while and surveyed the hamlet for movement. It was too cold for lovers to head out for an hour under the stars. The village was shut tight for the night.

Masaie stepped out from the trees. He felt exposed as he left the woods and limped across open ground. If anyone saw him in the distance he would appear to be just another vagabond traveller using a staff to hobble along. A pack on his back and blanket over his head like a shawl. An unremarkable sight. Plenty of lone men walked the byways. Itinerant workers. Pious folk trekking shrine to shrine. Nevertheless, Masaie decided to walk through the rice fields traversing the soil berms that bordered each flooded half-acre rather than approaching the village up the main track. He would skirt the houses and keep distant enough not to set dogs barking. Best way to avoid complications.

His father walked by his side. Masaie was glad of the company but knew on a vague, unexamined level the man wasn’t there. Masaie was walking the lip of a narrow earth bank. There was only room on the path for one. His father walked beside him treading thin air. And he knew if anyone looked out from the village they would see a single traveller walking across the fields. Maybe, like the rabbit, his father had been sent to escort him to the underworld. The rabbit had been a test. He had faced down an evil spirit and now a benevolent ancestor had come to guide him home.

Moonlit paddy-water gleamed like quicksilver and a thin layer of mist lay over the ground. Dew slowly crystalised to frost. He passed heifers lying in the grass. A couple of the animals raised their heads and observed his progress with disinterest. He passed the houses, limped fast as he could then slackened his pace as he left the village behind.

‘Is that where we’re headed?’ asked his father, pointing at the mountain, the monstrous silhouette blocking out the starfield.

‘Yes.’

‘How far are we going?’

‘I have to find a hiding place in the rocks below the castle. That’s why I’m moving at night. I don’t want sentries to see me make the climb.’

‘You’re going to find some kind of cleft and just sit there?’

‘That’s the plan. Sit tight and wait for a signal.’

‘And what if the signal never comes? How long will you wait?’

‘As long as I can.’

‘Don’t leave it too long. That wound in your leg has stopped giving you pain. Which isn’t necessarily a good sign. Wait much longer for treatment and you’ll lose more than a leg.’

They kept walking.

‘I can’t see the castle,’ said Masaie’s father, looking up at the mountain. ‘Not a single light.’

‘It’s right above us. It’s hidden by cloud.’

‘Why would anyone build a castle in this awful place?’

‘Some say the general consorts with spirits,’ said Masaie. ‘People say he has struck a bargain with the dragon that lives beneath the mountain. No doubt he spread those rumours himself. He is using the power of myth to intimidate his enemies.’

‘And you intend to kill him?’

‘I intend to play my part.’

‘Strange to find you embroiled in these great affairs. The child that bounced on my knee. The child that helped till the field.’

‘I wish I had been a better son. I should have stayed with mother after you died rather than run away to Kyoto. What do you know about her? You’ve visited me. Have you visited her? Is she still alive?’

‘She’s alive. Old but alive.’

‘Is she well?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is she happy?’

‘As happy as anyone can be in this life.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ve been a great disappointment to you both.’

‘I’m proud of you. You think this mission will prove everyone wrong? People who said you were worthless, criminal scum? You’re right. It will.’

Masaie climbed the mountain by moonlit. At first he climbed through cloud vapour confident he couldn’t be seen, but a rising wind cleared the mist leaving him exposed. Sometimes, as he moved crag to crag, he was in view of the castle. He tried to keep to shadows as much as he could in case a sentry glanced down from the walls and saw a dark shape moving across the boulder-strewn lower slopes.

His hands gripped outcrops of granite as he hauled himself higher and his feet scrabbled for purchase. He used his crutch to push himself upward until he lost grip of the staff and it fell clattering down the rock face. He hid in shadows a while in case a sentry heard the noise and was watching from the battlements. When he felt sufficient time had passed he resumed his journey.

Masaie’s father also made the climb. Sometimes Masaie turned, held out his hand and helped his father pull himself higher. Sometimes Masaie’s father gave his son a boost as his grip grew weak and his legs began to fail.

‘Where are we going?’ asked his father as they sat panting on a ledge. ‘What’s the goal of this journey?’

‘Do you see that tree over there? The gnarled thing sticking out that crevice?’ asked Masaie. A dead ash tree protruded from a fissure near the battlement walls. ‘We have to get close as we can to that tree then find some kind of refuge.’

‘Not much further.’

‘No. We’re nearly there.’

Masaie found a crevice directly beneath the dead tree that would serve as a shelter. The roof of the little cave was furred with tendrillar roots. He crawled inside, shrugged off his pack, set it against the cave wall and squirmed to get comfortable. He would have to stay hidden within the cave for a long while. He wouldn’t be able to leave his hiding place during daylight without being seen by sentries patrolling the castle wall. He could only emerge at night.

He pulled dried fruit from the side pocket of his backpack and chewed.

‘So what happens now?’ asked his father.

‘I wait.’

‘How does your leg feel?’

‘Numb.’

‘That smell. It’s getting worse. Maybe you should check the wound.’

‘Why? There’s nothing I can do about it.’

His father nodded. He stood up. ‘I should go,’ he said. ‘A little while longer, then your work will be done. Will you be okay?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

He bent and took Masaie’s hand.

‘I’ll see you soon.’ Then he was gone. Masaie found himself alone on a ledge looking out over moonlit fields.

The samurai snapped awake as dawn light shafted through the mouth of the mountain cave. He was angry with himself. He must have drifted to sleep during the night and was lucky not to freeze to death.

‘Come on. Get up,’ he said, shaking his companions awake.

Tameyo opened his eyes. He looked exhausted, utterly unrefreshed by sleep. Ariyo had the gaunt, haunted look of a condemned man who had woken in his cell and realised his day of execution had arrived.

‘Daylight,’ said the samurai. ‘We need to get going.’

They crawled from the cave and stood on a ledge. The men shivered. They stretched, rubbed their eyes and looked around to assess their situation. They were two thirds of the way up the mountain.

Ariyo pissed from the ledge into a precipitous drop below – a stream of urine plummeting into the abyss.

They looked up at the summit and saw the peak wreathed in wisps of wind-blown snow like it was the smouldering cinder-cone of a volcano.

‘Not far to go,’ said the samurai, searching for encouraging words. ‘We’re nearly at the top.’

Thunder rolled around the surrounding peaks. A rumbling concussion. It reached a crescendo and died slow. Tameyo looked terrified.

‘Thunder,’ said the samurai. ‘It’s just thunder.’

‘We shouldn’t have come here. The mountain gods are angry.’

‘If the gods were angry we’d already be dead. We could have died yesterday. Fallen to our deaths a hundred times over. We might have frozen in that cave, but we survived. The gods are smiling on our endeavour, urging us on.’

Tameyo didn’t seem convinced.

‘Think about it,’ said the samurai. ‘If the gods despise intruders, they will hate the general more than us. Perhaps we are their instrument of revenge.’

They lashed blankets round their bodies and hooded them over their heads. They tied rope round their waists, shouldered their packs and wrapped torn linen round their blistered hands to act as mittens. The men shuffled along the ledge and they began to climb.

They reached the summit late afternoon – a jagged ridge. They waded across a snow shelf, bent into the driving wind until they reached the thin blade of rock which topped the mountain. They sheltered for a while just beneath the ridge. Each time they lifted their heads they were slammed by a merciless wind. They huddled together and warmed frozen hands while they braced themselves to face the hurricane and begin their descent.

The samurai looked down. He could see the village, a tiny cluster of houses far below. Delicate threads of hearth smoke from their chimneys. He looked south to wooded hills and the distant agricultural plain. Beyond the horizon lay the Freshwater Sea and Kyoto itself. He wondered what the Emperor and his mother were doing at that moment. It was noon. Maybe they were knelt on cushions in one of the palace gardens while servants poured tea. Maybe they were eating a little fruit and enjoying the sun.

The three men sat in silence a while.

‘Is this how the gods see the world?’ asked Tameyo, raising his voice to be heard over the wind roar. ‘We must seem so small to them. Smaller than ants.’

The samurai uncorked a flask of water and passed it to his companions. They drank deep. The liquid in the flask had partially frozen and they could feel a chunk of ice rattle inside the bamboo bottle each time they tipped it back. They handed the flask back to the samurai.

‘How are you feeling?’ he shouted to Ariyo.

Ariyo had complained his feet hurt when they stopped mid-morning to sit on a ledge and chew dried food. He had torn more linen, unlaced his leather shoes and bandaged his toes.

‘I’m fine,’ he said, without meeting the samurai’s gaze.

‘Your feet still hurt, don’t they? I can see it in your face, the way you move.’

‘I’m all right,’ he said. His voice sounded hollow like he had already given in to death. He stared straight ahead, seeing but not seeing. ‘All downhill from now on, neh?’

‘Yes. If we make good time we could be out of the snowline by nightfall. Lower altitude. Less wind.’

‘Yeah,’ mumbled Tameyo, sitting with his knees pulled to his chin. ‘And look on the bright side. We’ll be dead in a couple of days. Won’t have to make the return trip.’

He huddled into his tunic.

‘Let’s head down,’ said the samurai. ‘We should find shelter. We’ve done enough climbing for one day. We deserve a little rest.’

‘There’s no air,’ said Tameyo. ‘Can’t seem to get my breath.’

‘Get up,’ said Ariyo. He slowly turned and looked at Tameyo. He subtly straightened as if he were tapping some reservoir of revitalising, life-giving anger. ‘I’m not going to freeze on this mountain because of your lazy hide. I want to be warm. I want to be done with this nonsense and back in Kyoto warm, fed and fucked. The Emperor is a man like anyone else. I won’t die for him. I intend to live.’

‘All right,’ said the samurai. ‘Hang on to that. Whatever it takes to get you through the next few days.’

He stood up. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, holding out his hand. Tameyo reluctantly allowed the samurai to help him to his feet.

They descended from the summit. They made good time until Tameyo suddenly froze with fear while clinging to a rock face.

‘I can’t move,’ he shouted.

The samurai and Ariyo worked their way back up to the ledge. Tameyo was a couple of arm-spans away. To reach them he would have to shuffle along a narrow lip of stone with his face pressed to a rock face which offered virtually no handholds.

‘I can’t do it,’ said Tameyo. ‘I can’t go any further.’

They had traversed plenty of treacherous obstacles since setting out to conquer the mountain but Tameyo seemed to have reached some kind of internal breaking point. He couldn’t take another step.

The samurai held out his hand. ‘Four paces,’ he bellowed over the relentless wind. ‘That’s all. Shuffle sideways four paces and we can reach you.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Yes, you can. This is nothing. Think of everything you’ve overcome these past couple of days. This is nothing at all. A few of steps and you’re done.’

‘No.’

‘You’re roped to us. You can’t fall. If you slip, we’ll catch you.’

Tameyo reached down and fumbled at the rope knotted round his waist like he was attempting to untether himself.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded the samurai.

‘Go on without me. I’m finished.’

‘Stop,’ commanded the samurai. ‘Just stop. Look at me.’

They locked gazes, the samurai trying to instil strength and calm in the stricken man through force of will.

‘There’s a cave down below. We’ll make camp. All you have to do is take a few more paces. You’ve come this far. You can manage the last few steps.’

Tameyo looked down at the ledge he would need to traverse to reach his companions. It was little more than a crease in the rock.

‘If a cripple like me can make it across,’ said the samurai, ‘so can you.’

He held out an encouraging hand. Tameyo reluctantly shuffled closer. He stepped onto the narrow lip. His heels hung over a vertiginous drop onto jagged boulders. Wind tore at his clothes. His crudely mittened fingertips scrabbled the rock face as he searched for a handhold.

‘That’s it,’ said the samurai, raising his voice to be heard over the wind. ‘Keep coming.’

‘I can’t,’ mouthed Tameyo, so tired, so far gone, he couldn’t voice the words. He looked over his shoulder at the fall behind him like he wanted to step backward and be done with it all, topple backwards into blissful unbeing like an exhausted man throwing himself down on a soft bed.

‘Don’t,’ shouted the samurai. ‘Don’t look down. Just move.’

Tameyo rested his forehead against the rock face and closed his eyes.

‘You thought there would be daemons,’ said the samurai. ‘Well, here they are. They don’t come at you directly, breaking rocks and breathing fire. They’re sly. They slide into your body when your guard is down. They sap your strength, your will. So expel them. Drive them out. Think hard. Your wife. Your daughters. You want to see them again, don’t you? Get angry. Get defiant. And move, damn you.’

Tameyo slowly, painfully, shuffled along the narrow ledge, sobbing with the effort. Ariyo held the back of the samurai’s tunic so he could reach forward. Tameyo stretched out and gripped his hand, allowing himself to be pulled to safety. He collapsed against the samurai and held him for support. The samurai lay the exhausted man on the ledge.

‘Show me your hands.’

Tameyo held out one of his hands. The Samurai unwound bandages and exposed black, swollen fingertips.

‘All right. We’ll use the rope. Lower you level by level then follow on foot. Don’t worry. It won’t be long now. Then we can properly rest.’

He turned to Ariyo. ‘We better find shelter. Won’t be doing much more climbing before nightfall.’

‘You said there was a cave.’

‘I said it to give him a little hope. I’ll stay here. Go ahead. See what you can find. Any kind of fissure or alcove. Some place we can rest.’

Ariyo nodded. He untied the rope lashed round his waist, lowered himself from the ledge and began to explore the precipitous crags below.

The sky began to darken as evening fell. Ariyo couldn’t find shelter so he dug into snow banked on a ledge and created a small ice cave using his knife as a trowel. He shaped the excavated snow into a little wall in front of the cave mouth to act as a wind break and fetched the samurai and Tameyo. They climbed inside and huddled together. Tameyo shivered uncontrollably so they hugged him, slapped him, tried to get him warm.

‘We’ll be safe here,’ said the samurai. ‘It’s a good place to stop a while. The castle is directly below us. We can’t descend much further without being seen.’

He handed round the remains of the dried fruit. Tameyo refused the food.

‘You must eat,’ insisted the samurai.

Tameyo reached out with bloody, blistered fingers and took a piece of apple. He put it between cracked lips and slowly chewed.

‘Someone needs to stay awake,’ said the samurai. ‘I’ll take first watch. You two get some sleep.’

Next morning the samurai crawled from the snow shelter and shielded his eyes against harsh daylight. He stretched and took a deep lungful of fresh air, glad to escape the foetid humidity of the shelter. He ate a mouthful of snow then rubbed ice over his face to shock himself alert. He pulled the blanket tight over his head for warmth, belly-crawled across the ice-dusted plateau until he reached the edge and looked down.

The castle was laid out beneath him. Snow-crusted rooftops, a cobbled yard and a massive perimeter wall. He watched sentries wrapped in furs pace the battlements. Smoke curled from roof hatches. He could see servants in the courtyard, young lads forking hay from a cart and carrying it to the stables.

He tried to gauge the layout. The yard was ringed by barracks, storerooms and domestic dormitories. The large central tower was almost certainly the general’s quarters. The tower was five storey’s high. The interior would be a labyrinth. Multiple rooms on each floor, tight corridors and stairwells. It would be impossible to navigate once he was inside and would be full of soldiers, courtiers and servants. If he broke into the tower he would be discovered and killed almost immediately. There was no way of launching an attack without securing a detailed plan of the building.

The samurai crawled back inside the ice shelter.

‘We’re right over the castle,’ he said. ‘This is a good vantage point. We can watch troops come and go.’

Ariyo gestured to Tameyo lying curled in blankets at the back of the cave. ‘I can’t wake him.’

The samurai crawled over to the sleeping man and tried to rouse him.

‘Wake up. Hey. Tameyo.’

No response. The samurai shook the man’s shoulder.

‘Tameyo. Wake up.’

He bent forward and put his face directly over the sleeping man like he was leaning in for a kiss. He studied the Tameyo’s mouth and saw a faint wisp of steam escape parted lips.

‘He’s still breathing.’

The samurai sat back, contemplated the sleeping man for a moment then viciously slapped his face. Tameyo shifted but didn’t wake. The samurai repeatedly slapped the man until he groggily raised his arms to defend himself. Tameyo struggled to sit up then lay back and drowsed. His eyelids drooped like he wanted to go back to sleep.

‘Hey,’ said the samurai gripping the collar of Tameyo’s kimono and pulling him upright, eye to eye. ‘Wake up. You’ve got to wake up. If you give in to the cold, you’ll die. Don’t let it take you. Concentrate. Come on. Wake up. Be here with us now.’

Tameyo struggled to focus and gave a bleary nod.

‘Get up. Get out on that ledge and walk around. Jump up and down, whatever it takes. Get your circulation going.’

The three men squirmed from the ice tunnel and stood on the plateau pulling their clothes and blankets tight around them. They hooded their heads and masked their faces, enjoyed the light and space as best they could, despite the cutting wind. The samurai slapped Tameyo’s back and shook his shoulders. He tried to shake the man alert. Ariyo stood at the lip of the ledge and looked down.

‘Don’t get too close to the edge,’ advised the samurai. ‘We’re fine back here. But if we move forward we will be in view of the castle below. The sentries will spot us.’

Tameyo stared, hollow-eyed, at the landscape spread out before them. Despite the thin snow flurry, they could see for miles. They looked out over woodland and distant hills.

‘That’s our route,’ said the samurai. ‘The road we followed from Kyoto. The road you will walk on your way back home. Remember that tavern? The one with the girls? Food. Drink. A warm hearth. You’ll be back there soon, sitting by the fire with a full belly.’

Tameyo didn’t reply. Ariyo looked up. Flakes of snow caught in his beard. ‘Wish we made this expedition in spring,’ he said.

‘No point wishing,’ said the samurai. ‘We all face a test, sooner or later. A moment when we find out who we truly are.’

Ariyo grimaced in irritation like he was too tired, too cold, for platitudes. ‘Wish it was warmer. That’s all I’m saying.’ He broke some snow from the lip of the tunnel mouth and sucked it.

‘Shouldn’t eat too much snow,’ said the samurai. ‘Do you more harm than good.’

‘Well, if you’ve got a bottle of saké about your person feel free to pop the cork. Otherwise why don’t we just stand here and be quiet a while?’

They huddled in the cave and waited for darkness to fall.

‘I imagine Masaie will be getting himself in position about now,’ said the samurai. He turned to face his miserable companions. ‘If it’s any consolation, this battle will be over soon. Our hardships will be at an end, one way or another.’

‘Do you have a plan to get close to the general?’ asked Ariyo.

‘I have an idea.’

‘And your girl? Are you sure she’ll play her part?’

‘Yes. She’ll see it through.’

They sat a while.

‘Promise me something,’ said the samurai.

‘What?’ asked Ariyo.

‘When you flee this place take the girl with you. Understand? That’s your job. You and Tameyo. That’s what I need from you. Get her out of here. Get her to safety.’

‘I’ll do what I can.’

‘You’ll have to move fast. Leave Etchū soon as possible. Once the alarm is raised, they’ll block every bridge and road, close every border crossing. You’ll have to run ahead of them. You’ll have to keep to the wilds.

‘Yes.’

‘Please. Get her to safety. Promise you won’t abandon her.’

‘You have my word.’

The samurai glanced at Tameyo and saw his head nod towards his chest.

‘Hey.’ The samurai kicked his shin. ‘Wake up.’

Tameyo shifted but didn’t open his eyes.

‘Let me sleep,’ he mumbled.

‘No. Open your eyes.’

‘My head hurts.’

The samurai crawled to the tunnel mouth and stuffed snow into his flask. He shook it and stuffed it down the front of his robe to speed the thawing process. He returned to the cave, held the flask to Tameyo’s lips and forced water down his throat. Tameyo choked and spluttered. The samurai slapped him fully awake. He looked at the samurai with bleary hatred.

‘Angry? Good. Hate me. Throw a punch if you want. Just get that heart pumping. You have to stay awake, you hear me? Your wife. Your daughters. Picture them. They need you. When this is done, they will need you.’

The samurai sat at the mouth of the ice cave and watched sunset turn the landscape red. From his high elevation he could see the trees cast long shadows. He took calm breaths, as his master taught him. He reduced his consciousness to the sensations around him, the immediate moment. The mournful whisper of the wind. Distant shouts of command from the castle below.

He was struck by a sudden gut pain like he’d been stabbed. He gripped his belly, closed his eyes and waited for the sensation to pass. Pain hit him in waves. Eventually he fumbled a box from his pack, cracked open a poppy ampoule and swigged the resin. He sat back, closed his eyes and prayed to Hachiman. Give me strength, he pleaded. Just for a few more hours. Just until my task is done. He turned to Ariyo.

‘We should go.’

Ariyo gestured to Tameyo.

‘And what about him?’

Tameyo was curled at the back of the cave, white as death. He had succumbed to sleep once more. The samurai examined the sleeping man and could tell by the pallor of Tameyo’s skin, the shallowness of his breath, there was no point trying to wake him.

He sat back. He recalled the poem written by Princess Oku as she grieved her brother, Prince Ōtsu, following his mountainside burial.

I, living in this world,

From tomorrow look on

Mount Futakami as a brother

For today he was buried there.

I, living in this world,
From tomorrow look on
Mount Futakami as a brother
For today he was buried there.

The samurai removed a fur covering the unconscious man and gave it to Ariyo. ‘He won’t be needing this any more,’ he said.

Tameyo had something gripped in his hand. The samurai prised open his fingers. Two black debt stones. He gave them to Ariyo.

‘You better look after these.’

Ariyo tucked the stones into his obi. They crawled from the cave and stood up.

‘Well,’ murmured Ariyo. ‘Here we go.’

A final glance at Tameyo’s ice tomb and then they began a slow, stealthy descent towards the castle ramparts beneath them.

Soldiers kicked open the kitchen door and bustled inside. The girl was asleep near the fire. She was jolted awake by a blast of cold air and the clatter of boots and armour. The kitchen cat had been curled at her shoulder. The spooked animal hissed then streaked between the soldiers’ legs and fled into the courtyard.

The girl shielded her eyes as darkness was suddenly replaced by blazing torchlight. She knelt in a corner as the troops searched boxes and sacks. They tipped up a bag of potatoes, probed sacks of rice with their knives, checked the pantry and adjacent storerooms.

The sergeant stood over her. ‘Has anyone been in here?’ he demanded. ‘Yesterday. Tonight. Have you seen any strangers? Seen anything unusual?’

The girl almost answered No before she remembered she was supposed to be dumb. She pointed at her mouth and shook her head.

‘If you see anything, anything at all, you must report it, understand?’ He spoke slowly like he was talking to an idiot. ‘If you see something strange you must find a sentry and let them know.’

The soldiers left and she lay down once more and went to sleep. Later the soldiers returned and repeated their search, stamping on the boards as if they were trying to find some kind of underfloor cavity like a dug-out den or the entrance to an underground tunnel. She gave up trying to sleep. When the soldiers left she paced the kitchen and waited for dawn to break.

Next morning she hid in the empty upper rooms of the storehouse in case the cook made her return to the village with the innkeeper once he made his daily supply run. She opened the window shutter a fraction to let a little sunlight spill into the vacant room. She watched the innkeeper arrive at the castle and unload a consignment of fresh food from his cart.

She turned away from the window, crouched and examined footprints on the dusty boards of the room. Soldiers. Prints clustered near the doorway like they had glanced inside during their search of the castle then moved on. Hopefully they would decide the room was so bare, so devoid of any hiding places, they wouldn’t bother to return.

The cook found her standing in the pantry looking aimless mid-afternoon so she sent her to help a stable lad shovel dung. When the lad had her alone he grabbed her and tried to throw her onto straw in one of the empty stalls. She was an obvious target – a young girl, alone in the world. She gripped the boy’s hand and twisted his wrist, made him bend and fall to his knees. She continued to slowly twist his arm with an expression of detached boredom. The kid clenched his teeth for a few moments and fought the hold. He swore at her then pride and anger leeched away as his shoulder was wrenched almost to the point of dislocation. He begged her to stop. She listened to him beg a little while then released her grip. She returned to shovelling shit like nothing happened.

Later she headed back to the kitchen and washed pots. She surreptitiously glanced out of the window now and again, anxious for nightfall.

The soldiers were fed in shifts, trays loaded with food and jugs of water carried to the dining benches in their respective dormitories. When all the soldiers were fed the servants were allowed to help themselves to left-over food. The girl was given a bowl of rice and sat in the kitchen with the other maids eating and listening to them chatter. The cook ladled more rice from the pot, so the girl took advantage of the distraction and left the room. She casually headed for the door like she intended to use the courtyard latrine. Nobody noticed her leave.

She walked the edge of the courtyard passing a sentry who watched her with disinterest. She looked down at her feet, tried to shrink into herself, reduce to nothing.

She entered the darkened storehouse making her way down the central aisle between sacks and barrels, navigating by memory. She stood a while, alert for movement, any sign she was being followed. The sentry might have wondered why she was visiting the stores late at night. Or he might wish to exploit the fact she was alone and vulnerable. When she was sure she wasn’t pursued she climbed the stairs to the room above.

She pushed one of the shutters ajar, looked out and could see burning torches along the outer walls. Sentries paced to and fro. There was a long drop to the courtyard below and she could see a soldier standing directly beneath her. A top view of his iron helmet and naginata.

She climbed onto the window sill, feet dangling over the edge. She got to her feet, reached up and gripped the gable above her head and hung, legs swinging, anxious not to drop a sandal or make a sound in case the sentry looked up.

She hauled herself onto the thatch roof, crawled to its apex and clambered down the other side.

The storehouse had been built against the mountain wall. She reached for the crags, found a snow-dusted handhold and hauled herself upward, climbing a granite face three times her height before rolling onto a ledge. She surveyed the torch-lit castle beneath her.

She scooped snow and placed the nub of a candle in the depression to shelter it from the wind. She struck a flint and lit the wick. The guttering flame was hidden from the castle below but visible to anyone looking down from above.

‘We’ll be on the mountainside above the castle,’ the samurai had told her. ‘Find us a route down, a way inside the stronghold. Then give us a signal. We’ll be watching.’

Sitting with her back to the rock face, she tried to compact herself into a tight ball for warmth. The high castle walls acted as a wind break sheltering everyone inside the compound from the merciless night wind. But up here on the mountainside there was no relief from the gale. It must be miserable for Tameyo, Ariyo and the samurai camped somewhere above her, enduring darkness and lethal cold. It must have been a horrifying climb.

Eventually she heard the rasp of sandals mingle with the night wind and looked up. The tell-tale grunt and scuffle of someone descending the rock face above her head. The samurai lowered himself to the ledge and sat beside her. They were both too diffident to embrace and say glad you made it but they felt it, unspoken but understood.

‘I found a room in the castle,’ she said. ‘It’s safe. Neglected. A good place to hide. Fetch the others. Time to get under cover. You’ll freeze to death if you stay on this mountainside.’

Commander Raku walked the ramparts, his boots pounding the wooden walkway as he prowled past archers manning the arrow ports. None of the troops dared turn round and face the hooded apparition stalking the battlements but kept their attention fixed on the triangular ports as the skirts of Raku’s cloak swished by.

Raku stood above the gatehouse, brooding as he looked down on the moonlit valley below. He tried to put himself in the position of the assassins. If he were determined to enter the castle and kill the general what would he do?

The captain of the watch joined him standing nervously by Raku’s side, unable to read the mood of the man hidden behind the mask.

The commander leant over the edge of the ramparts and peered down at the mountainside. He could see torches among the rocks. Soldiers checking the outer defences.

‘The iron spikes at the base of the wall are secure,’ volunteered the captain of the watch. ‘Nobody has tampered with them.’

‘The sluice for the latrine?’

‘The outflow is secured with heavy bars. No one could crawl up that shit pipe, even if they wanted to.’

The commander nodded. ‘Have the men do one more circuit of the castle then bring them inside. We will repeat the inspection during daylight.’

‘As you wish.’

‘And have the castle searched one more time. Check every niche, every alcove. Lift every table, move every cupboard. Look for the slightest sign of recent disturbance.’

The captain of the watch nodded assent and hurried away to give the order.

The girl descended the rock face and lowered herself onto the storehouse roof, the samurai and Ariyo following.

‘Where’s Tameyo?’ hissed the girl.

The samurai shook his head. He didn’t make it.

‘He didn’t survive the journey?’

‘No,’ said the samurai.

‘He fell?’

‘He froze.’

They followed the girl’s lead as she slid over the apex of the roof and belly-crawled to the lip of the gable. She peered over the edge. They looked down on the sentry still positioned twenty feet below. He was resting against his naginata. They could see the disk of his iron helmet. The girl turned and whispered to the samurai.

‘Any noise, we’re dead.’

He nodded and checked Ariyo had seen the sentry. Ariyo blinked confirmation.

The girl climbed back through the window and lowered herself into the empty room. Ariyo passed her their packs from the roof above. Wooden frames lashed with bedrolls and provisions. She strained to haul the packs through the window. Soundless effort as she tried to haul the equipment inside the storeroom without alerting the sentry below.

Ariyo climbed through the window then helped the samurai clamber down from the roof. He gave support as the samurai hung one-handed and tried to reach the sill with his feet while ignoring the vertiginous drop onto flagstones below. As soon as they were inside the girl sealed the shutter and lit a candle, holding up the flame and examining the two men. They were blue and shivering. Their clothes and beards were crisp with ice.

‘So what exactly happened to Tameyo?’ she asked.

‘It was difficult out on the mountain,’ said the samurai. His understatement implied a high-altitude ice hell. ‘We did our best for him.’

They sat cross-legged and faced one another. The samurai tried to pull his blanket round his shoulders one-handed, but fumbled. The girl helped hood it over his head. Ariyo shivered. He rubbed and shook his hands to try to return some warmth to his fingers.

‘So cold,’ he said, through clenched teeth.

The girl dug in her pocket and found another couple of candle stubs. She lit them. Ariyo and the samurai huddled close to the candles for meagre warmth holding their hands over the flames. They winced and flexed. They experienced a series of sharp, stabbing needle-pricks as feeling returned to numb fingers. After a while the ice in their beards began to melt and drip making them look like they’d both been pulled from a river. Ariyo tried to shake himself dry like a dog. The samurai used the blanket to towel himself off. The girl had left a bag on the floor of the room. A bottle of water and a few apples. She watched while the men ate and drank

‘A shame Tameyo couldn’t hold on a little longer,’ said the girl. ‘He could be here with us now out of the wind.’

The samurai nodded. Ariyo chewed an apple down to the core, too much of a fatalist to be drawn into what-might-have-beens.

‘So what do you have for us?’ asked the samurai when he had warmed enough to speak without a quavering voice.

The girl pulled a roll of paper from her sleeve, unscrolled the chart and laid it on the boards pegging it with candle stubs. They examined the layout of the castle.

‘As you can see the buildings are laid out in a crescent. The stables, armoury and barracks are on this side,’ she said, indicating buildings on the right of the courtyard. ‘And the domestic quarters, kitchens and storerooms are here, on the left.’

‘What do you know about the tower?’

‘It’s a fall-back position, as you would expect. A castle within a castle. Lot of internal stone. If the main compound falls they can retreat to the keep and seal the doors. They could hold out for a few more days if they thought help was on its way. Or give them enough time to commit seppuku in an ordered manner.’

‘What do you know about the interior of the tower?’

‘The general lives in the upper floors. I can’t get past the second storey, so I’ve no idea of the layout. Access to the upper levels is via a single stairwell which is guarded. Sentries; too many to rush. Theoretically you could climb on the roof and pull up the tiles but it would be impossible to do without someone raising the alarm. And, as I say, we have no idea of the layout. You would drop inside and run around blind. Chances are you would be discovered and cut down before you got anywhere near him.’

‘Have you seen Motohide? Does he ever emerge from the tower?’

The girl shook her head. ‘No. He hasn’t left the keep. They’ve doubled the guard. They’ve conducted regular searches of the compound. They’re burning every torch they’ve got. The place is lit bright as noon. There are constant patrols.’

‘When did this activity begin?’

‘Last night. A stranger arrived at the castle. He must have known of our mission and warned the general.’

‘Who is he? This stranger? Did you see him?’

‘He’s been prowling the ramparts for most of the night. He’s out there right now.’

The samurai stood at the window and pushed the shutter ajar. He surveyed the ramparts, the rows of archers manning the arrow ports and saw a cowled figure standing on the battlements near the gatehouse.

‘Have you seen his face?’

‘He wears a mask,’ said the girl.

‘A mask?’

‘And he has no hands.’

‘No hands,’ murmured the samurai. ‘By the gods. He survived.’

‘Who?’

‘I fought a man when we were attacked in the woods. I took his hands and split his head. Somehow, he survived and made his way back to the castle. Extraordinary force of will.’

‘You admire him?’

‘Of course,’ said the samurai pulling the shutter closed.

‘You work in the kitchen, neh?’ said Ariyo. ‘Can we poison the general’s food?’

The girl shook her head. ‘He has his own cook. I imagine all his food is thoroughly tested by the time it is put in front of him.’

‘Is there any way we can get past the guards?’

‘They wear open-faced helmets and use code-words. You couldn’t bluff your way inside.’

The samurai stood and paced. He faced the shuttered window.

‘Motohide is a stone’s throw away. We’ve travelled across the country. We fought a battle and climbed a mountain. Now a couple of walls are all that separate us from our prey. There has to be a way to make that final short distance.’

The girl watched him pace and patiently waited for him to reach a decision. Ariyo began to succumb to exhaustion, his head nodding as he tried to stay awake.

‘You have access to the barracks?’ asked the samurai, as if he had the glimmerings of a plan.

‘Yes,’ said the girl.

‘Do you have access to weapons?’

She shook her head. ‘Their swords and naginatas are shut away.’

‘But arrows. Can you get arrows?’

‘We have our own arrows,’ interjected Ariyo. He had a bow and a quiver of arrows strapped to his pack but the samurai shook his head.

‘I need one of theirs. Just one.’

‘There are bales of arrows stacked in the storeroom downstairs,’ said the girl. ‘Part of the supplies they stock-piled in case of a siege.’

‘Good. Fetch one.’

The girl crept downstairs holding a hand cupped round the candle flame and searched the storehouse. She found bales of arrows bound with twine. She tugged one from the pile.

She heard a rustle in the far corner of the room and froze. She peered into the deep shadows. Another rustle. She blew out the candle and stood in darkness. The girl heard a scampering sound, probably a rat. She headed back to the stairs, navigating by memory.

The samurai examined the arrow and handed it to Ariyo.

‘Do you think you could take the shot?’

Ariyo patted the bow on the floor beside him. ‘I can do it in my sleep.’

The samurai turned his attention back to the girl. ‘And you can gain entry to the lower levels of the main tower, neh?’

‘I think so. If I wander over there with a broom and bucket I might be able to get through the front door. But I’ll be kicked out soon enough. And as I said, I wouldn’t have access to the top floors.’

‘All right. When you leave here make straight for the keep. I need you to get inside. I need you to be our eyes and ears.’

They heard hurrying footsteps in the courtyard and the sound of doors flung open. The girl stood at the window and pushed the shutter ajar. She watched soldiers moving building to building as they checked the stables and the armoury.

‘They’re searching the castle again,’ said the girl. ‘They’ll be here any minute. You have to get back up onto the roof, both of you.’

The samurai and Ariyo hurriedly collected their possessions then headed to the window. Ariyo went first. He climbed onto the sill, reached up and hung from the gable. He hauled himself up onto the roof, held out a hand and helped the samurai scramble from the window. The girl heaved their packs out the window and strained to lift them up to the men on the roof.

She quickly closed the shutter, picked up the candles and blew them out except for one. She glanced round the room and made sure no tell-tale sign of their presence had been left behind, scuffing dust with her foot to disguise multiple prints clustered near the window before heading for the stairs.

The girl hurried through the shadows of the storehouse and snatched a wooden bucket from a pile near the door. Something to carry if someone asked why she was walking around during the middle of the night. She snuffed the candle, opened the storeroom door and stepped out into the yard.

She slowly crossed the flame-lit yard towards the tower. A cold mist rolling off the mountain carpeted the yard with gently broiling vapour. She fought the urge to turn around and glance up at the storehouse roof where Ariyo and the samurai would be crouched on the thatch ready to fire. She felt exposed. Soldiers manning the rampart arrow ports stared down at her.

Two sentries guarded the entrance of the tower. ‘What are you doing?’ asked one of the men. ‘You have no business here. Go back to the kitchens.’

The girl pointed at the nearby rampart steps. She tried to convey that extra men on guard duty meant overflowing latrine buckets. The sentries looked bored and impatient. They stepped forward with their naginatas lowered like they intended to drive her away at spear-point. They were about to speak, but were interrupted by a sudden grunt. A faint meat-smack of impact on the walkway somewhere above them. The sentries craned to look up at the battlements. One of the men pacing the wall had come to a halt and was reaching behind himself, stretching like he wanted to scratch between his shoulder blades. An arrow high in his back, just above the collar of his armour.

The girl glanced towards the domestic buildings. There was no sign of the samurai or Ariyo on the storehouse roof. She assumed they had taken cover the moment the arrow had been loosed.

The soldier toppled from the wall. He back-flipped and hit the courtyard flagstones face down. His head split open and his naginata hit the tiles beside him and clattered to a standstill. The sentries ran to the fallen man and examined the arrow protruding from his neck. The brass alarm bell on the battlements rang and troops stumbled from their barracks in response to the call-to-arms.

The girl took advantage of the distraction and ducked inside the tower doorway.

The moment the courtyard alarm bell rang a well-drilled emergency procedure began within the tower. Sentries on the fifth floor converged on the general’s private chambers. He scrambled to his feet and tried to shake off sleep as an adjutant wrapped him in a kimono. His wife ran behind a screen and quickly put on a robe. She woke her son and bustled him from an adjacent room. The guards formed a protective cordon around the family and herded them towards the stairwell.

The girl paced the bottom floor of the tower. She could hear frantic footsteps and shouts above her head. She looked up as ancient floorboards flexed and creaked. Soldiers were moving quickly down a second floor corridor. She matched their movements as she walked down the passageway and tried to picture the hurried activity on the floor above.

She found herself standing outside heavy pine double doors. Activity seemed to centre on the corresponding room on the floor above. She heard a muffled door slam. More shouts, bellowed orders. Footsteps heading down the stairs.

Time to leave before anyone questioned her presence within the tower. She headed out the door and crossed the courtyard towards the storehouse, ignored by soldiers clustered round the body of their dead comrade. She glanced at the sentry lying dead with an arrow protruding from his body and, while her attention was diverted, walked straight into Raku.

Commander Raku and the captain of the watch hurried across the yard towards the dead man. A maid ran into Raku and he looked down at her a moment. The girl was clearly terrified by his smiling, inhumanly perfect mask. He shoved her aside.

Raku and the captain pushed through the crowd and knelt beside the sprawled corpse. The captain wrenched the arrow from the dead man’s back. He examined the flesh-clotted tip and the crow feather fletching.

‘One of ours,’ he said.

The commander looked round at the surrounding troops.

‘Did anyone see what happened?’

They all shook their heads except for one of the tower sentries who hesitantly said: ‘I saw him fall.’

‘Where was he standing? From which direction did the arrow come?’

‘He had his back to the courtyard. The arrow must have come from over there.’ The soldier pointed to a section of battlement walkway near the storehouse.

‘How about you,’ said Raku, turning to the sentry’s companion. ‘What do you see?’

The sentry pointed to the same section of battlement. ‘The arrow came from over there,’ he confirmed.

Raku turned to the captain.

‘I want all the soldiers stationed on that section of wall brought here.’

The captain nodded, got to his feet and hurried away. Raku addressed the surrounding men. He gestured to the corpse. ‘What can you tell me about this man?’ he asked.

‘His name was Han.’

‘What kind of man was he?’

‘Well liked.’

‘Was he the subject of any jealousies? Petty rivalries? Arguments in the barracks?’

‘He was an exemplary soldier. Admired. Respected.’

‘Nobody is that perfect. Everyone has enemies.’

‘Not Han.’

The captain of the watch returned with six men who had been guarding the east wall. They lined at attention. Raku walked the line and stared at each man in turn. They tried to hide their fear as they were inspected by cold eyes looking out from behind a mask.

‘Which one of you fired the arrow?’ he demanded.

The soldiers remained silent. He contemplated the resolute men for a moment then turned to the captain.

‘Execute them all.’

The girl shut herself in the storehouse and relit a candle. She hurried down the centre aisle past stacked boxes, bales and barrels pausing briefly to check she wasn’t followed. She climbed the stairs to the disused upper room and opened the window shutters. Ariyo lowered the packs then the girl helped the men back inside.

The samurai stood with his eye pressed to a chink between the shutters and watched the commotion in the courtyard outside. He turned to the girl and opened his mouth like he intended to speak then doubled in pain. He crawled on all-fours to his pack and withdrew a pouch. The girl took the pouch from his fumbling fingers and unlaced the drawstring. She took a poppy ampoule from the box within. She cracked open the neck of the glass cylinder and put it in the samurai’s hand. He nodded gratitude and drank the resin. He lay with his eyes closed and waited for the pain to subside.

‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’ said the girl.

‘It’s hell. But it will be over soon.’ He opened his eyes and sat up. ‘So how did it play out?’ he asked when his breathing had steadied. ‘What were they saying down in the yard?’

‘They assume the dead man was killed by a rival. Some kind of squabble between the troops. An argument over a village girl, something like that. They have six sentries kneeling in the courtyard. If one of them doesn’t confess to the crime soon they will execute them all.’

‘Six?’ asked Ariyo.

‘Yes.’

‘It seems we’ve got a lot of men killed.’

‘If their commanding officer chooses to have them beheaded it will be his order, his responsibility,’ said the samurai. ‘He will answer for it in the after-world, not us.’

He addressed the girl:

‘So you managed to get into the tower. You heard the courtyard troops raise the alarm. What happened then?’

‘I didn’t see much. I heard lots of movement, lots of people heading down the stairs from the floor above.’

‘Where did they go?’

The girl pulled the charcoal stick and rolled paper from her sleeve. The plan of the castle compound. She flipped the paper and sketched the interior of the lower tower. The corridor, stairwell, doorways.

‘From what I could hear, a group of soldiers were in a hurry to reach this room on the second floor.’ She tapped the map. ‘It has heavy double doors. Easy to defend.’

‘Do you have any idea what’s inside that room?’

‘No.’

‘Makes sense,’ said Ariyo, thinking it over. ‘You’re captain of the watch. The castle is under attack. What do you do? Put the general and his family somewhere safe until you ascertain what’s going on. Thick stone walls. Good protection.’

The samurai nodded, a look of triumph on his gaunt face.

‘Then we have him. We have our man. Time to give Masaie the signal.’

Ariyo pulled an arrow from his pack. He tore a strip of white cotton from the hem of his tunic and tied it round the head of the arrow.

‘Sundown tomorrow?’ asked the girl.

‘Sundown,’ confirmed the samurai.

‘So this time tomorrow we could be dead,’ said Ariyo.

‘You could say that any day of your life,’ said the samurai. He returned to the shutters and looked out at the courtyard.

‘Look,’ he said, beckoning the girl.

She took his place at the window and peered through a crack in the shutters. She could see the six condemned men. Five kneeling, one on his feet.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Ariyo.

‘One of the soldiers has offered himself up,’ said the girl. ‘He’s claiming responsibility for the dead man. He’s trying to save his comrades.’

‘A wonderful act of heroism,’ said the samurai. ‘A pure, selfless moment. And no one but us will ever know.’

Masaie sat on rocky a ledge beneath the castle as dawn broke. He passed in and out of consciousness. The calf of his leg had turned blue and gangrenous. It smelt bad. He cut a leather thong from the neck of his backpack and used it as a tourniquet. He tied it round his septic leg to stop the spread of infection.

Mist cascaded down the mountain – a torrent of freezing vapour. It was a blessing. It eased his fever. It numbed him. It slowed the rot of his leg.

Sometimes he slept and dreamed he was young again. Fit and well, and moving around with strength and purpose. He was standing on a beach enjoying the sand between his toes or in a boat helping his father haul in nets full of thrashing fish or walking a country road somewhere, sun on his face. Each time he woke he screwed his eyes shut and tried to dream again.

Sometimes he woke and experienced the weird conviction he was dead. He was a corpse sprawled lifeless, heart at a standstill, spirit still shackled to his bones. He lay staring up at the sky waiting for crows to peck out his eyes.

He ran out of water, shook the last drops from an empty flask and tossed it side. He was utterly disoriented and had lost track of time. Maybe he’d slept for days. Maybe the samurai and his team were long dead. He was marooned on a mountainside waiting for the order to attack, an order that would never come. Or maybe he was a ghost. Maybe, having failed his companions, he was doomed to haunt the mountainside forever, waiting for the moment to attack.

He heard the plink and skitter of wood hitting stone. Something struck a boulder a few feet away. He crawled to the tree projecting from the mountainside taking care to keep out of view of the castle. An arrow lay among rocks. He picked it up. A scrap of white cotton tied behind the arrowhead.

We’ll send you a signal. Wait until nightfall then launch the attack. We’re relying on you. Don’t let us down.

Masaie crawled back to the ledge. He opened his pack, pulled out the explosive-tipped projectiles and examined them in cold morning light. One of the projectiles slipped through numb fingers but he caught it just before it hit the rocks and blew him to pieces. He laughed at himself and repacked the projectile.

He tested the bow-string for tension then shifted position to get comfortable. All he had to do was hang on until nightfall then his work would be done. His father sat beside him.

‘Thought you’d gone,’ said Masaie.

‘I’m watching. Always watching.’

‘I can’t feel my leg,’ said Masaie. ‘My whole leg. Numbness creeping higher. It’s at my hip. The other leg is starting to fade. Not sure I can make it until sundown.’

His father held his hand.

‘You can make it. I’ll stay with you. I’ll help you pass the time.’

Raku paced the ramparts. It was late afternoon. He was tired. He tried to rub his eyes, but his stumps bumped his mask. He couldn’t shake the feeling that an attack was imminent. The assassin was nearby. Whatever he intended to do, he would do it soon.

Raku stood at an arrow port and watched low sun cast stark boulder shadows. Sunset washed the landscape blood red. The captain of the watch stood at his side.

‘Sunrise tomorrow I want a team of men to scour the mountainside,’ said Raku. ‘Not just the area surrounding the castle. Go wide in all directions. A full arrow-flight. Make a thorough, methodical search. Look for any signs of human activity. Footprints, anything. If you find so much as an apple core, you bring it to me. If you find a human turd, I want to know how big and how old, understand? Overlook nothing.’

‘No one has been seen in these parts for weeks,’ said the captain. ‘We interrogated the villagers. We asked the farmers if they had glimpsed anyone as they worked the fields. Anyone on the road, anyone in the woods. They’ve seen nothing. The last strange face was some feral child. No one before then and no one since. It’s inconceivable men could have pass through the valley undetected. People round here have keen eyes.’

‘A child?’

‘A girl. A dumb, slow-witted thing. No one of consequence.’

‘A girl?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She’s here, I think. In the castle. She empties piss buckets in exchange for food. A wretched creature. Her mother, her midwife, did her a great disservice by allowing her to live.’

The captain’s voice trailed away as Raku slowly turned from the arrow port and stared him down. Cold fury behind an impassive mask.

‘How long as she been here?’

‘A couple of days, I think.’

‘A stranger. Here in the castle all this time and you didn’t think to mention it?’

‘She’s just a girl.’

‘Find her,’ bellowed Raku. ‘Bring her to me. Now.’

Soldiers came for the girl late afternoon. She was in the kitchen, kneeling at a table wiping tears with her sleeve as she chopped onions. She enjoyed the heat from the fire as she slow-boiled a cauldron of rice water and the company of the cat that was sprawled on the floor, basking in the warmth of the flames. The cook knelt nearby stripping chicken.

The girl opened a shutter to clear the air and saw through tear-blurred eyes soldiers hurrying across the courtyard. For a moment she assumed it would be another search but something about the focus and urgency of the soldier’s movements suggested they were coming for her.

‘Close that window,’ ordered the cook. ‘You’re letting out the heat.’

The girl pointed at the onions, her face, then the pantry screen to convey that she was stepping out of the kitchen a moment to allow her burning eyes to recover.

‘All right,’ said the cook. ‘But hurry up. Plenty more work to do.’

The girl casually stepped into the pantry, pulled the screen closed behind her and immediately broke into a run. She sprinted past sacks of rice and barrels of apples. She ducked cured meat hanging from ceiling hooks.

She stepped out of a side door into the courtyard, walked along the edge of the yard, forcing herself to move slowly and casually. She hugged the wall until she reached the storehouse and ducked inside.

‘They’re looking for me,’ said the girl, entering the upper room of the storehouse.

The samurai looked out the chink between the window shutters. Troops were mustering in the courtyard. The captain of the watch shouted orders and squads fanned out.

‘They’re going to be here any minute,’ said the samurai.

The girl pulled her katana from Ariyo’s pack and tucked it into her obi, ready to draw.

‘Can we get back out onto the roof?’ asked Ariyo. ‘With all those men out there? If we open the window will they see?’

‘We’ll have to risk it,’ said the samurai. ‘This side of the building is in shadow. Perhaps that will hide us from view.’

They opened the window and looked down. The courtyard sentry was gone. Ariyo climbed onto the sill and hauled himself onto the roof. He helped the samurai follow. The girl passed them their packs. She heard clattering footsteps on the stairs leading up to the second floor – soldiers were nearly at the door. She gripped the edge of the window intending to haul herself up and out onto the roof. A split second realisation: the soldiers would be upon her before she could make it to the roof.

She turned and calmly faced the door as two soldiers entered the room. They saw the idiot kitchen girl at the centre of the room, hands behind her back.

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded one of the men.

‘Waiting for you,’ said the girl. The first soldier was confused to hear a supposedly dumb kitchen scullion speak with the clarity and command of an aristocrat. She executed a perfect draw-strike and cut off his head.

The second soldier tried to pull his katana from its sheath in a clumsy, panicked movement. He delivered a crude side-cut. The girl blocked; span her blade and sliced deep into the man’s neck. He staggered and dropped his sword. He clamped a hand over his wounded throat and tried to plug the gash. He collapsed and bled out, feet dancing.

The girl sheathed her sword and headed for the window. She hung from the gable edge, kicked the window shutters closed then hauled herself up onto the roof.

They lay on the roof and watched search teams hurry building to building. The samurai checked the sky. A deepening blue. The first stars had appeared. Torches had been lit along the battlements and courtyard walls.

‘Come on, Masaie,’ murmured Ariyo in frustration, his attention focused beyond the gatehouse and down the mountainside. ‘Do your part. Open fire.’

‘I killed two guards,’ said the girl. ‘It won’t be long before they notice the men are missing.’

‘We’re committed,’ said the samurai. ‘Our fate is in the hands of the gods.’

‘Then this is where we say goodbye.’

He nodded. ‘You are a samurai,’ he said. ‘I have nothing left to teach you.’

‘Thank you,’ said the girl. ‘For everything.’

‘Wait until the fight begins then use the distraction. Head up the mountain. Get away from here. Get out of the province quick as you can. And remember what I told you. Head south. Travel to Iga. Search out The Temple of Suijin, in the village of Kōga.’

She nodded. ‘You saved my life many times,’ she said. ‘You will always be in my prayers.’ The girl reached over to squeeze his hand and felt him press a folded piece of paper into her palm.

‘Goodbye.’

He turned to Ariyo.

‘Let’s go.’

Ariyo crawled to the edge of the roof and looked down on an unattended corner of the courtyard – the point where the side-wall of the storehouse intersected with the rockface. He lashed a rope round the peak of a gable and threw the coil from the roof. It unravelled as it fell. The samurai gripped the rope and began to edge off the roof.

‘Will you be okay?’ asked Ariyo, looking doubtful as the samurai gripped the rope one-handed.

The samurai didn’t reply. He wrapped his legs round the rope and descended in a succession of jerks as he released and tightened his grip. He reached the ground. Ariyo followed. They huddled in shadow and contemplated the fifteen yards of well-lit courtyard that separated them from the side of the tower.

Raku prowled the kitchen. He kicked over a sack of pak choi. He kicked the cat. The captain of the watch interrogated the cook.

‘She was here and then she was gone,’ explained the cook as the fearful apparition paced the room.

‘When did she leave?’ demanded the captain.

‘A little while ago. She stepped into the pantry then was nowhere to be found.’

‘So you’ve given her the run of the castle these past few days?’

‘The girl is slow-witted,’ protested the cook. She didn’t understand the captain’s line of questioning but sensed she was being set up to take the blame for something severe. ‘She’s nothing. She couldn’t harm anyone. Doesn’t have it in her. The poor runt can barely look after herself.’

Raku stared at the cook in contempt. He turned and addressed the captain.

‘I’ll conduct the search myself. This time we’ll do it properly. And we’ll seal every room, every building behind us. All staff, all troops out in the courtyard. We’ll sniff out that rat. We’ll leave her nowhere to hide.’

The old man returned from the courtyard struggling to carry a pot full of water. He trembled in fear to find himself confronted by the captain and his monstrous companion.

‘How about you?’ asked the captain. ‘The girl. The idiot. Have you seen her?’

‘The storehouse,’ said the old man. ‘I saw her go into the storehouse.’

Masaie opened his eyes and saw a fabulous dusting of stars. He sat a while and tried to remember where he was. His father sat nearby patiently tossing a pebble in the air and catching it.

‘Ready?’ asked his father.

‘Can’t feel my legs. Either of them.’

‘Were you planning on going for a stroll?’

‘I suppose not.’

Masaie looked at the pack beside him, his long bow strapped to the side. Fletched arrows protruding from the open flap. He pulled one of the arrows from the pack, contemplated the red paper cylinder impaled on the tip. A dim recall of his mission.

‘It’s dark,’ said his father. ‘Come on. It’s time to get to work.’

Masaie nodded and made a desultory attempt to stand. His legs were so numb and useless he had to drag himself clear of the cave on his elbows. He hooked his arm through the strap of the pack and hauled it along. He sat with his back to the tree, strung an arrow, closed his eyes and breathed deep.

‘Ready to change history?’ asked his father.

Masaie summoned his remaining strength. He looked at the castle above him. The high granite walls, the roofed battlements. He drew back the bow with trembling arms and fired.

Raku and the captain rushed through the storehouse and ran inside. They stood in the centre aisle surrounded by sacks of rice and barley, and bales of arrows. The captain held a sword and a torch. Raku stood beside him, enraged that he could no longer hold a weapon.

‘Has this place been searched?’ asked Raku.

‘Several times,’ said the captain.

‘Fetch more men. Smash open every barrel. Slit open every sack.’

The captain turned to leave, but Raku said: ‘Wait. Listen.’ A slow, faint ticking sound. ‘What’s that noise?’

They edged down the aisle. Something splashed at Raku’s feet. The captain raised his torch and looked up to see a dark liquid dripping between boards from the floor above. A crimson droplet hit Raku’s mask – a bloody tear-streak down his lacquered cheek.

‘Fetch your men. Put a ring of swords round this building. We have them cornered. Tear the place to the ground if need be.’

The moment he finished speaking there was a flash of fierce orange light outside. A heavy concussion shook the building. Raku ran to the yard. A fire. Some kind of tar had splashed over the cobbles burning with filthy black smoke.

A second detonation. A projectile punched through the kitchen roof and exploded, filling the room with fire. Raku and the captain threw themselves to the ground as a jet of flame erupted from the windows and doorway like dragon’s breath. A burning figure ran from the kitchen. The old man. He collapsed. He thrashed. His flaming limbs dripped fire.

Raku got to his feet. A soldier high on the ramparts rang the alarm and bellowed: ‘Attack. Attack.’

An explosion ripped open the barrack roof. Burning shingles rained on the courtyard. Troops jumped aside as a roof beam cart-wheeled across the yard.

Ariyo and the samurai used the distraction to run along the edge of the battlement wall and throw themselves against the base of the tower. Another explosion blasted a crater in the courtyard. A couple of soldiers were maimed by flying cobbles.

‘He did it,’ said Ariyo. He smiled. ‘Masaie actually did it.’

‘Help me climb,’ said the samurai, clambering onto Ariyo’s shoulders and reaching for a narrow second floor window. The shutter was sealed. He pulled a knife from his belt, jammed it between the shutter frame and levered the latch. He gripped the sill, scrambled up the wall and squirmed into the aperture. He turned and looked down at Ariyo.

‘Thank you. Now go.’

Ariyo saluted the samurai, gave a deep bow of respect then fled.

The samurai let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He could make out shelves stacked with scrolls. He gripped his gut, hit by a vicious, stabbing pain. He slid down the wall and pulled an ampoule from his obi, bit open the glass bulb and drained the contents. He tossed it aside. He bit open a second ampoule and knocked it back.

‘A little longer,’ he murmured. ‘Just a little longer.’

He slowly got to his feet. He released his cloak, unsheathed his sword and let the scabbard fall to the floor.

Raku stood on the battlements above the gatehouse and stared out into the mountain darkness. He heard another projectile launch. He couldn’t see it but he could hear the rising wind-whistle of the incoming arrow arcing over the wall, reaching the peak of its ascension then entering a dive. He heard it pass overhead and turned away from the heat-blast as the missile detonated on the stable roof. Rice-straw thatch was immediately set ablaze. Horses screamed.

Raku turned to the archer next to him.

‘How many out there?’ he bellowed. ‘What have you seen?’

‘Nothing, Commander-sama’ shouted the lookout. ‘I can’t see a thing.’

‘Archers. To the gate,’ yelled Raku.

Archers hurried along the battlements and clustered above the gatehouse. They threw torches from the wall to illuminate the track leading to the castle.

‘Anyone comes up that road, put fifty arrows in them.’

Raku turned and yelled down at troops milling in the courtyard bellow. ‘A cordon. Make a cordon round the tower. Protect the general.’

Raku watched the soldiers hurry to form a protective barrier in front of the tower entrance. They tipped over a couple of carts to form a barricade. Archers took position behind the carts, ready to cut down any force that managed to smash open the main gates of the castle.

His gaze wandered to the tower itself. The general’s bodyguard would be moving him from his quarters to the refuge room on the second floor. Raku was gripped by cold horror as he realised the samurai’s plan. He vaulted down wooden steps and sprinted towards the tower.

Guards hurriedly pulled back a screen and entered the general’s bedchamber giving perfunctory bows.

‘Sir, we’re under attack. There are missiles. The out-buildings are on fire.’

Motohide scrambled to his feet and shrugged on a kimono. His wife flung on a robe and ran to fetch her son.

‘What kind of force?’ demanded the general. ‘How many men?’

‘We’re not sure.’

The general pushed between the guards, hurried into the corridor and stepped out onto the balcony. The captain of the watch stood at his side.

‘Sir, you should go back inside. It’s too dangerous out here.’

The stables had partially collapsed. They heard the splinter and crash of falling beams. A geyser of sparks erupted into the night sky. Burning horses bolted from the imploding structure, bucking, shrieking and trampling soldiers under their hooves.

They heard the rising whistle of an incoming projectile. The captain pushed the general back inside the building. He slammed the balcony door and threw himself against it as a thunderous explosion made the building shake. Licks of flame flickered through gaps in the door frame.

‘We must get you to the refuge, General-sama.’

The general hurried to his bedchamber, pulled back a screen to his shrine and snatched his sword from its altar. An adjutant brought his helmet and breast plate.

‘Give them to him,’ said Asaji, pointing at the captain. ‘Let him take your place.’

The general thought it over for moment. It would be shameful to disguise himself as a common soldier and hide. He should put on his armour and declare himself on the field of battle. But he wanted to live.

‘Give me your armour.’

The general put on the captain’s helmet and cloak while the captain put on Motohide’s bear skin, his bear-head helmet. The general and four other soldiers hustled the imposter along with Asaji and her son down the stairs to the second floor. They hurried along a low stone corridor. Guards flung open double doors and the general and his family entered the room, along with the captain and a bodyguard. The remaining men pulled the door closed and blocked the door with their bodies, swords drawn.

The guard lit lanterns. The captain sealed the double doors from the inside by dropping a heavy restraining beam.

‘This is absurd,’ said the general. ‘I should be outside, leading the counter-attack.’

They were barricaded within a library. A wide hall lined with rack after rack of scrolls – poetry, court chronicles, and genealogical records. A store of intellectual wealth stockpiled by Motohide’s wife. The general had seized the province through force of arms but that alone wasn’t enough to raise the family to nobility. Asaji hoped to establish a palace in Kyoto one day and join the other great dynasties that lived within the orbit of the Imperial Palace. She knew that, no matter how many men Motohide could command, no matter how much territory he annexed, true social acceptance would depend on her ability to play a game of exquisitely refined etiquette within the salons of Kyoto’s elite. A vicious war for social supremacy waged in silence as matriarchs sipped tea and assessed the cut of their rival’s kimonos, their balletic deportment, the subtly revealing way they held a cup. The general himself could not read. He relied on his priest to recite documents aloud. He would always be regarded as a barbarian, but Asaji would ensure his son would be taught by the most expert tutors and raised a model of a refined aristocrat. He would marry well and the family name would finally be secure.

Asaji and her son knelt at a table. The child looked to his mother for reassurance. She tried to appear relaxed and confident for his sake. ‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ she told him. ‘Some weak, foolish, evil men have come here to harm your father. He will find them and punish them. And then we will go back to bed.’

Another explosion. A muffled thunderclap. The shock of detonation make the floor shiver.

‘We’ve discussed this contingency many times, General-sama,’ said the captain. ‘Let Commander Raku assess the situation.’

‘I should be on the battlements coordinating the defence.’

‘The assassin is relying on you to put yourself in danger. He’s trying to draw you out. We should stay here for the time being. We shouldn’t play into his hands.’

‘I don’t like it,’ said the general. ‘An alarm two nights in a row.’

‘Yesterday was a squabble between ill-disciplined soldiers.’

‘I don’t believe in coincidences.’

The general leant close to the door and bellowed to the men outside. ‘What’s going on?’

A muffled reply: ‘The fire is spreading.’

‘What is the size of the enemy force?’

‘Commander Raku is up on the outer walls, sir. We’re waiting for his report.’

‘This is utterly absurd,’ said the general, turning away from the door to face the captain. ‘I should be leading my men.’

A faint thud at the back of the room. They froze.

‘What was that?’ murmured the general, staring with apprehension at the rows of scroll racks. He edged towards his family, a hand on the tsuka of his sword. He gestured to the guard, pointed to the corner of the room. Investigate.

The bodyguard edged between scroll racks, lamp held high. He reached the back of the room and saw a cloak lying on the floor. He crouched. Something glittered, something caught in the folds of the cloak. A small glass ampoule drained dry. He picked up the empty bulb, sniffed it and examined it by lamplight.

Raku ran to the tower. ‘Out of the way,’ he shouted.

The sentries blocking the door hesitated, intimidated by the blank-faced figure staring them down but aware of their duty during an emergency situation: Guard the door. No one in or out. Only the general himself can countermand this order.

‘Out of the way,’ screamed Raku. Enraged eyes behind the white mask. He pushed past the men and pounded the door with his stumps. ‘Open up. Commander Raku. Open up.’

A long pause. The soldiers inside torn between their orders and the commander’s fury.

‘Open the damned door.’

The sentries pulled back iron latches and started to push open the door. Raku wrenched it wide with stumped arms and ran up the stairwell steps three at a time. The stairway and corridors were hazed with smoke. The tower itself was on fire. Another explosion. The building shook. Raku ran to the soldiers guarding the library door.

‘Open up. The assassin. He’s inside the refuge with the general.’

The soldiers hurried to obey. They pulled back iron bolts and struggled to open the door.

‘It’s locked, Commander-sama. Locked from the inside.’

‘Smash it down.’

‘Soldier,’ called the captain. ‘Soldier, what’s going on?’ There was no reply from the recesses of the library.

Motohide gestured to the captain and urged him forward. The captain drew his sword and slowly advanced, inching with trepidation between scroll racks. The general beckoned to Asaji and his son. They ran to him. He drew his sword and backed towards the library door. Asaji sniffed the air.

‘Can you smell it? Smoke. The tower is on fire.’

The sound of a blade smacking through meat. The thud of an armoured body hitting the floor. The empty bear-head helmet was flung from the shadows. It rolled, span and came to rest.

Motohide and Asaji turned and ran for the door. She dragged her son by the arm. The samurai stepped from behind a scroll rack and blocked their path. The general skidded to a halt. Asaji and his son cowered behind him.

Motohide took stock of the man in front of him. A one-armed samurai. Dirty, unshaven. A matted beard and lank hair. His clothes were torn and stained. The man was sick. Gaunt and grey yet animated by a ferocious purpose. An unblinking gaze conveyed superhuman strength of will.

Soldiers shouted and pounded the library door. Iron hinges creaked. The restraining bar rattled in its bracket with each impact. Motohide turned to face his wife.

‘Go to the back of the room,’ he said quietly.

Asaji shook her head.

‘Go to the back of the room,’ he insisted. He pointed at his son. ‘He shouldn’t see this.’ Motohide stroked Asaji’s face. ‘Go on. You’ll be safe. He’s here for me. He won’t harm you.’

Asaji hustled her son to the back of the room so he wouldn’t see the fight unfold. She hid behind shelves. She knelt with her son, held him close and sang a lullaby.

The general turned to face the samurai and drew his sword.

‘I am General Motohide of the Takeda clan, son of Makoto, grandson of Mochizane.’

The samurai didn’t reply. He was nothing. He was the room: the boards, the scrolls, the candlelight, the shadows, the air itself.

The general and the samurai saluted each other. They lowered their swords until the tips almost touched and ignored the soldiers battering the library door. They shifted foot to foot. A lethal dance. Their movements slowing to a moment of absolute stillness as they each settled into the perfect posture to strike. They stood facing each other. The moment lasted an eternity.

Soldiers kicked at the library door.

‘Archers,’ bellowed Raku, addressing the squad of guards that had run to their aid. ‘The assassin is wearing armour. When we get inside, aim for his head.’

They continued to kick at the door.

‘Wait,’ shouted Raku. He inspected the hinges. ‘Again. Together.’

He gave a three-count. The soldiers threw themselves against the library door in unison. Wood began to splinter.

‘Again.’

The soldiers hurled themselves forward. Hinge screws were wrenched from oak. The doors split from the frame and slewed open.

The guards ran into the room. Raku pushed the troops aside and stood at their head. A team of archers followed and fanned. The samurai stood over Motohide’s body, sword in hand. The general lay on his back in a spreading pool of blood. His eyes were half open and there was a deep hack in his neck. Raku pushed back his mask and threw it aside. He stood a while looking down at the dead man and contemplated his absolute failure to protect his master. Archers took aim at the samurai and pulled their strings taut. They waited for the signal to fire.

‘The Emperor’s mother gave the order,’ said the samurai.

‘What?’ said Raku. He looked up distractedly.

‘The nun. She gave the order for the general’s death. Find her. Avenge your master.’

The samurai locked gaze with Raku until he was sure the man comprehended what he was saying.

‘Your duty. Find her. Kill her.’

Raku nodded. The samurai sighed. His work was done. He and Raku smiled at each other. Warriors wryly amused at their wretched state, one good arm between them. It was quiet in the library. No sound but the distant shouts of soldiers fighting flames in the courtyard and the subtle creak of bowstrings held at full tension.

The samurai raised his sword in a salute and closed his eyes. Raku gave the signal and the archers fired. The samurai convulsed as a half dozen arrows punched deep into his face. He dropped his sword. It speared a floorboard and stood quivering. He toppled backward and sprawled dead by the general’s side.

Something rolled across the floorboards and came to rest against Raku’s boot. He crouched and studied the object. He prodded it with a stump. A smooth, black pebble. The ceiling groaned like it was in pain. Raku straightened up.

‘Get the general’s wife and son out of here.’

Soldiers escorted Asaji and the child from the room. A splintering crack from roof beams above their heads. The air was hazed blue.

‘Remove the general’s body.’

‘What about the assassin?’

Raku looked down at the samurai’s body. The conflagration engulfing the tower would be a fitting pyre for the warrior.

‘Let him burn.’

The girl hauled herself up the ice-glazed rock face. The crags and crevices of the mountainside were lit red by flame-light. Smoke stung her eyes. Ariyo sat on a ledge above, reached down and helped haul her up onto the plateau. Her fingers were numb. She rubbed her hands and tried to restore circulation.

‘Here,’ said Ariyo, tearing strips from the hem of her kimono. ‘Best bind your hands.’ He helped bandage her fingers with linen.

The girl looked out over the castle rooftops. The tower was well alight. It had begun to list and collapse into itself. They could hear the distant crack of splintering beams and then a muffled crash as the internal structure, the floors and stairwell, gave way. The storehouse was an inferno. Fireballs unfurled into the air as barrels of oil combusted. Soldiers retreated across the courtyard as burning liquid washed across the cobbles. Most of the horses were dead in their stalls. Rats scurried from the blazing stables and ran in circles as they searched for refuge. The girl watched soldiers work in a chain to throw buckets of water onto the burning barracks – a hopeless task. There would be nothing left of the castle by morning but scorched foundations, but she imagined the troops would fight the fire all night. Their commanding officers wouldn’t have the courage to call a halt to the salvage effort and declare the stronghold lost.

She saw Asaji and her son hustled from the collapsing tower. Soldiers helped the stricken woman climb into a hastily hitched hay cart. The castle gates were hauled open. The driver flicked the reins and the cart set out. It wove through the debris-strewn yard, out of the castle precincts and headed down the mountain road. Hard to guess what would become of the woman. Maybe she had relatives in Sekino, someone that would give her shelter, someone who could protect her son from whichever ambitious warlord replaced Motohide as ruler of Etchū. The child was now a fugitive.

‘We should go,’ said Ariyo. ‘We need to get as high as we can while we still have light.’

They resumed their climb.

The girl and Ariyo huddled high on the mountainside and waited for daylight. They sheltered as best they could from a harsh night wind. Particles of snow stung their faces.

‘Don’t sleep,’ advised Ariyo. ‘Tameyo slept. He never woke.’

The castle fires had burned out. The stables and kitchens were nothing more than charred beams. The tower was a mound of smouldering rubble. And somewhere at the heart of the debris lay the ashes of the samurai.

‘He was a brave man,’ said Ariyo. ‘I heard about men like him all my life. Warrior monks. Men of The Way. The stuff of legend. Never thought I’d meet one face-to-face. It has been a privilege to walk at his side.’

He looked at the girl. She was crying.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘He was a good father. He prepared you for the world. As much as any parent can do.’

The girl dried her eyes with her sleeve. She dug a folded paper from her obi, the scrap the samurai had passed to her as he said farewell. She read it by weak flamelight.

Had I not known

That I was dead

Already

I would have mourned

My loss of life.

Had I not known
That I was dead
Already
I would have mourned
My loss of life.

She refolded the paper and carefully tucked it in her waistband.

‘No need to climb the summit of the mountain,’ said Ariyo, tactfully changing the subject. ‘We should get high enough to be out of sight of the soldiers then head for the western side. We’ll wait until sunrise then descend and head into the woods. The trees will give us good cover as we make for the river. They’ll keep us hidden. Help ensure we have an uncomplicated journey.’

‘Do you think we can outrun the general’s men?’

‘There won’t be many to outrun. The general is dead. The battle is over. Motohide’s troops just lost their Daimyō, their paymaster. Today they were samurai. Sunrise tomorrow they will be ronin. They’ll loot the ruins and head out at first light in search of another master.’

‘So we could stay here for the night then go back to the castle tomorrow.’

‘Yes. The place will be deserted. Nobody left but the ghosts of the dead. We could walk around the precincts at our leisure. But the place will have been stripped. No food. No equipment. Just ashes. Best if we moved on.’

The girl dug into the hem of her sleeve and removed a black stone. She turned it in her hand for a moment then hurled it into the night. She listened to the pebble strike and skitter.

‘My father was a soldier,’ said Ariyo. ‘He farmed, most of the time. But every couple of years he was called to action. He brushed the rust from his helmet, kissed us goodbye and marched down the road with a bunch of village men. I asked him once what it was like. Battle. He said the toughest time came afterward. Returning home after all he’d seen and done. Picking up where he left off. Fixing fences. Feeding pigs. That was the hardest. Living. Just living.’

They got to their feet and began to climb the rock face by the dying light of the castle fires.

The soldiers found Masaie at dawn. A search team of twenty men fanned from the smouldering castle ruins, swords drawn. They scoured the lower mountainside looking for evidence of the assault party that attacked during the night. There was no strategic value in discovering the details of the assassination. Motohide was dead and his army was disbanding, but curiosity drove the men to unravel exactly what had happened the previous night.

A couple of soldiers found Masaie by smell. The stench of his rotting leg drew them to where he lay against a tree. His eyes were closed. He had a bow in his hands with a pyrotechnic arrow strung ready to fire. The soldiers shouted for help and crept towards Masaie. Their sandaled feet scuffed stone. The man seemed dead. His face was white and his lips were blue.

Masaie stirred and opened his eyes as they approached. He raised his head and gave them a broad smile like he was greeting friends. The soldiers were joined by a couple of archers. They drew their bows and took aim.

‘Better take him alive,’ advised the leader of the patrol. ‘Let’s see if we can find out who sent him.’ He unsheathed a knife and approached the prone man.

Masaie had enough strength to draw a little tension on the bow-string. He loosed the arrow. The warhead hit the patrol leader in the chest and blew him to flaming offal. The archers fired. They put two arrows in Masaie’s heart. He slumped dead.

The girl and Ariyo walked in silence through the wooded valley and then, as the afternoon drew on, they reached farmland and strolled through a vast grid of paddy fields. The girl stared dully ahead. The trek seemed unreal. She felt none of the urgency and oppressive threat that had marked their outward journey. Just a pervading sense of exhaustion and loss.

They reached the river and walked the bank until they found the raft hidden beneath weeds. They tore away the weeds and pushed the raft into the water. Ariyo used a pole to steer the raft across the river and ferry the girl to the other side.

‘What will you do now?’ she asked.

‘Return to Kyoto. Try to find my mother.’

‘Be careful.’

‘I know the risks. But your samurai had his code and I have mine. Couldn’t live with myself if I left her to die.’

He pulled three debt stones from his obi and rattled them in his fist.

‘Tameyo. Masaie. Their families will be there too. Maybe I can do something for them.’

She nodded.

‘And what about you?’ he asked.

‘Make my way to Iga, I suppose. See if I can gain admittance to the ninja temples.’

‘Will they accept a girl?’

‘I’ll have to prove myself somehow. Find a way to demonstrate my skill.’

They stood a while. Then Ariyo climbed on the raft and used the pole to push it clear of the bank. He nodded farewell then propelled the raft south against the sluggish current. He turned the corner and was gone.

The nun sat in a palace garden and contemplated the denuded trees and bushes. Servants had brushed a marble bench free of snow and placed a cushion so she could sit in comfort. She wore a hooded cloak against the winter cold. Plain, as befitted her religious order. She tucked her hands in opposing sleeves to keep warm.

The Emperor sat beside her, bored and cold. He understood his duty. He knew everyone from the lowliest peasant to the highest born aristocrat had a fated role. He was born to rule. A life of unending responsibility. But a treacherous voice at the back of his mind wanted to know why a living god couldn’t be master of his own time.

The cloistered garden was an acre of artfully styled wilderness. Shrubs had been skilfully arranged to mimic untended countryside. Yet at the same time the configuration revealed the hand of a master gardener, someone able to exquisitely orchestrate space. In summer the garden was a green arbour, an oasis from the bustle of the Imperial court. In winter the garden was a maze of brittle branches frosted with ice.

Servants had cleared snow from a marble table. A chart had been unrolled. A warrior statuette had been perched on each province so the nun could contemplate the fluid, interlocking balance of territorial power. She lifted a mounted soldier from Etchū and turned it in her hand.

‘So the general is gone. A brief rule. He will barely warrant a footnote in the chronicles.’ She set the toy soldier aside.

‘So what now?’ asked the Emperor.

‘We will put our own man in his place.’

‘How do we ensure our next proxy doesn’t develop similar dynastic ambitions?’

‘Why ask me?’ said the nun. ‘I won’t always be here to guide you. Think for yourself. Tell me your plan.’

The Emperor sighed and thought it over. ‘A balance of power.’

‘Yes,’ said the nun.

‘The general grew too strong. He had significant tracts of agricultural land. Then he seized coastal trade routes. He made his territory self-sufficient.’

‘So?’

‘We should replace him, not with one man, but two. The territory must be split. Keep the fiefdoms small and dependent.’

The nun nodded approval.

‘This is how you will take Honshu back from the Shōgun,’ she said. ‘You will regain your birthright one small piece at a time. It will be your life’s work. Your great task in years to come. You will be revered for it. Your descendants will build temples, keep a thousand candles burning in your name.

The nun walked alone in the garden, her sandaled feet sinking ankle-deep in snow. Her toes were numb but she didn’t mind. She leaned close and inspected twigs crusted with ice crystals. A weak sun overhead. The ice began to melt. Water droplets dripped and punctured pristine snow. She ran a finger the length of a twig and watched ice crystals liquefy on her fingertips.

She returned to the table intending to set the statuettes aside and roll up the chart. She noticed a black object sitting on Etchū. A pebble. It hadn’t been there a moment ago. She picked it up. It was wet like someone spat it out.

She turned around. A hooded figure stood two paces away. He wore a heavy black cloak spattered with mud like he’d been travelling a long while. How had he circumvented the guards? It didn’t matter now. The stranger raised his head. He wore a white mask with red lips and black eye holes. The nun stared in detached fascination. The man raised his arms and sleeves slid back. He had no hands. Blades protruded from stitched leather cups jammed over each wrist stump.

‘So you’re here to kill me,’ she said, addressing the mask.

The figure didn’t reply.

‘Who are you? Don’t you want to tell me? Don’t you want me to know?’

The figure remained silent.

She heard distant shouts. Her personal guard had raised the alarm. An intruder had breached the perimeter defences and had been seen within the grounds. They would be too late to save her. So this was it. The moment of her death. She looked around at snow smothered trees. A beautiful garden. A fine place to die. She expected to be scared. Instead she felt calm, content. She held her arms cruciform.

‘I am ready.’

Shouts and approaching footsteps. Soldiers close by, drawing their swords. Troops sprinting through the nearby anterooms of the palace towards the cloister garden.

The nun closed her eyes. A double knife thrust ripped into her belly. Excruciating, sense-obliterating pain robbed her of breath. The nun was lifted clean off her feet. A shrieking inhalation as blades drove further into her gut. She opened her eyes one last time to gaze up into grey skies.

Spring. A young man walked down a country lane. His name was Zenjirou. He was a bugeisha, an itinerant warrior monk. His few possessions were carried in a bag slung over his shoulder. He owned a sword, a knife, a bowl and a blanket. He had no attachments, allowed nothing in his life that might distract from his pursuit of The Way.

Zenjirou had been raised on a farm but he didn’t want to spend his life knee-deep in paddy water so one day, following an argument with his father, he walked out the house and never came back. Luckily it was summer. There was fruit on the trees and the nights were warm. He dreamed of becoming a warrior but he knew if he entered the service of the local lord he would be treated as a lowly foot soldier and assigned menial chores. He would be given a rusted iron helmet and spear, and be paid a subsistence stipend to guard a grain store someplace. He would stand all day propped up by a rusted naginata as he struggled to stay awake.

Zenjirou wanted to fight. He wanted to become a master swordsman. So he took to the road and travelled place to place. He did a little manual labour in return for food and shelter on cold nights. He had no patron, no hope of formal training. So each day he practised alone in the woods. He trimmed a branch to the length of a sword and honed his speed and agility. After a summer spent meditating by the side of a lake, he decided he was ready to face his first contest.

His first duel took place on the border of Mino. He fought a mendicant warrior, like himself. The man had a sword. Zenjirou had a big stick. Zenjirou dodged each slash of his opponent’s blade, parried the sword a couple of times with his stick then killed his opponent with a brutal jab to the throat. He crushed the man’s trachea then finished him with a blow to the head. He buried his nameless foe at the edge of the field. He kept the dead man’s sword and carried it ever since.

A farm village. Bamboo shacks clustered round a central square. Zenjirou stood in the square with a hand on the tsuka of his sword and looked around. Villagers hid in their homes. They knew itinerant swordsmen often brought trouble. Some bugeisha saw their calling as a journey to enlightenment. They regarded everyone they met, even men they killed, with saintly beneficence. But some bushi soured and were overwhelmed by the darkness of their path. They became addicted to slaughter. Zenjirou addressed the villagers. They were shut away but he knew they could hear him.

‘Let it be known I am Zenjirou of Shima. I will accept a duel from anyone who will challenge me.’

He sat on the bamboo steps outside one of the houses all afternoon. A nervous old man brought him a dish of beans. Zenjirou gave a deep bow of thanks. The gesture of gratitude was enough to reassure villagers watching from inside their shacks. They emerged and warily went about their business.

Local children watched him from a distance, then grew bold and approached. He showed them some katana techniques with a broom. The children chased each other round the square and duelled with sticks. Later he grew restless and walked along the banks of a nearby stream. He returned towards nightfall. A child ran up to him and said:

‘Someone came by. They say they accept your challenge.’

‘Who?’

‘A girl.’

‘Did you see her master?’

‘No.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She left. She was here and then she was gone.’

‘What did she say exactly?’

‘She said: tomorrow, in the orchard, at dawn.’

‘But no sign of her master?’

‘No. Just her.’

Zenjirou slept on the floor of the old man’s house. He woke just as the sky began to turn azure. He thanked the old man for his hospitality. ‘If I don’t come back, my possessions are yours.’

He pulled water from a well, washed then re-tied his topknot. He stood in the centre of the square, head thrown back and studied the constellations with the painfully heightened senses of a man about to fight for his life. He cleared his mind, tucked his sword in his obi and positioned and re-positioned the weapon until he was satisfied he could draw and cut with a single fluid stroke.

He strode down a lane to the orchard. Children followed him. He shouted and threw a couple of stones, told them to go home, but they followed anyway.

The orchard was an ocean of pink. A series of unseasonably warm days had prompted the trees to blossom early.

Zenjirou walked between rows of peach trees. He glimpsed a figure at the end of an avenue of vivid pink blossom. He approached. A girl dressed in black. She had a strip of fabric tied round her head to hold back her hair and a sword tucked in her waistband.

‘Where is your master?’

She didn’t reply.

‘Tell him I am here. Tell him I’m ready.’

The girl didn’t move.

‘You?’ he asked, gradually coming to realise the girl herself had issued the challenge. ‘You intend to fight?’ He smiled at the absurdity of the situation. ‘What’s your name, girl?’

‘People call me Raven.’

He laughed. He intended say: Go home, girl. Go home to your parents and put away that katana. But something about the focus of her gaze, the quality of concentration, held his attention. His smile faded.

He stared at her. She stared at him. He understood that she was Death and his life was over. They bowed deep, adjusted their footing and readied to fight. Zenjirou took one last breath of morning air. They drew their swords and lunged.

Glossary

Al-Kindi – Arab astronomer, mathematician, physician. 801-873 CE.

Amida Buddha – A representation of Buddha associated with Pure Land Buddhism, a Japanese sect of Mahayana Buddhism.

Bancha – A standard grade of green tea.

Barbican – A fortified gatehouse.

Batō Kannon – Buddhist deity of the horse.

Bo shuriken – An iron throwing spike.

Bokken – A wooden training sword.

Bugeisha – A master of martial arts.

Chō-Han – A traditional dice game. Two dice shaken in a cup, bets take on the likelihood of an odd or even roll. The house keeps a cut of the stake.

Cuirass – An armoured breast plate.

Daimyō – A regional feudal lord.

Daitoku-ji – ‘The Temple of Great Virtue’ located in Kyoto. One of fourteen temples dedicated to the Rinzai school of Zen.

Diamotsu – Battle of Diamotsu, 1531 CE.

Dōsojin – Shinto deity believed to protect travellers from evil spirits.

Echizen – Medieval province, now the northern part of Fukui Prefecture.

Emishi – The indigenous tribes of Japan.

Etchū – Medieval province, now Toyama Prefecture.

Freshwater Sea – Medieval name for Lake Biwa (also The Inland Sea).

Fundoshi – A loin cloth.

Fushimi Inari – Kyoto temple dedicated to the Shinto rice god Inari, patron of merchants and manufacturers.

Gallnut Dye – A tooth sealant used in the ‘Ohaguro’ practice of blackening teeth.

Gekokujō – ‘Low conquers high’, a situation in which a low-born man overthrows his social superior.

Gigaku – An extinct form of masked dance/drama, a forerunner of Noh.

Ginkaku-ji – ‘Temple of the Silver Pavilion’, Kyoto.

Go – A traditional Chinese board game in which black and white counters (stones) are placed on a grid board. Each player attempts to encircle and convert their opponent’s counters.

Goban – the 19x19 grid board used in games of Go.

Hachiman – Shinto god of war, protector of warriors.

Hakama – Traditional Japanese leg-wear.

Haori – A jacket.

Hanten – A jacket. Less formal than a haori. Often quilted.

Hashi – Chopsticks.

‘Hé?’ – ‘eh?’

Hichiriki – A double-reed flute.

Hida – Medieval province, now the north of Gifu Prefecture.

Honshu – Largest of the islands of Japan.

Hotei – An incarnation of Buddha-nature, usually represented with a fat belly and welcoming smile.

Humming Bulb Arrows – Singing arrow-heads used to signal the commencement of battle.

Iga Ware – Dark and starkly simple form of ceramic.

Inkstone – A small dish in which an inkstick is ground and the powder mixed with water.

Izanami-no-Mikoto – Mythological goddess of life and death. Name means ‘she who invites’.

Jingasa – A conical hat made of iron or leather worn by footsoldiers.

Jōkamachi – A‘town-beneath-the-castle’.

Jūnihitoe – An elegant and elaborate kimono.

Kaga – Medieval province, now part of Ishikawa Prefecture.

Kakebuton – A quilted bed-cover.

Kami – Shinto spirits.

Kata – A sequence of ritualised martial arts manoeuvres.

Katana – The archetypal samurai sword.

Ki – Life force (from the Chinese Qi).

Kimono – A T-shaped shirt/robe.

Kobusen – One of the denominations of Chinese copper coins used as currency in Japan.

Kyoto – Capital of Japan 1180-1868 CE.

Kyoyochi Pond – A water garden in the precincts of Ryōan-ji, ‘The Temple of the Dragon at Peace’, Kyoto.

Manjū – A popular bean paste pastry.

Mon – Unit of Japanese currency 1336-1870.

Moxibustion – A traditional Chinese therapy in which dried mugwort is burned on the skin.

Muhammad ibn Zakariyā Rāzī - Persian alchemist, physician and chemist, 854-925 CE.

Naginata – A curved blade attached to a wooden staff. A weapon associated with foot soldiers and warrior monks. Also associated with women trained in martial arts.

Naka-ima – A Shinto concept of times as ‘the eternal present’.

Nara – Capital of Japan 710-794 CE.

‘Neh?’ – ‘Is that so?’

Ninja – Highly trained soldiers, usually mercenaries, specialising in infiltration and assassination.

Ninjitsu – The necessary skills of a ninja, eg: climbing, archery, silent swimming, disguise, concealment, etc.

Nobori – Large battlefield flags.

Noh – Traditional form of musical drama.

Nōshū – An alternate name for Noto, a province in medieval Japan.

Nurizaya – Type of hilt/scabbard wood traditionally used to dress swords when not in use.

Obi – Sash worn around the waist. (The stiff, formal sash is known as the kaku-obi, whereas the softer, more informal sash is known as the heko-obi.)

Ōnin Wars – The devastating civil war, 1467-1477 CE, which led to the destruction of Kyoto and the beginning of the Age of the Warring States.

Oshiroi – Face powder made from ground white rice (name means ‘honourable white’).

Pagoda – A tiered tower.

Palanquin – A litter, similar to the western sedan chair.

Palisade – A perimeter wall composed of tree trunks sharpened to a spike.

Rajōmon Gate – The Kyoto city gate at the southern end of the great Suzaku Avenue, a wide boulevard which led to the outer gates of the Imperial Palace.

Ri – A unit of length equivalent to 3927m or 4295 yards.

Ryō – A gold coin worth a thousand brass coins, or enough rice to feed a person for four years.

Ryōan-ji – ‘The Temple of the Dragon at Peace’, Kyoto.

Saké – Rice wine, traditionally drunk warm.

-sama – A suffix indicating respect and deference to the person being addressed.

Samue – The simple work clothes of Buddhist monks.

Samurai – ‘One who serves.’ The military nobility of Japan.

Sarutahiko Ōkami – Shinto deity, sometimes portrayed as a monkey god. Often regarded as a patron spirit of martial arts.

Sashimono – A pennant worn by samurai as they entered battle.

Saya – A scabbard.

Sekino – Capital of Etchū province.

Sengoku Judai – The Age of the Warring States, 1467-1603 CE.

Seppuku – Ritual suicide. Also known as hara-kiri.

Shachihoko – Mythological creature with the body of a carp and the head of a tiger. Often used as roof ornaments to protect buildings from fire.

Shenqu – A preparation of wheat used in the treatment of acute ailments.

Shatranj – Early Persian form of chess.

Shinano – Medieval province, now Nagano Prefecture.

The girlbi – Alternate name for ninja.

Shiokowa no gawara – Battle of Shiokowa no gawara, 1531 CE.

Shō – Standard bottle measure of saké. Approx 1.8 litres.

Shōgun – The military ruler of Japan.

Shoji – A sliding partition wall. Paper over a wooden frame.

Suzaku Ōji – The wide central avenue of Kyoto which led to the gates of the Imperial Palace.

Tabi – Split-toed socks.

Takase bune – Flat bottom river boat used for navigating the Takase River, Kyoto.

Tantō – Short blade sword/knife.

Tatami – A rice straw mat.

Tatenawate – Battle of Tatenawate, 1530 CE.

Tendai – Japanese school of Mayahana Buddhism.

Tengu – Shinto daemon. A harbinger of war. Often portrayed as a bird of prey.

Tenryū Shiseizen-ji – Head temple of Renzai Zen Buddhism, Kyoto.

Topknot – Traditional samurai hair arrangement.

Tövd – Mongolian name for Tibet. (Means ‘snowy’.)

Tsuba – Sword hilt guard.

Tsuka – Sword hilt.

Uji – Area to the south of Kyoto associated with high-grade green tea.

Usa Hachimangū – Main temple to Hachiman, Shinto divinity of war, in the city of Usa.

Wakasa – Medieval province, now the southern part of Fukui Prefecture.

Warded Lock – One of the earliest forms of lock using a key cylinder.

Yamabushi – A mountain ascetic.

Yōkai – Phantoms, apparitions.

Za – Feudal trade guilds.

Zabuton – A floor cushion.

Zōri – Thonged sandals.

Further Reading

Cleary, Thomas Classics of Strategy and Counsel Vols 1-3

Cleary, Thomas Code of the Samurai – A Modern Translation of the Bushido Shoshinshu of Taira Shigesuke

Cleary, Thomas Training the Samurai Mind – A Bushido Sourcebook

Clements, Jonathan The Samurai – A New History of the Warrior Elite

Confucius (trans DC Lau) The Analects

Deal, William E Handbook to Life in Medieval and Early Modern Japan

Donnelly, Ivon A Chinese Junks and Other Native Craft

Fan, Warner JW A Manual of Chinese Herbal Medicine

Hori, Ichiro Folk Religion in Japan – Continuity and Change

Kaptchuk, Ted J Chinese Medicine – The Web That Has No Weaver

Lao-Tzu (trans Stephen Addiss and Stanley Lombardo) Tao Te Ching

Lowry, Dave Autumn Lightning – The Education of an American Samurai

Man, John Ninja – 1,000 Years of the Shadow Warriors

Mason, RHP & Caiger, JG A History of Japan

Mencius (trans DC Lau) Mencius

Miller, Sgt. Rory Meditations of Violence – A Comparison of Martial Arts Training and Real World Violence

Reider, Noriko T Japanese Demon Lore – Oni From Ancient Times to the Present

Statler, Oliver Japanese Inn

Sun Tzu (trans Thomas Cleary) The Art of War

Sun Tzu (trans Lionel Giles) The Art of War

Takuan Sōhō (William Scott Wilson) The Unfettered Mind

Tilburg, Hans K Chinese Junks of the Pacific

Tokitsu, Kenji The Inner Art of Karate – Cultivating the Budo Spirit in Your Practice

Tsunetomo, Yamamoto (trans William Scott Wilson) Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai

Tsunetomo, Yamamoto (trans Takao Mukoh) Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai

Turnbull, Stephen Japanese Castles 250-1540

Turnbull, Stephen Japanese Castles 1540-1640

Turnbull, Stephen Samurai Horse and Foot Guards 1540-1724

Turnbull, Stephen Ninja AD 1460-1650

Turnbull, Stephen Ashigaru 1467-1649

Turnbull, Stephen War in Japan 1467-1615

Turnbull, Stephen Samurai Women 1184-1877

Turnbull, Stephen Samurai Heraldry

Turnbull, Stephen Samurai – The World of the Warrior

Wilson, William Scott The Lone Samurai – The Life of Miyamoto Mushashi

Yoshida, Kohshyu The Samurai Sword

First published in the United Kingdom in 2016 by Canelo

Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
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Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom

Copyright © 2016 by Adam Baker

The moral right of Adam Baker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781910859827

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Look for more great books at www.canelo.co

Table of Contents

- Title Page
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Japan, 1532
- Map
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9
- 10
- 11
- 12
- 13
- 14
- 15
- 16
- 17
- 18
- 19
- 20
- 21
- 22
- 23
- 24
- 25
- 26
- 27
- 28
- 29
- 30
- 31
- 32
- 33
- 34
- 35
- 36
- 37
- 38
- 39
- 40
- 41
- 42
- 43
- 44
- 45
- 46
- 47
- 48
- 49
- 50
- 51
- 52
- 53
- 54
- 55
- 56
- 57
- 58
- 59
- 60
- 61
- 62
- 63
- 64
- 65
- 66
- 67
- 68
- 69
- 70
- 71
- 72
- 73
- 74
- 75
- 76
- 77
- 78
- 79
- 80
- Glossary
- Further Reading
- Copyright