Ways of the City by Ikoma Uitukake
"No wall stands forever. Only duty stands forever."--Kaiu Hosaru, A Perfect Cut
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Ways of the City
by Rob Mathews/Ikoma Uitukake
A Dragon receives a lesson in humility as a result of a chance encounter in Ryoko Owari.
Mirumoto Hokai was a very proper young samurai. So said his parents, so said his sensei, so, most importantly, did his lord. The Iron Mountain had produced swordsmen more skilful, duellists more dashing, students more learned in the ways of the Tao and of the world, but his failure to truly excel in any one discipline could hardly be held against the young man. His dearest wish, as a boy, had been to enter the holy order of the Ise Zumi, but his refusal at the doors of the High House of Light in no way affected his diligence. He studied the arts of combat assiduously, both the daisho technique of his clan and those bare-handed kata proper to a Mirumoto samurai--never once, even in the tea-house, did he lament that kaze-do was denied him--learned to write a fair hand, and could recite the sayings of Shinsei as easily as the deeds of his ancestors. When he received his swords and entered his lord's service, he was observed to be punctual in his attendance, prompt in his obedience, well-spoken and properly deferential to his superiors. He lived simply, kept his dress and his person immaculate, and avoided the temptations of drink and loose women. He was, in short, the very pattern-book of a young samurai of modest station.
So it was that when his lord chanced to have a package (of no great political importance, merely a gift of continued friendship to a former comrade-in-arms) to be conveyed to the distant Crab lands, he could think of no better ambassador to send than his newest retainer. The young man was duly summoned, entrusted with his lord's gift and charged to deliver it swiftly and safely to Sunda Mizu Mura. He was not, of course, instructed to behave in all matters as befitted a samurai of the Dragon, for that would be a disgraceful slur on his capabilities, and if his lord kindly mentioned that he might take the opportunity to see a little of the world, Hokai assigned that suggestion its proper importance. He was greatly honoured to be trusted with so public a sign of his lord's favour and resolved at once that the mission would be conducted with all the swiftness and efficiency of which he was capable.
So it was that Mirumoto Hokai, having travelled south through Seikatsu Pass, found himself at Ryoko Owari, where he intended to leave the road. He had interest in the city as such, and planned to remain only as long as it took him to secure a passage on a boat travelling down the River of Gold, which would convey him to his destination with more ease and speed than the long trek around Shinomen Forest and through the Sparrow lands. Nothing in his life, however, spent as it had been in the austere estates of his homeland, had prepared him for his first sight of the City of Green Walls. It filled the valley, great and gaudy, burying the earth in a flood of buildings and challenging the sky with its towers and pagodas. He felt awed, and possibly a little unsure of himself, for he remembered stories of the City of Sin.
Within the walls, the city was even more overpowering, a rush of movement and colour and noise and smell. But Hokai remembered his duty and resolutely closed his eyes and ears to all diversions. Pausing only to offer thanks for his safe arrival to the Fortune of Travellers, he at once sought out the docks from which the passenger-boats departed. Here, however, his plans were set at naught by a sweaty little merchant's clerk in a dirty office by the dock. There might be a boat leaving tomorrow, he was told, and certainly there would be one in the next few days, but there was none today. The clerk was apologetic, ashamed, desolate even, but there was nothing he could do. The last boat had left the previous evening and the next would arrive in the River's good time. That was how it was. Appreciating the truth of this, Hokai could only bow his head and withdraw. And so it was that, despite his best intentions, Mirumoto Hokai found himself loose in Ryoko Owari with money in his purse and no calls on his time other than to present himself at the passenger dock at dawn the next day.
His intentions were merely to seek out some refreshment and lodging for the night. From the passenger dock, he drifted north along the riverside, for the helpful shipping-clerk had informed him that the cheapest hostelries were to be found in the northern port district. Although his lord had entrusted him with two of the Dragon Clan's precious golden koku as well as a purse of silver, he was well aware that this wealth had been intended only as a hedge against emergencies, and Hokai would not have dreamed of wasting so much as a zeni on his own comforts. So he went in search of a cheap inn and while he did so, allowed himself for the first time to properly observe the inhabitants of Ryoko Owari.
Close-up, they were less impressive than they had at first appeared. Their bright clothes were patched and dirty, their manners often crude, their voices harsh and loud. The buildings, too, were shabbier than they had seemed from a distance, crudely built and ill-maintained. A surprising number turned out to be dingy peasant drinking dens, or pedlar's shacks full of common gee-gaws, whose vendors made up for in volume what they lacked in subtlety. Many of the streets were uncleaned and full of rubbish, and over everything gathered the mingled odours of fish and pine-tar. Yet the noise and bustle of the crowd held a certain fascination, as did their sheer numbers. Not even in the barracks had Mirumoto Hokai ever felt himself so closely surrounded by so many people. It affected him more than he liked to admit, and perhaps distracted him more than he realised.
He found himself standing at the back of the commercial docks, watching a squad of unwashed, unshaven men manhandle a great pine log aboard a waiting barge. In the Dragon mountains, trees that size were rare, and boats that size unheard of, and it was fascinating to watch how they maneuvered the one into the other with the aid of ropes, slings, pulleys, levers and sheer grunting effort.
"Oi! You over there! Mind your head!"
Mirumoto Hokai spun round in sheer shock. In his concentration on the loading, he had not realised that a second log was being hauled onto the dock. Now a burly, sweaty, peasant foreman was angrily gesturing for him to get out of its way. For a moment, Hokai was too shocked to do more than gape. Never in his life had he imagined that a heimin might address him so. When his wits returned, his first impulse was to draw his swords and relieve the foreman of his head. That he did not do so was due to two factors. Firstly, he realised that, uncouth though he might be, the peasant's labour was no doubt of value to someone. And secondly because, in jumping back to avoid the swing of the timber--for the foreman had not waited for Hokai to move before signalling to his subordinates--he had run slap into someone else.
That someone gave a very feminine squeak of alarm. Something splashed to the ground beside him, and an arm shot across his chest as the unknown clung on to Hokai to keep from falling. For a moment they swayed together--definitely feminine, Hokai realised--and then a mutual balance was found. The arm was quickly withdrawn, and Hokai was able to turn round.
He was not altogether surprised to find himself looking down at a kneeling woman. Her hair, thick and glossy, was tied up in a peasant's knot on the nape of her neck, and her dress was cheap and worn. Her voice, when it came, was low-pitched, and so quiet that he had to strain to hear over the hubbub of the street. "I beg pardon, samurai-sama. I hope my clumsiness did not inconvenience you."
It was not in Hokai to blame another for his own fault, and her proper manners were refreshing after the dockworkers' rudeness. He bowed his head a fraction. "Not at all. The fault was mine."
The woman got to her feet. She was younger than he had thought at first, with a thin face that might have been pretty but for a livid purple birthmark that splashed her cheek and jaw. Hokai looked away quickly, but not quickly enough, for the girl noticed and lowered her head in shame. "The noble Mirumoto lord is very kind," she said, her eyes fixed on the ground.
Hokai felt obscurely embarassed. "I said, it was nothing. And I am no lord, merely a humble servant of my Clan, seeking no more than rice and a place to rest."
The girl brightened. "Perhaps I can aid the noble samurai? I work at the Inn of the Black Pine. It is not the finest house in the city, but it is clean, and master Hugari is an honest man."
Another time, Mirumoto Hokai would have scorned to take advice from a peasant, but he was beginning to realise that he could wander long in Ryoko Owari before chancing on a respectable inn. "Certainly. Lead on."
The girl picked up the bucket she had dropped in the collision--its contents had long since drained into the mud--and looked cautiously at Hokai as if trying to weigh his character. Eventually she decided that a small delay would not anger him, and carried it back to a pump at the river's edge, where she began laboriously to refill it. Hokai watched with half an eye, taking care to avoid any further treetrunks. At length it was done, and she returned up the street, balancing the bucket with practised care to avoid splashing. She set it down again when she reached Hokai, and bobbed a small bow.
"This way, Mirumoto-sama."
"My name is Hokai," he said quietly. "You may use it."
"My name is Shirimi."
Hokai was not especially interested, but he filed the name away for future reference. He fell into step behind her, and together they proceeded up the street.
The Inn of the Black Pine was certainly not the sort of place Hokai would have patronized under normal circumstances--its paint was shabby, its shutters unfinished wood and the crudely-painted sign was innocent of kanji. But it was clean within, as Shirimi had promised, and the smell from the kitchens was appetising. Hugari himself was a foxy, overdressed man who fell at Hokai's feet and proclaimed him his lord, his master, his owner--and then named a price that almost made Hokai walk straight back out in disgust. He had no objection to paying for his lodgings--it would be unfair to burden some unknown lord with the cost of supporting him--but he drew the line at being robbed.
Hokai's departure was unexpectedly forestalled by Shirimi. She turned on her master with unexpected vehemence, accusing him of greed, disrespect and short-sightedness in driving a generous samurai into the street. Hugari, colouring, attempted to send her about her business, to no obvious effect. Hokai, instinctively, drew back from the quarrel. It was hardly becoming to argue over money, even by proxy. Eventually the two heimin--Hokai had long since ceased to listen--settled on a price that was only marginally extortionate. It appeared that he was staying.
The rice and fish was as good as it smelled, and the sake was passable. Hokai knew he ought to find a private room and meditate, but found he still had too much energy to achieve a proper stillness. Ordinarily he would have practised kata for and hour or so, but there was no open space available to serve as a dojo. So he remained where he was, sipping his sake, and watching the goings-on around him with casual curiosity.
The inn began to fill up as evening approached. The customers were mostly artisans and the lower sort of merchant--the lowest class of heimin but, Hokai guessed, wealthier than simple peasant labourers. Some of them aped their betters in bright patterned fabrics and showy trinkets, though their manners were hardly refined. Others made no concession to civility, crude, dirty and loud.
Another girl had appeared to serve the guests--Salako her name seemed to be. She was short and plump, dressed up like a parody of a geisha in an over-tight kimono with a bright pattern and far too much make-up. Hokai, watching her, noticed that she dispensed drinks and theatrical smiles while Shirimi, quieter and less obtrusive, brought the food, mopped the tables and cleared the rubbish. Hugari, disdaining to work himself, stood by the door and effusively greeted each new arrival.
Salako was soon aware of Hokai's eyes on her. She came over to his corner, ostentatiously swinging her hips, and bowed deep enough for him to see down the front of her dress. "Does the noble samurai require anything?"
Hokai's cup was almost empty. "More sake, if you please."
She brought the bowl quickly enough, along with a cup for herself. Without waiting for permission, she sat down with him. Caught by surprise, Hokai was unable to object in time. He rapidly began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. Salako was getting far too close; he could feel the warmth of her beside him and his nostrils were full of her scent, something sweet and cloying. He wanted to move away, but could hardly show such weakness.
In pouring the sake, Salako let her arm casually brush against Hokai's. "Does the noble samurai require anything further?" she breathed in his ear.
Hokai fought down the desire to push her away. "No, the noble samurai is quite satisfied," he said stiffly.
"That's good." Salako slid closer. Her hip was touching his now.
Hokai decided honesty was the best defence. "The noble samurai wishes to be left alone to enjoy his drink in peace."
"Truly?" Her fingertips brushed his cheek.
"Truly. I am tired and I desire solitude. Besides," he threw in his final defence, "I have very little money."
He must have made himself clear, for Salako snorted and flounced off to flirt with a group of burly men in carpenter's aprons, who were throwing dice at a nearby table.
The evening wore on. Hokai's cup was empty again, but Shirimi had disappeared and Salako was ostentatiously ignoring him. Hokai eventually had to esort to clapping his hands for attention. Salako affected not to notice even that, but Hugari called her over at once.
"My apologies, noble samurai." Salako's demeanour was anything but apologetic. "I was attending to some of our better customers. Does the noble samurai desire something after all?"
"Just a drink." He glared at her. "Some proper respect would not come amiss, either."
"Proper respect?" She looked over at Hugari, who was looking as if he'd rather be somewhere else. "How much do we charge for that?"
At another time, Hokai would never have let the insult pass, but his swords were out of immediate reach and a geisha was traditionally allowed a certain latitude. He settled for his sternest expression. "You shame your ancestors."
"Do I?" She had the gall to act amused. "I doubt they'd care. They were mostly whores and drunks anyway, and not many of them had much use for samurai."
"No doubt that is why you are what you are and I am what I am. Perhaps if you try to act properly, your next turn on the Wheel will be better favoured."
There was a flash of real anger in the girl's eyes. "This isn't your castle, samurai-sama. This is Ryoko Owari, and here noble ancestors and a couple of coppers will get you a bowl of rice. Ask her." She gestured to the back of the inn, where Shirimi had reappeared.
"Her?" Hokai could not see the connection.
"Her father was an officer in the garrison. Of course, he took one look at her little face and decided she wasn't worthy of his honourable name, but I guess his noble ancestors are hers too. How much respect is that worth, samurai-sama?"
Hokai was too shocked to reply, and Hugari took the opportunity to hustle Salako away. He was back soon after, with many bows and florid apologies, but Hokai waved him away. He was too busy watching Shirimi. A samurai's daughter? It was possible, such things happened every day, though no true-born samurai liked to think of them. It was even likely--the mark on her face was an omen of great ill-fortune--but why had the Fortunes stamped her so? What had she done, in some previous incarnation, to merit such a fate? Hokai remembered her touch--innocent enough, at the time--and resolved to bathe and cleanse himself at the earliest opportunity. Still, he reassured himself, as a drudge in a Ryoko Owari cookhouse she was certainly burning dharma at a ferocious rate. The Wheel ever turns.
It was a little after that that the gang came in. Even Hokai could see at once they were a gang, half-a-dozen strutting young men in gaudy padded shirts, the sleeves cut short to show off the matching tattoos of flames and dragons that spiralled up their arms. They took over the best table--the patrons already seated scrambling out of their way--and called loudly for food and drink. Hugari and the girls ran to comply, without, Hokai, noticed, making any mention of payment. Hokai, looking at the tattoos, wondered if the inn had truly been visited by the infamous Yakuza. He began to consider if he should challenge them, or slip off in search of the magistrates.
Unfortunately for Hokai, he had been a little too obvious in his interest in the gang. First one, then another and finally all six became aware of his scrutiny and turned to stare with rudeness and hostility at the young Dragon. Feeling a trifle outnumbered, Hokai met their combined gaze as levelly as he could. This was obviously the wrong thing to do, for the six rose in a body and marched over to his corner, shoving an intervening table out of their way. In crude wharfside dialect that Hokai found barely comprehensible, they demanded to know who he was and what he was looking at. The revalation of Hokai's status cowed them not at all. They were, their leader proclaimed, the Fire Eaters, this district of the city was their domain, and the "foreigner" would bow and show them appropriate respect.
Up until now, Hokai had kept his temper commendably well, but even for him there were limits. A model samurai might have simply ignored them, but Hokai had endured too much to show lenience to a crew of shaven-headed toughs who profaned the noble Dragon art of tattooing. He doubted he had time to pick up his swords, but no student of the Iron Mountain ever truly needed them. He cleared the table in a single bound, foot snapping out in a flying kick at the leader's face.
The leader himself had some knowledge of brawling, for he managed to duck into a hasty block, and the kick meant for his jaw instead caught his upraised arm. Even so, the impact spun him round and threw him to the floor, while Hokai landed neatly on his feet, dropping into stance without concious thought.
If he had hoped the demonstration of his talents would be enough to make them back down he was swiftly disappointed. The remaining Fire Eaters charged in with hardly a breath of hesitation. Still, that breath was long enough for Hokai to shoot a stiff-fingered jab under the ribs of the first, before ducking the next one's rush and tripping him, rising to catch a swing from behind over his shoulder and wrench the arm out of its socket. The brawl was now fairly joined, and Hokai could only half-block the blows of the fourth Fire Eater with his off hand while catching the last with arm and leg and throwing him to the floor. One of his earlier opponents now came back with a flying kick of his own. Hokai turned to catch it neatly on crossed arms and dumped his assailant on his back, allowing his offside opponent to grapple him from behind. Once he had a grip, Hokai reached up and then bent forward, hurling the man bodily over his head--his favourite throw--and into his comrade. And then something hard struck him on the back of his exposed neck and Hokai's conciousness became one with the Void.
He awoke, battered and sore, to find himself lying on a lumpy mat in a dusty room. Someone was bathing his aching head in blessed cool water. A thick scent of flowers told him who it was. "Salako."
"Hush now. Don't move too much. I don't think your head's broken--I've seen enough to know--but you'll have a proper samurai's headache for a day or two."
"Why?"
Even in the half-light he could see her smile. "We don't want a dead samurai around now, do we?"
His head was hurting, badly, but that was not what panicked him now. "My things?"
"We have your swords. Shoko's boys left them--too hard to sell, I guess. Don't worry," she went on, misunderstanding his agitation, "we haven't laid our heimin hands on them. Your bags are gone though, and your money-purse. Was there much in it?"
Hokai was far beyond caring about money. "My bag...the gift...gone?"
"Yes, they grabbed it on the way out--said you owed them something for the bruises. Hey, what's the mat--"
Hokai struggled to sit up and clasped his spinning head. "I was carrying," he gasped, "a gift...from my lord...a text of Shinsei...to Hida Kano...my duty...must get it back." He clenched his teeth. "Help me!"
Salako considered. "Well, it's at the Red House now, if they haven't hocked it. If you can raise some more cash I can try and make an offer--Shoko usually lets people buy their stuff back."
"Shoko." The name meant nothing to Hokai. "Is he Yakuza?"
"Hardly. He's just a fireman, like all his boys." She saw Hokai's blank expression. "The Fire Eaters. The district firefighting squad." She paused, as if a thought had struck her. "You could go to the magistrates and make a complaint. They might listen to a samurai."
"Surely...the magistrates...don't allow..."
"They don't bother the firemen--usually. City business, not samurai business. Besides--"
Salako was interrupted by a scratching at the door. It slid open to reveal Shirimi's thin silhouette. "Where've you been?" Salako asked.
"Out searching. Is he awake?"
"Just about."
It was a measure of Hokai's distress that he barely noticed the two heimin talking across him. He made another attempt to rise as Shirimi knelt beside him. "You have to help me."
"Calm yourself, Hokai-sama. I have something for you."
"Something" was a small satchel of an unfamiliar material--probably leather, he realised with a shiver--with some long, cylindrical objects inside. Hokai fumbled with the flap, barely believing what he had just been handed. "Light. Bring me a lamp."
Salako, almost as curious as he, rushed to comply. Hokai finally got the satchel open and tipped out the contents on his lap, heedless of breaking.
They were there. They were all there. The precious scrolls of Shinsei--still sealed--his lord's letter, Hokai's honour. Returned. "How?"
Shirimi preened. "I followed the Fire Eaters when they left. They went down to the Drunken Crab to celebrate victory, and they were very unhappy to find your bag only had papers they couldn't trade. After the first few drinks they got careless and put the bag down. After a few more drinks they forgot to pick it up again."
Hokai gazed at her. "Did they really just...leave it behind?"
She smiled, her face making it a grimace. "Call it a favour from the Fortunes." Hokai couldn't work out if that was a confession or not.
Shirimi looked at Salako. "Hugari-san is looking for you. He wants you in the kitchen."
Salako gave Shirimi a pointed look, but left. Hokai looked from the scrolls to Shirimi and took a deep breath. The words came slowly, but they came. "Shirimi-san...I am...in your debt."
"It was nothing."
"You have saved my honour."
"Can anyone save another's honour?"
Hokai was in no condition to argue philosophy. Shirimi took advantage of his silence to continue. "There was another thing."
"Yes...the money..." A stain on his record, but not on his soul. "I understand...they spent..."
"Your purse, yes. But--" She reached into her kimono and pulled out a small wrapped packet. Hokai recognised it at once and did not believe it. She set it beside the scrolls. The weight convinced Hokai even before he parted the wrappings and saw the glint. Gold. Two precious Dragon golden koku.
He looked up at her, baffled. "How?"
"You are lucky Shoko overlooked them, or the Fire Eaters would be drunk for a week." She paused. "I thought it better that Hugari-san and Salako-san did not see. They are honest, but poor."
"You should..."
Shirimi shook her head, then reached down and closed his hand around the little package. He did not pull away from her touch.
Mirumoto Hokai remained silent, thinking, for a very long time.
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