Death Before Dishonor Read online

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  The three warriors waited outside the central cabin to speak to Kintake before a Jonin came out to address them. “Omiyoshu Sensei will see you now.”

  “So good of him to clear his busy schedule,” Yuri growled.

  The elder half-turned and threw Yuri a sidelong glance before guiding the three men indoors.

  Saki, Terry, and Yuri had been waiting outside to speak with Kintake for the better part of two hours. It was cold, and the wind was blowing harshly, making being outside unforgiving. The gray and brown fall-winter terminus of the Suzuka mountains wasn’t merciful. Saki, Terry, and Yuri were visibly frustrated. Saki and Terry tried to hide it. Yuri didn’t. Having to wait in harsh weather for an audience with Kintake or the elder council reminded them of their childhood. Rarely was a Shinobi called into Kintake’s presence for sweet, nurturing conversation—especially not youths. More often than not, the three warriors, when they were Kodomo, Genin, and early Chunin, had left Kintake’s presence bruised and bloodied. They were expecting similar treatment and readied themselves for it.

  The three men followed the Jonin into Kintake’s chamber, where he sat cross-legged on a mat with a modest serving of tea and snacks to his left. Several Jonin of the elder council attended him, sitting on their knees to either side. Two Chunin, older than the three warriors but junior to them in rank, knelt nearest the door through which Saki, Terry, and Yuri had entered with their guide. Lying on the floor in front of the two men were their tantos, wrapped in paper.

  The three warriors paid them little attention beyond initial notice as they approached their kōchō and took positions on their knees in front of him, bowing until their foreheads touched the floor.

  “Thank you for attending me,” Kintake said.

  “It is with great honor that we do so, Sensei,” Saki replied, his voice muffled against the planks of the wooden floor.

  “Of course.”

  “How may we be of service to the clan?”

  Kintake bid them rise with the flick of his hand. A Jonin in the audience voiced Kintake’s command, and the warriors sat up.

  Kintake gave a half-cocked smile. “Have you three ever witnessed seppuku?”

  Saki and Terry shook their heads. Yuri scowled.

  Kintake sipped his tea. “I thought not. It is quite unpleasant. Honorable. But unpleasant. You see, one must turn one’s own tanto—a Shinobi’s truest ally—against oneself. One holds the blade to his or her abdomen, and then, once the individual reconciles the finality of the action for which he or she must take and the excruciating pain that will accompany it, one must decide which method to use to ensure one’s own death.

  “Should one drive the blade straight through, injuring the internal organs? Or should one slice the gut open and spill one’s innards onto the floor? Which method will hurt more? Which method will bring death the fastest? Will increased pain ensure a return of honor? Will decreased pain affect the return to honor? Does hoping for a painless death reveal one to be unworthy of honor? So many questions. The work of a Shinobi is never done. I digress.

  “Next, comes the decapitation by one’s chosen secondary—a swordsman who honors him or herself by decapitating the individual following the impalement or disembowelment. Now, imagine for a moment, if you will, that you have just mortally wounded your abdomen and all you want to do his lay down while you suffer the pain. But you cannot. Instead, you must remain on your knees while someone you know readies their strike. You hope that their strike is true and clean. But what if it is not? What if the strike is true but their blade is dull? Or what if their blade is so sharp that it could make the air bleed but the wielder’s aim is off, and they strike somewhere other than the weak point on the neck?

  “In either case, one’s head is not cleaved off. No—one is then dying of multiple wounds. And one must be struck again to complete the ritual. How terrible.”

  A Jonin signaled to a Kodomo attendant dressed in muted robes and a boken in his belt to refill Kintake’s cup. Kintake acknowledged the boy when he finished refilling it. The boy scurried back to the perimeter of the room.

  “I am sure that you three are familiar with Kurotani Eichi and Motoki Kodama.” Kintake indicated with his hand the two men who knelt near the door. They are going to return themselves to honor today. Eichi, Sumimito Sensei tells me that you expressed to him that you are fearful of death.”

  “Omiyoshu Sensei, I—” Eichi started, but Kintake raised a silencing hand.

  “You need not explain your fear. There is no dishonor in fear. The dishonor is in the inability to complete tasks or not abiding the other mandates of Ninpo. I say this to you so that you understand that seppuku will see your sins forgiven. You will walk with the ancestors because your final performance will be one of sacrifice.”

  Kodama nodded. “Omiyoshu Sensei, I would like to apologize for our failure. Oharu eluded us because we were careless, but he never saw us, nor was he ever aware of our presence.”

  “Your sins will be forgiven with seppuku,” Kintake said flatly. “Let us get on with it.”

  Kintake snapped his fingers and then pointed in Eichi and Kodama’s direction. The three warriors turned their heads to watch.

  The two dishonored Shinobi pulled their arms inside their robes and slowly peeled away the tops, revealing bare chests, abdomens, and tattoos. Eichi had Mamushi’s likeness tattooed on his left shoulder. Kodama had Mamushi tattooed along his left collarbone. Each of their secondaries, dressed in blue, approached with sponges, washed the depictions of Mamushi, and then dried them with rags. The secondaries handed the sponges and rags to other attendees and drew their swords in an elegantly choreographed routine, first honoring the kōchō and then the condemned. Two other Jonin approached the secondaries with pails of water. They poured the water over the blades and then wiped the blades dry with rags. The secondaries, standing to opposite sides of Eichi and Kodama, raised their blades and readied themselves to strike.

  Eichi and Kodama picked up their tantos and raised them level with their abdomens. With their left hands, they kneaded their stomachs just below the waistline, inside the hip, looking for the perfect spot to pierce.

  The room fell silent as Eichi and Kodama seemed to gather their thoughts one last time—Eichi with his eyes shut and Kodama with an emotional stare.

  “Honor is the soul of the Shinobi,” they said in unison.

  All in attendance replied solemnly, “Shadow is their blood.”

  Both men plunged the tantos into their guts. Eichi’s face did not change; he remained dignified. Kodama’s face was pruned with determination.

  Eichi drove the blade even further, giving the slightest whimper before stretching out his neck. Kodama’s face never changed as he yanked the blade to the right and then up.

  Then there was lightning, and both men slumped emptily to the floor with heads severed. The secondaries had precisely cut such that Eichi’s and Kodama’s heads remained attached by a sliver of flesh to prevent an undignified rolling of their heads. Blood gushed onto the floor like a punctured milk jug. But several Jonin were prepared to stop the flow of blood by capturing it with rags.

  Attendees not assisting with the laboring returned their attention to Kintake.

  “Do not mind Eichi and Kodama,” Kintake said, taking a sip of tea. “They were paying a debt for not living up to the code.” Kintake took another sip. “Their headless corpses do not bother you, do they?”

  “Corpses are a commonplace for me,” Yuri said equally flat.

  “Indeed—which reminds me. It would appear that we have an unexpected visitor. How is it that this stranger has come to grace us with her presence?”

  Terry swallowed hard and opened his mouth to speak, but Yuri beat him to it. “She came with me.”

  “Would you, Yuri, care to explain why you have brought a stranger into Togakure Ryu?”

  Yuri’s face was stone. Saki’s carotid pulsed. Terry’s forehead beaded with sweat.

  �
�Indeed. Yuri, Yuri, Yuri. Defiant as always. You have caused quite the buzz. Saki, you are the most senior warrior. Are you unable to control your Shinobi?”

  “I am capable, Sensei.”

  “I am not sure if I share your confidence.”

  A nervous exhale from Saki was heard by the contents of the room.

  “What was the colloquial phrase your father said to me years ago? Ah, yes, I remember.” Kintake’s eyes fixed on Yuri. “I will level with you, Yuri. It is by my will that the Fujibayashi have not executed you.”

  Yuri’s blood started to run hot. “I don’t fear—”

  “Yes, yes. You do not fear death,” Kintake said, cutting him off. “I have heard that plenty. The problem is that you are missing the forest for the trees. If I finally command the clan to abide by the code, the clan will execute you. They will execute Terry and Saki for being accomplices to your transgressions. Then the clan will execute that lovely, innocent woman. What is her name?”

  Yuri’s eyes burned icy hot.

  “Never mind. Her name does not matter. What does matter is that you, and everyone associated with you, is alive because I will it so. And do not assume that I am naïve either. I already know you are contemplating jumping to your feet to attack me, Yuri. But even if you manage to defeat me this time, it will not stop a sword from being plunged through the woman’s ribcage. You are welcome to try, though.”

  Yuri stared hard, but remained silent.

  Kintake shrugged. “No? Excellent. Well, then, I have one last test for you three to prove your worthiness to the ritual combat.”

  “If it involves drinking more venom,” Yuri said, “you can just kill me now because I’m not doing it again.”

  “Yuri, shut the fuck up,” Terry whispered.

  Kintake’s eyes found Terry and then returned to Yuri. A smile materialized on Kintake’s face. “Since Eichi and Kodama were unable to eliminate Oharu, you will find him and eliminate him. Do not fail me like Eichi and Kodama.

  “Oh, and Yuri, there is only one way the woman leaves here alive. You have to participate in the ritual. And if you survive, I will allow you to leave Togakure Ryu alive with her. But this is only if you comply. Mark my words, I will command the Fujibayashi to execute the three of you, the woman, and anyone else who so much as vexes me if you make one more open display of defiance. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, Sensei,” Saki and Terry replied in stereo.

  “Yuri?” Kintake’s inflection was menacing.

  “Yes, Sensei,” he said finally.

  “Good.” Kintake turned his attention to the cup of tea on the floor, and his smile melted into a contemptuous sneer. “Now, get out of my sight.”

  Chapter Fifteen: So Many Questions

  Toba. Mie Prefecture, Japan. Today.

  “I’ve never seen this man before,” Saki asserted, quite believing himself. He was crouched over the bloody corpse of a target given them by Kintake.

  “Why’s that a problem?” Yuri said smugly.

  “If Saki’s never seen this man before,” Terry interjected, “then he’s not Fujibayashi.” Terry looked back in the direction from which they had come. Everything seemed to have gone as planned. Had they missed something crucial, or was Saki mistaken somehow?

  Their surveillance and approach had met no obstacles:

  Darkness—it was to the Shinobi as a blanket was to an infant asleep in a lonely crib. It comforted Saki as his meandered down the spacious street of the affluent Japanese neighborhood in which Oharu resided. To an unlikely onlooker, Saki was a simple pedestrian out for an evening stroll to stretch his legs. Saki didn’t dawdle, however. If Oharu was a deserter, then he was surely aware that the Fujibayashi would come for him eventually, and strangers might alert him.

  Saki crossed the street, walking along the perimeter wall of Oharu’s residence to a point heavily shaded by trees. Then he gave the signal.

  A shadow came to life and sprinted across the street, zipping past Saki and rolling into a ball as it neared the wall. It tumbled and then unfolded itself, landing in a crouch with its back against the wall—its menacing blue eyes scanning the street.

  Another shadow beamed across the boulevard, accelerating towards Yuri. Yuri interlocked his fingers, forming a cup—a step—that Terry could stuff a foot in. Terry’s eyes locked on Yuri’s hands and then the edge of the wall twelve feet above. The jump was going to take some heave, but all he needed was to get his fingers on the edge.

  Terry, at full speed, slammed his foot into Yuri’s makeshift step, and together, they drove Terry upwards like a rocket. He soared up with outstretched arms until his hands made contact with the edge, and he grabbed hold.

  In the split second that Terry went airborne, Saki sprinted towards Yuri in the same way. Saki’s foot went into Yuri’s hands, and together, they heaved Saki up. Once Saki reached the apex, he latched on to Terry and used Terry as an anchor to scuttle over the wall.

  Yuri hopped up, backed away from the wall, and then sprinted up the side until he got handfuls of Terry’s harness. Yuri used his brother as a rope to swiftly scale the wall. As he neared the top, Saki snatched Yuri’s harness and helped him up. Once Saki and Yuri were both up, they grabbed hold of Terry and heaved him over.

  Their timing was perfect. In all of six seconds, the three Shinobi had bounded over a twelve-foot wall, and nobody had seen a thing—even the people sitting in Oharu’s living room.

  They’d sneaked passed Oharu’s visitors and eliminated him with no problem.

  The garage door was open. It was an invitation to the Shinobi—please come in, my friends, and make yourselves at home.

  The Fujibayashi slipped in without the lights coming on. Terry blinded the motion sensor with a laser pointer while the other two ducked behind the snugly parked vehicles. He then followed when they signaled that the coast was clear.

  Saki went to the door leading into the house and checked it—locked. No matter. The best way to get someone to answer the door was to knock.

  Rap, rap, rap! Saki banged on the door firmly before disappearing into a shadow.

  A moment later, there was a hollow, mechanical click of the door’s lock, and then it opened. An Asian man, aged perhaps thirty years and wearing slacks with a leather vest, with tattoo-covered arms and fluffy raven hair, emerged, looking about suspiciously. Half of the man’s body peeked through the door; Saki seized the opportunity to strike like a viper from the shadows.

  He yanked the man into the garage and coiled around him to dampen the struggle and surprise. Terry emerged for the assist while Yuri watched their backs. Once the man was unconscious, Saki and Terry dragged him to the far side of the garage and stuffed him a corner. Then they slithered back to the door and entered; Yuri took up the rear as they disappeared through the doorway.

  The three Fujibayashi tiptoed down the hallway to the sitting room, where the last two visitors—two laughing, inebriated women—were sitting on the couch. Saki and Terry came up behind them and snatched them into vice grips, restricting their blood flow. Within seconds, both women were asleep and laid back onto the furniture.

  From there, the Fujibayashi slithered through the residence, looking for Oharu.

  They found him in his study. He was preparing lines of cocaine when they entered—three shadowed hunters brandishing hatefully professional blades.

  Oharu’s eyes widened.

  But something hadn’t been right.

  “Are you sure, Saki?” Terry asked

  Saki was sure that he wasn’t sure. He knew everyone in the village but was practically sure he’d never seen this man before, much less heard of him. “If he was Fujibayashi, he hasn’t been in the village as far back as I can remember. I have been considering this whole time that I was not familiar with the name Oharu. I did not feel it was worth bringing up, however.”

  Yuri pursed his lips beneath his balaclava. “You sure you aren’t making a mistake? His name could be an alias.”

  “I am certain.”


  Terry was by the door, watching for anyone unlucky enough to arrive, be they new visitors or the unconscious ones downstairs. He waved a hand at Yuri. “Cut his shirt off. See if he has a tattoo of Mamushi.”

  Yuri whipped his tanto across the corpse’s shirt and pants, pulling them open like a cadaver in a vivisection to reveal a mural of colors.

  “Those are not Fujibayashi tattoos,” said Saki after helping Yuri roll the corpse over so they could inspect it.

  The man’s upper body was covered in elaborate tattoos of dragons, koi, tigers, and skulls. There was even a snake, but none had any likeness to Mamushi.

  Yuri shook his head. “What difference does it make? We were instructed to eliminate him.” He looked up at Saki. “The flowchart says, ‘If dead, move on.’ Well, he’s dead. Let’s move on.”

  “But Yuri, those aren’t Fujibayashi tattoos. I know those tattoos. They look the tattoos of a Yakuza soldier.”

  “Saki, I don’t really care. This guy deserted the clan. We eliminated him. Done.”

  “He doesn’t have Fujibayashi tattoos.”

  “Maybe he got new ones. People get tattoos all the time, especially when they’re rebelling against something.”

  “Yuri’s right,” said Terry. “These tattoos could have come after his departure. We don’t know.”

  “We should look around for more evidence, perhaps photos of his past.”

  “You serious?” Yuri chortled. “You think he’s going to have before-and-after selfies of his Fujibayashi tattoos?”

  “We’re spinning our wheels,” Terry asserted finally. “We’ll discuss this later.”

  Yuri tossed a hand in the air. “Thank you.”

  “What if this is a test, Terry? What if Omiyoshu Sensei is questioning our scrutiny?”

  Yuri cleared his throat. “In case anyone hasn’t noticed, I don’t care what Kintake thinks.”

  “Yuri, can it,” Terry demanded, making a cutting signal with his hand.