Death Before Dishonor Page 33

  “Why are you telling me? Have you told the Jonin?” she asked, looking about at the handful of Jonin that knelt quietly against the walls in attendance of Saki.

  “No,” he rasped softly. “You, Terry, and Yuri are the only ones that I can trust.”

  “How can you trust them after all that has happened?”

  “That is why I trust them. They are not our enemy. They never were. I have fought with them—I can trust them. You must too. This, Akiko, is my final request. Will you do this?” He gripped her hand firmly. “Will you help Terry and Yuri uncover these secrets, old friend, for I will be gone?”

  She nodded, but her eyes were discordant.

  Just then, the door slid open, and the elder council and a matronly woman—Saki’s mother—filed in, spreading to fill the room. Akiko and the present Jonin bowed. The elder council took positions on their knees next to Saki’s bedding.

  “Takejiro Saki,” a withered-faced elder began in a gravelly, aged voice, “first warrior among chosen brethren, hunter without peer, shadow that stalks even in the light of day. You have given of yourself selflessly to the Fujibayashi and proved your honor and prowess to the ancestor spirits.” He drew a tanto wrapped in white paper from the sleeve of his robe and held it out.

  Everyone bowed their head.

  Saki stared at the ceiling.

  The withered-faced elder lifted his head and spoke, “Mamushi, Takejiro Saki, son of Takejiro Tsurimi, grandson of Takejiro Kentaro, has fought gallantly for Ninpo in honorable combat. We ask that if it pleases you, you accept the sacrifice that he has made and guide him to the court of the ancestor spirits.”

  Akiko’s mind raced as she knelt with her eyes closed and processed what was said—not what the elder was reciting, but what Saki had told her. She didn’t know what to believe. Was Saki telling the truth, or was he delirious from his wounds? Could the Momochi have cheated to achieve favor in the face of the ancestor spirits—would they have allowed such deceit?

  “You have brought great honor to your clansmen, Saki,” the withered-faced elder said, laying the tanto on the floor next to Saki. “The ancestor spirits wait in anticipation of your arrival. This is an exciting time for Ninpo, indeed. How do you wish to proceed?”

  Akiko leaned over so she could hear Saki. Then she straightened. “Saki requests that I hold him in a sitting position and that Terry be his secondary if Terry is well enough to swing his sword.”

  “Honor is the soul of the Shinobi,” the withered-faced elder said with a nod.

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

  The withered-faced elder signaled for other attendees to clean Saki for the final time and signaled for a messenger to seek out Terry.

  Several minutes later, the door to the cottage slammed open, startling all present. Yuri was first through the threshold—his face swollen, cut, and bruised. Terry was behind him, walking stiffly, circles of blood spreading on his tunic.

  Yuri scanned the room; then his swollen eyes became serpentine once he noticed the tanto on the floor next to Saki, who was lying disrobed with two Jonin washing his trunk. “Having a party without me?” Yuri asked.

  Terry’s face was equally suspicious, immediately sensing threat when he too noticed the knife. He implored Saki with his eyes.

  The room was full of silence.

  Saki lifted a grateful hand towards the brothers and smiled solemnly.

  “Terry,” Akiko said, “Saki requests that you do him the honor of being his secondary. Are you well enough to swing your sword? Will you present your ninjatō for cleansing, please?”

  “Saki, no,” Terry replied curtly. “You can’t do this.”

  The room was a sea of stares.

  The withered-faced elder grumbled and coughed before managing to say, “How dare you refuse such a solemn rite? Have you no honor?”

  “Sensei, I would never refuse something so honored and so sacred unless a situation were so dire. You must understand that Saki lies before you now not because he was defeated in battle against the Momochi, but rather because he was gravely injured defending Ninpo from treachery.”

  “What treachery?” another Jonin asked.

  “The Momochi fielded more than three warriors. In fact, the Momochi weren’t even in command of them; a group claiming to be Yakuza and claiming to be under the control of the Shogun was,” said Yuri.

  “That is preposterous,” a toothless Jonin replied. “There is no such thing. The last Shogun, Tokugawa Yoshinobu, died in 1913.”

  “Fighting for the favor of the Shogun,” a silver-haired one began, “is ceremonial. Although such is recounted in the Ninth Mandate. Now our only audience are the ancestor spirits.”

  Terry appealed to them with his palm. “I’m telling you, a group of Yakuza—claiming to descend from the Samurai—attacked us with the Momochi; and they claim they work for the Shogun.”

  A bald Jonin was indignant. “You would lie to us?”

  “Why would we lie about this?” Yuri asked.

  “Because you are defiant of the code,” another Jonin said.

  “I am not fooled by your deceit,” the withered-faced elder said. “How dare you come in here and spin such tales to confuse Takejiro Saki—our first senior of warriors and most worthy—before he must commit seppuku. How dare you try to confuse fellow Shinobi.”

  “You’re not listening to what we’re telling you, you old fossil,” Yuri snapped, wiping blood from his weeping, half-stitched injury on his tunic. “The Momochi—our rival—has allied with another group and attacked us five to one. We don’t even think the Momochi were in control.”

  “We need to dedicate our resources to striking back at the Momochi,” said Terry, “not wasting our resources by having Saki kill himself.”

  “No—Takejiro Saki must take his own life,” said the withered-faced elder. “The code demands seppuku if a Shinobi becomes a burden to the clan. He cannot walk; he is no longer capable of being Shinobi. He is a liability.”

  “I know what the code says,” Terry fired back. “Saki is not a burden. He just fought in the clan’s most sacred ritual and won. The Fujibayashi are favored, and our kōchō has ascended to the holy seat of Shinobi-no-mono, bearing the title of Hattori Hanzo.” Terry pointed at Saki. “The Fujibayashi owe him, not the other way around.”

  Another Jonin barked, “The Fujibayashi owe no one—”

  “Simon says: raise your hand if you’ve ever killed for Ninpo or the clan.” Nobody moved, so Yuri continued, “Well, Saki has. The way I see it, the Fujibayashi do owe him.”

  “If our enemies invade the village,” said the withered-faced elder, “Takejiro Saki will not be able to mount a defense. The Fujibayashi—”

  “Are you hearing yourself?” Yuri cut in. “What year do you live in? The Tokugawa Shogunate isn’t going to cross the ridge into the valley.”

  “Our enemies are never dead!” a Jonin said.

  Another interjected, “Saki must do his duty! Ninpo must be upheld!”

  “Saki did his duty,” Yuri said. “He upheld Ninpo by representing the clan in combat. If seppuku needs to be performed so desperately, then why don’t you offer up your own worthless life?”

  The withered-faced elder rose to his feet finally. “It is he that must commit seppuku, or he will dishonor the entire clan. It is his duty.”

  “It’s an antiquated duty,” Terry replied, “under an antiquated mandate.”

  “You do not decide such things.”

  “I’m taking Saki out of here,” Yuri said. “I’m going to find the best doctors money can buy. He’ll walk again. There’s no dishonor in that.”

  “Absolutely not!” the withered-face elder yelled. “I will not allow it!”

  Yuri arched his neck towards the elder. “Or what?” he asked, unconvinced.

  The withered-faced elder’s expression hardened. “I have had enough of this! You will no longer hinder our sacred rite nor heckle our Shinobi with your tales of treachery, S
amurai descendants, and Shoguns! I will bring this clan honor if none of you will!”

  The rest of the elder council and Jonin—even Saki’s mother—rose as well. The cabal of Jonin drew their ninjatōs and their tantos.

  Yuri raised his sword into a high guard, blood swirling down his arm.

  Terry drew his tanto. “Please, you must listen to us,” Terry said. “This is what the Momochi want.”

  “Stop!” Akiko yelled over the emotional crescendo. “It is true what they speak. Saki affirms the Momochi’s treachery. Let there be no more bloodshed. The Momochi have turned their back against Ninpo.”

  “You claim that they defied Ninpo?” a Jonin asked Saki.

  Yuri’s face twisted. “That’s what cheated implies.”

  “How is this possible?” the withered-faced elder asked. “They too are Shinobi. They would do no such thing.”

  Terry threw open his tunic and pointed at the grisly craters in his side. “These are gunshot wounds. How do you all suspect that I received them if the Momochi didn’t cheat?”

  The Jonin stared at Terry and Yuri as if they were speaking Greek.

  “The code says that a Shinobi incapable of fighting should commit seppuku, true enough,” Terry continued. “However, the code offers us no guidance in how to handle treachery during ritual combat, and I’m not willing to allow another Fujibayashi to give his life without clear direction.”

  “You do not have authority to interpret Ninpo. Only the Shinobi-no-mono has such authority.”

  Akiko appealed to the entire group. “We should, then, seek out his wisdom instead of resorting to fratricide. Where is Omiyoshu Sensei—Hattori Hanzo?”

  “Hattori Hanzo has not be seen for hours,” a Jonin with crooked teeth said. “He demanded that he not be disturbed until he addresses us, regardless of the outcome of the ritual combat. He left the conclusion of the ritual to council leadership, as he often does when he is not present in Iga.”

  “That’s not a problem,” Yuri interjected. “The leadership of the Fujibayashi doesn’t rest on the shoulders of Hattori Hanzo anyway. It falls to the kōchō—and the new kōchō is Takejiro Saki—Takejiro Sensei. He’s the first senior and assumes leadership after the ritual combat.”

  Terry looked at Yuri—well played.

  Yuri acknowledged with his eyes.

  The Fujibayashi were now the favored clan, positioning Kintake as the spiritual leader of Ninpo, Hattori Hanzo. Saki was the first senior, and that made him Kintake’s successor as the kōchō.

  “I recognize no such authority,” an elder barked. “Takejiro Saki is impotent and is unfit to be the kōchō. The elder council assumes control in the absence of a kōchō.”

  “The line of succession, then,” said Akiko, “grants Terry the title of kōchō, as the second senior, like my father during his generation and the previous Shinobi-no-mono during his. My father was the third senior and the only survivor of the ritual combat.”

  Terry’s mouth was dry. Never in a million years had he seen himself in command of the Fujibayashi. He’d become Fujibayashi as an orphan without a past and now found himself the minister of a village of Shinobi. Part of him had always felt like an outsider, and he’d never seen himself propelled to the top. It was the greatest of honors, but he suddenly felt tremendous weight as centuries of responsibility poured onto his shoulders.

  Questions rushed into his mind. What was he to do next? How was he going to handle the Momochi? How he was going to handle the code? How was he going to go forward? He had some thinking to do. He still had to deal with more immediate problems, though. He needed to get Saki out of the Togakure Ryu and into Tokyo so that they could fly him back to the United States to begin treatment for his paraplegia—carrying him on the trek to Tokyo was going to be brutal to say the least.

  “Put away your weapons. All of you,” Terry demanded.

  Nobody moved.

  Akiko said, “The kōchō, Ciccone Sensei, has made a demand of you. Who among you will defy him?”

  Yuri was the first to relax and restore his weapon. The Jonin followed.

  “Despite his orders, I need to speak with Hattori Hanzo. Elder Council, you will accompany me,” Terry ordered. “Akiko, please remain with Saki. Yuri, assemble a team of five Chunin and have them ready when I call on them.”

  Yuri nodded. Then his head snapped over his shoulder, looking toward the door as if he had heard something. Terry looked at him suspiciously, but Yuri’s mind was elsewhere. Yuri remembered Veronica; he had forgotten about her in all commotion. He rushed out of the cottage find her.

  The village was alive with movement. Veronica was treading water in the sea of Fujibayashi, an ignored guest, an apparition that didn’t deserve their attention. Not that they could pay much attention to her with their warriors returning so recently and their anticipation to hear of the results of the ritual.

  Yuri ran through the muddy snow in his bare feet to Veronica, who was standing on the porch of a cottage. Her faced twisted with confusion at his appearance: the bandaged yet weeping suture on his arm, the odd tunic and trousers, cuts and bruises from the fight, and the weapon harness and sword.

  Yuri scooped her up in his arms—she was trembling.

  “What’s going on?” Veronica asked. “What happened to your face? Omigod, Yuri, what on earth happened to your arm?”

  He looked over his shoulder and saw Terry leading a storm of Shinobi to the central hall to address Hattori Hanzo. Everything had changed; everything was different.

  This was his moment, his time to be honest with the woman he loved. He had practiced this speech in the mirror repeatedly. He had prepared for this moment for several years; he knew exactly what he wanted say. It was like a marriage proposal, where he would humble himself to her and tell her everything—every gory detail.

  It was now or never.

  “I’ve been keeping secrets from you. I have been keeping secrets from everyone. I’m not who I say I am. But I don’t want to keep secrets anymore.”

  “What are you talking about, Yuri?” she asked, grabbing his arm and looking at the wound. “What secrets?”

  But right now, right at this very crucial juncture, he could not remember a thing. He tried to recall just some of the points that he had made to his reflection, but he could find nothing.

  “Yuri?”

  Yuri gazed deeply into her. “I’m Shinobi,” he said, blurting out the first thing that came to his head.

  “What?”

  “I—I’m Shinobi.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “My parents were killed in a plane crash when I was very young, and the people in this village—the Fujibayashi—adopted me and my brother. We were raised and trained as one of them...but I was always an outsider. We left here when I was a teenager because I was banished for fighting the headmaster for my brother. I’ve been killing ever since. This is why I’ve always been so secretive. I had to hide. Ninpo demanded it.”

  Yuri was rattling off whatever came to mind as he searched for an explanation that didn’t make him sound like a lunatic.

  “Nin-what?” Veronica’s face was incredulous.

  “Ninpo is my religion—it was my religion. It is the code of the Shinobi.”

  Veronica’s face had gone from confusion to abject bewilderment.

  Yuri’s shoulders slumped. “I’m an assassin. I kill for a living. I don’t write books. I never have.”

  Her face flushed. “What?”

  The lies were coming apart.

  “I was raised in this village to be a killer. I’m an assassin—Shinobi. Everyone here is. The farmers, the masons, cooks, everyone. Even the women and the children.”

  “Yuri, this isn’t funny.”

  She made sounds, babbled, but nothing coherent. It was all too much for her; she burst into tears.

  He wrapped her in his arms. “I know this is a lot to take in. I know it’s all hard to believe, but you must know that I’ve killed for the last time. Th
is isn’t who I want to be.”

  “Yuri, this isn’t funny,” she said, pushing away from him. “This isn’t funny at all.”

  “None of this is a joke. I’ve never been so honest in my life.”

  “You said you were an author,” she sobbed, the color red filling her face from her neck.

  “I lied. I was never an author. I was an assassin.”

  “Most men lie about women or their whereabouts. You lie about writing to cover up killing people?”

  “Yes—I had to.”

  “Oh God.” Tears streamed down Veronica’s face. She was inclined towards disbelief, but the blood Yuri dripped onto the floor said otherwise. “I—I want to go home.”

  “Veronica, I love you.”

  “Send me home,” she said.

  “Veronica…”

  “Please, just send me home. I want to go home.”

  Yuri conceded to her demand. He didn’t want to hold her hostage; that wasn’t why she was here. She was here because he needed her, but his secrets had consequences. He wasn’t naïve; he’d known this wouldn’t go in his favor, but he’d been hopeful. He’d been hopeful that love would light the path away from a life of hollowness into a life of fulfillment. Love, after all, was built on hope. But perhaps love wasn’t an option for a killer. Perhaps love was an option one gave up when one chose to kill for the first time.

  Yuri felt hopeless, and he hated Ninpo for it.

  ***

  “So, what’s the plan?” Yuri asked his brother, leaning against the fence of the pigpens. “How are we going to strike back at the Momochi?”

  “I haven’t thought it all the way through yet. I have mostly fragmented ideas. There is still some resistance from the elder council. Some are with me, some are against me, and some haven’t made up their minds. Hattori Hanzo’s absence isn’t helping.”

  “It’s hard for me to call him that.”

  “It’s even harder for me to call myself the kōchō.”

  “Things feel different,” Yuri said, adjusting his arm in its sling.

  “Yeah, there’s a lot to be done. And to be honest, I don’t even know where to start. I went to talk to Saki about it, but he’s just not himself right now. I’ll get it figured out.”