The Nicholas Linnear Novels (75 page)

“Tell me,” Kusunoki said, “what is the first thing we assess in combat?”

“Our opponent,” Tsutsumu said immediately. “The exchange of attitude and intention tells us where we are and how we are to proceed.”

“Indeed,” Kusunoki said, as if this were a new concept to him and he was mulling it over in his mind. “So we think of victory.”

“No,” the student said. “We concern ourselves with not being defeated.”

The
sensei
looked at him with his hard black eyes that seemed ripped from a hawk’s fierce face. “Good,” he said at last. “Very good, indeed.”

Tsutsumu, sipping his tea slowly, wondered what this was all about. Words and more words. The
sensei
was asking him questions to which any good pupil must know the answers. Be careful, he cautioned himself, remembering the instantaneous dissolution of his attacking force. Be on guard.

“So here we equate defeat with the end of life.”

The student nodded. “In hand-to-hand we are on the death ground, as Sun Tzu has written. We must fight, always.”

Now Kusunoki allowed a full smile. “But Sun Tzu has also written, ‘To subdue the enemy
without
fighting shows the highest level of skill. Thus, what is supreme is to attack the enemy’s strategy.’”

“Pardon me,
sensei
, but it seems to me Sun Tzu was speaking solely about war in that instance.”

“Well,” Kusunoki said evenly, “isn’t that what we are also talking about?”

Tsutsumu felt his heart skip a beat and it was with a great personal effort that he kept himself calm. “War? Forgive me,
sensei
, but I do not understand.”

Kusunoki’s face was benign as he thought, And Sun Tzu also wrote that those skilled in war can make themselves invincible but cannot cause an enemy to be vulnerable. “There are many faces war may take on, many guises. Is this not so?”

“It is,
sensei
,” Tsutsumu said, his pulse in his throat.

“We can ask, what war can be made here”—his arm drifted through the air like a cloud, describing an arc toward the wonder and peace of the wooded hillsides visible through the window—“in Yoshino where the history of Japan lives, and thrives. One might think war an outmoded concept here among the cherry trees and the cedars.”

His great black eyes fixed on Tsutsumu, and the pupil felt a muscle along his inner thigh begin to tremble. “Yet war has come to this indomitable fortress of nature. And thus it must be dealt with.”

Now Tsutsumu was truly terrified. This was no ordinary invitation to sit at the
sensei
’s feet and sip tea while speaking of mundane matters, the substance of daily lessons.

“There is a traitor here in Yoshino,” Kusunoki said.

“What?”

“Yes, it is true.” Kusunoki nodded his head sadly. “You are the first I have spoken to about it. I observe you in class. You are quick, quick and intelligent. Now you will work with me on this matter. You will spy for me among the students. You will begin now. Have you observed anything out of the ordinary that might help us in identifying the spy?”

Tsutsumu thought furiously. He was not unaware of the amazing opportunity being afforded him and was immensely grateful for it. He felt as if a great weight had been taken off his chest. Now he must make the most of this opening. “I seem to remember,” he began. “Yes, yes. There is something. The
woman
,”—he used a most unflattering inflection—“has been seen here late into the evening hours.”

“What has she been doing?” There was no need to name her. The
dōjō
contained only one woman—a choice of the
sensei
that was not popular with his pupils though none dared voice their displeasure where he could hear. Nevertheless, he knew about it.

Tsutsumu shrugged. “Who knows,
sensei
? Certainly she was not practicing.”

“I see.” Kusunoki seemed engulfed in thought.

Tsutsumu sought to press his advantage. “Of course there has been much talk lately concerning her; a great deal of talk.”

“She is not liked.”

“No,
sensei
,” Tsutsumu confirmed, “most of the students do not feel she has a place here within the sanctity of the
dōjō.
It goes against tradition, they feel. This kind of…ah…training should not be open to a woman, they believe.” The student bowed his head as if reluctant to go on. “Forgive me,
sensei
, but there has even been some talk that her presence here was the reason that you left your high position within the Gyokku
ryu.
They say she came to you there, that on her behalf you went to the council
oijonin
and sought their vote for her entry into the
ryu.
They say it is because you could not muster enough votes within your own council that you left.” His head raised. “All because of her.”

Invincibility lies in the defense, Kusunoki thought. The possibility of victory is attack. To his pupil, he said, “It is true that I was once
jonin
in the Gyokku
ryu
; that much is common knowledge. But the reasons for my departure are my own; no one else knows them, not even the other members of the council. My great-great-grandfather was one of the founders of Gyokku; it took much thought on my part to make the decision. It took much time.”

“I understand,
sensei
,” Tsutsumu said, thinking that what he had just been told was an utter lie. He was certain within his own heart that Kusunoki had, indeed, jeopardized his entire career for this one woman. Inexplicably.

“Good.” Kusunoki nodded. “I thought you might.” The black eyes closed for a moment, and the student breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. He felt a trickle of sweat creeping like an insect down the indentation of his spine and he struggled to keep his body still. “Perhaps I have been wrong about her, after all,” the
sensei
said. With a great deal of elation, Tsutsumu recognized the sadness in the other’s voice. “If what you have gleaned is indeed the truth, then we must deal with her swiftly and ruthlessly.”

Tsutsumu’s head swung around at the mention of the word
we.
“Yes,
sensei
,” he said, thinking, Softly, softly now, knowing he was moving in, trying to keep his jubilation in check. “Any way I may serve you is an honor. That is why I first came here, and I have not wavered in that resolve.”

Kusunoki nodded. “It is as I suspected. There are few one can trust even in this day and age. When I ask for your opinions now, when I ask for you to take action, both of these must be given willingly and faithfully.”

Tsutsumu could barely contain his euphoria; outwardly he showed nothing. “You have but to ask me,” he said.

“
Muhon-nin
,” Kusunoki said, leaning forward, “this is all I ask.”

The word
traitor
had only begun to register on Tsutsumu’s brain when he felt the incredible pain engulf him and, looking down, saw the
sensei
’s hand gripping him just below the collarbone. It was not a strike he had yet mastered and, staring bewilderedly at it, trying to fathom its secrets, he died, a froth of pink saliva bubbling between his trembling lips.

Kusunoki, watching life escape like a puff of invisible smoke, took his hand away from the corpse. Without his support, it swayed and fell to one side, the pink drool staining the
tatami
on which Tsutsumu knelt.

Behind the
sensei
a shadow appeared to move behind the
shōji
and then a figure emerged. Hearing the pad of bare feet, the
sensei
said, “You heard it all?”

“Yes. You were correct all along. He was the traitor.” The voice was light, pleasingly modulated. Female.

She wore a dark brown kimono, designed with gray plovers within circles of black. Her gleaming black hair was drawn tightly back from her face.

Kusunoki did not turn around at her silent approach. Instead, he was staring at the rice-paper scroll hung in a niche along one bare wall. Just below it was an earthenware bud vase in which he had placed one perfect day lily. At dawn this morning, as he did every morning of his adult life, he had gone walking in the wilderness, strolling the slopes, through glades still dark and misty with remnants of the night, past rushing streams etched with the last silvered thorns of moonlight, in search of this one flower that would reflect its mood of peace and contemplation all through the day. Plucking it carefully, he had made his way back to the precincts of his
dōjō.

On the rice-paper scroll a Zen master of the eighteenth century had written in flowing characters: “
Rock and wind / only they remain / through generations.
”

“But you allowed him to get so close to you.”

Kusunoki smiled up at her and said, “I allowed him the luxury of cutting his own throat. That is all.” He watched her as she sank down on her knees. He was conscious of the fact that she chose a spot near his right hand and not directly in front of him. “Often, times dictate that one becomes more intimate with one’s enemies than with friends. This is a necessary lesson of life; I urge you to listen well. Friends engender obligations and obligations entangle life. Always remember: complication breeds desperation.”

“But what is life without obligation?”

Kusunoki smiled. “That is an enigma even
sensei
may not unravel.” He nodded toward the fallen form. “Now we must find the source from which this
muhon-nin
sprang.”

“Is that so important?” Her head turned slightly so that the flat curve of her cheek was outlined in the soft light filtered by the
shōji.
“He has been neutralized. We should return to our work.”

“You are not yet privileged to all that goes on here,” Kusunoki said seriously. “The martial and the military arts are but two. It is
essential
that we discover the source of the infiltration.”

“You should not have destroyed him so quickly then.”

The
sensei
closed his eyes. “Ah, rash youth!” The voice was soft, almost gentle, but when the eyes snapped open the female felt her insides fluttering involuntarily, drilled by that basilisk gaze. “He was professional. You will learn someday not to waste valuable time on men like him. They must be dispatched as quickly and as efficiently as possible. They are dangerous—highly volatile. And they will not talk.

“Therefore we go onward.” His hands folded into his lap. “You must return to the source…
his
source. The people who sent him, who trained him, represent a very great threat to Japan.” He paused, his nostrils quivering as if he sensed some telltale vibration. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its hard edge; his eyelids drooped. “There is more hot water. Tea is waiting.”

Obediently she went past him, grasping the tea pot and pouring while the light went out of the sky and purple clouds obscured the terraced mountains.

Carefully she brought the tiny cups toward him on a black lacquered tray; a small flock of golden herons lifting off from racing water painted there. Delicately, she set the tray down, began to use the whisk with practiced strokes. Her
wa
—her harmony—was very strong, and this was what Kusunoki felt engulfing him. At that moment he was very proud of what he had helped to create.

Six, seven, eight, the female turned the whisk, creating the pale green froth. On the tenth stroke her delicate fingers dropped the whisk and in the same motion were inside the wide sleeve of her kimono. Reversing the motion the short, perfectly honed steel blade flashed upward, biting into the back of Kusunoki’s neck. Either her strength was at such a level or the blade was so superb that, seemingly without effort, the steel bit through flesh and bone, severing the spinal column. In a grotesque gesture, the head came forward and down, hanging only by the thin length of skin at the neck, as if the
sensei
was deep in meditational prayer.

Then crimson blood spurted upward from the severed arteries, fountaining the room, spattering the
tatami
where they both knelt. The
sensei
’s torso jerked spasmodically, its legs tangling beneath it as it tried to leap forward like a frog.

The female knelt rooted to the spot. Her eyes never left the body of her teacher. Once, when he lay on his side and one leg spasmed a last time, she felt something inside herself trembling like a leaf before a rising wind and she felt one tear lying hotly along the arch of her cheek. Then she hardened her heart, strengthened her will, and dammed up her emotions.

With that, elation filled her. It works, she thought, feeling her heart thundering within her rib cage.
Jahō.
Without it, she would never have been able to mask her intent from him, she understood that quite clearly.

As she stared down at her handiwork, she thought, It’s nothing personal; nothing like what that bastard
muhon-nin
Tsutsumu had in mind. I am no traitor.

But I had to prove myself. I had to know. And therefore I had to take on the best. She got up and, moving like a wraith across the
tatami
, avoiding the spattered stains that had already begun to seep away across the floor onto other
tatami
, went to him.

You
were
the best, she thought, staring down at her mentor. Now I am. She bent and wiped the blood—
his
blood—from her weapon. It left a long scar on the fabric of his kimono.

The last thing she did there was to strip him and reverently fold the precious garment as if it were the national flag. Soon it disappeared into an inner pocket.

Then she was gone; and with her absence came the rain.