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  I thought that I would have been sorely tempted to slide the blade between Father’s ribs, but I stayed silent.

  “Will you be gentler with me when you teach me to use a sword?” I asked.

  “And did I say I would teach you, Keiko?” He grunted.

  “No. But Tomoe Gozen was a superb swordswoman, so surely you would expect me to be at least her equal?” I said slyly. I had spoken lightly and was surprised to see Isamu was thinking about my words.

  “You’re right, of course. Well, there’s a chance, I suppose. She was your ancestor. We can try. Stay here for a moment. There’s something I must attend to before we get down to business.”

  Hope and excitement fluttered in my belly like moths. Had I known what was in store for me, I wonder if I would have changed my mind then and there.

  Six

  The bee that stings me

  Also brings life to the fields.

  Mine is such small pain!

  My new life began with a pair of shoes. A pair of rather well-worn zori to be exact.

  Isamu was gone for so long, I grew tired of waiting for him. Eventually, I decided that he must have been distracted by something more important, or perhaps Father had called for him. I got to my feet and glanced out of my bedroom door and there they were. Two black lacquered zori, right in the middle of the corridor. They were not at all neat. In fact, they looked exactly as if somebody had just kicked them off and left them abandoned on the floor. They puzzled me. Father was a stickler for many things. Punctuality, politeness, respect, and—above all else—tidiness. If he happened to come this way and see the zori—and he could hardly fail to notice them—whichever servant had neglected to put them away instantly would have been dismissed at once.

  They were not my zori, nor Emiko’s. They were far too big. I tried to remember if Isamu had been wearing zori when he visited me earlier. He had not. I recalled he had been casually dressed in an informal cotton yukata robe and equally informal wooden geta. They had made a clacking noise when he left me. So these zori were not his. I decided quickly that I would pick them up and put them in my room. I would ask one of the servants to return them to their owner later, after a mild scolding about leaving them there in the first place.

  I was bending to pick up the shoes when I heard a whisper of movement. Before I could straighten up, a cloth was over my eyes and I was lifted into the air and thrown over somebody’s shoulder. I opened my mouth to scream, but thought won out over instinct. I wanted to kick and struggle, but I guessed at once that it would be useless. I was bent double, my head hanging down and my legs captured behind my knees in a powerful grip. I was also being moved. My thoughts swerved like starlings dancing at twilight; I had no time for fear. I forced my taut body to relax so that I hung like a sack of rice. It was the right thing to do. My captor’s rhythm slowed marginally and I sensed hesitation in his step. It had to be a man. No woman would have been strong enough to pick me up as if I was nothing. I took advantage of his surprise. My arms were dangling free. Although I was blind, I could still feel. I stretched quickly and managed—by sheer luck—to find the baggy web of robe between his legs. A second later, I had grabbed the cloth and yanked it as tightly as I could up and toward me. The effect was immediate and deeply gratifying. I realized I had managed to clutch right through the back of the man’s robes and capture the front as well when I heard a high-pitched groan and his grip slackened. I slid to the floor, scrabbling my blindfold away and running at the same moment.

  “Keiko, stop!”

  I almost lost my balance, I was so shocked. I turned and stared at Isamu. He was leaning against the screen wall, bent almost double.

  “Brother! I am so sorry. I had no idea it was you. Did I hurt you?”

  I stumbled to him, far more worried about the hurt I had inflicted on him than my own ordeal. I reached out to pat his chest and Isamu straightened immediately, folding me in his arms and squeezing me so tightly that I yelped.

  “You did well, little sister. You almost had me fooled.” Almost? I was certain he had been totally confused by my playing dead. Luckily, he was gripping me so tightly I could not speak. “But this is your first lesson. Even if you think your opponent is dead, never approach so close that you can be taken. Stick a sword in his heart first, then look.” He released me and I slumped, panting for breath. “At least you have the virtue of patience. I thought you were going to stay in your room all day. Come on, we have work to do.”

  I walked briskly behind Isamu, my stride almost matching his. It must have irritated him, as he began to walk faster. I was having none of it. If it meant I ended up winded, I would not allow him to outpace me. We were both panting and trying to hide it when we arrived at the beaten earth arena where Isamu and Father practiced their swordsmanship and challenged each other in the samurai martial arts of kenjutsu. I was immediately excited. This was more like it! I had never watched Isamu and Father fight together. It had never been explicitly forbidden, but there was no need for it to be. I would never have dared to intrude on them. But whenever I sensed he was in a good mood, I watched Isamu practice alone with his katana. His effortless grace always astounded me. It seemed more like a dance than something that could inflict pain.

  Today, having already managed to outwit my elder brother, I felt cocky.

  “Is there any point in teaching me to use a sword, brother?” I said slyly. “I have often heard you say that arquebuses are the weapon of the future. Should you not be showing me how to fire one of those instead?”

  Isamu tensed. Still, I did not worry. They were only words. Father had two arquebuses in his study. He used one of them occasionally to scare birds into flight so he could fire at them with arrows. But I doubted he had ever fired one in anger.

  “And what do you know about warfare, little sister?” His tone was soft. I began to understand that I had made a mistake.

  “Nothing, except what you have told me.”

  “Then stay silent and do not show your ignorance. An arquebus takes no skill to use. Even a peasant can inflict death with it after a few moments’ instruction. It has no place in the code of bushido. Here, take this.”

  He selected a practice katana from the rack at the side of the dojo area and threw it to me. I caught it, but clumsily. It was old and well used. The hilt felt greasy in my hand and the blade was speckled with rust. I was surprised by its weight. The weapon that looked so fluid and graceful in Isamu’s skilled hand was nothing but a lump of old metal in my grip. Isamu had stripped his yukata off while I was getting the feel of the sword and now faced me wearing nothing but loose harama trousers. I realized that he had planned all this. I was hampered by my tight kimono while he had nothing to restrain him.

  I glanced at his naked torso admiringly. His chest was completely hairless and deeply muscled. His arms curved and had down on them like a ripe peach. Harami, I thought, was a fortunate woman to have such a fine man as my brother for a bridegroom.

  Isamu didn’t bother to ask if I was ready. He chose his own weapon and pivoted on the balls of his feet, immediately slapping me across the stomach with the flat of his sword. I grunted in pain and slashed my own sword in the air in front of me.

  An hour later, I felt as if every bone in my body was broken. Isamu had been careful to draw no blood, but time after time after time, he had inflicted hurt on me with the flat of his blade. From knee to neck, I screamed with pain.

  “Enough?” he asked finally, holding his own sword at arms’ length in signal that the contest was over. I wanted nothing quite so much as to drop my own sword. My arms felt like lead; the sword was so heavy, I had been forced to change my hand grip frequently. It did no good at all. I was equally useless no matter where I put either hand. I hurt and was tired and thirsty and so deeply dispirited I could have howled out loud. I would never become onna-bugeisha. My dreams were dust even before I had finished my first lesson.

  Isamu was grinning smugly.

  I forgot my aches and pains a
nd my tiredness. I raised my sword and screamed at the top of my voice and lunged for him. My sword point made contact with his shoulder and slashed a long cut into Isamu’s flesh. It began to bleed freely. I was so astonished, I dropped my sword and backed away. I knew perfectly well that I should fall to my knees and kowtow to my elder brother in apology. If I did that, he might not beat me for my dreadful disrespect. But I did not. I had come so far, I would not back down now.

  Instead, I stood my ground and raised my head and looked him straight in the eyes. Or at least it appeared that I did. I had learned many years ago that the easiest way to appear to meet the gaze of strangers and at the same time avoid seeing the distaste in their faces was to stare at the bridge of their nose, right between their eyebrows. I did that now.

  “I apologize for cutting you, brother. Had you not been so kind as to be merciful to me, I would never have been able to do it. It was sly and underhanded of me.”

  It was nothing but the truth, of course. Why, then, did I feel a flush of triumph as I watched the blood oozing from his shoulder?

  “That’s true.” Under the circumstances, Isamu sounded quite calm. “But it is also true that you have learned your lesson well. Didn’t I tell you this morning never to approach a fallen enemy until you were sure he was dead? I should have listened to my own words! Come, little sister. We will go to the bath.”

  He threw his arm around my shoulder in a warrior’s hard embrace and I almost screamed with pain. But I was so proud of his gesture that I managed to turn my grimace into a smile.

  Seven

  Paper. Scissors. Rock.

  Which is the greatest when each

  May win in their turn?

  That inauspicious beginning was how I came to be clinging to a mountainside in the depths of winter, wearing nothing but a loincloth and wishing with all my heart that I had given in and embraced my bitter future as an old maid.

  It was utter madness. We had been doomed to failure from the start. The thing was undoable, and I should have told him so. But when Isamu had suggested it, it had seemed so very right. A bright and shining thing. The thing that would make Father proud of me at last.

  We had been sitting at the side of the dojo. Not swordplay this time. Isamu had told me he had arranged for a monk to come to instruct me from the monastery that Father sponsored. The monk turned out to be wiry and small and so very old that only politeness kept me from laughing at the thought that he was going to teach me anything at all.

  Isamu had introduced him with great courtesy. “Riku-san. I am honored that you have agreed to come to our home. Please, allow me to introduce my worthless sister to you. This is Keiko. She wants to learn the way of the onna-bugeisha.”

  The old man bowed gravely to me. I couldn’t make him out at all. He was dressed in the traditional robes of a Buddhist monk with a white under-robe and a saffron robe over that. But there was something very odd about him. As I bowed back, I watched him carefully and suddenly understood what was unusual about him. All the Buddhist monks I had ever met carried themselves with an air of subservience. They carried begging bowls but never actually asked for food, merely inclining their heads in thanks if somebody put something in their bowl. This monk stood very erect. His old eyes gleamed, and I guessed they would miss nothing of importance. I met his gaze and saw a spark of humor there that startled me.

  Remembering my manners, I murmured, “I am honored to meet you, Riku-san.” Still, I was bewildered. What could an old monk teach me about the way of the samurai warrior? Humility, perhaps?

  Without speaking, Riku-san moved to the middle of the dojo. Isamu gestured at me to go to him. I approached as close as politeness allowed and waited. A moment later, I was flat on my back on the hard beaten earth of the dojo.

  “You have not been trained well, Keiko-san.” The old monk’s voice was as whispery as paper turning. “You do not know me. There is always danger in the unknown.”

  He leaned down and offered me his hand. I took it warily, and he pulled me to my feet as if I was as light as a leaf. Before I could detach my hand from his grip, he had thrown me down again.

  I could not understand it. I was at least a head taller than the old man, and certainly heavier than he was. Above all, he must have been far older than my father. How could this be? Still, now I was wary. I circled around him, never taking my eyes from his face. He cackled and spoke over his shoulder to Isamu.

  “I was wrong, Isamu-chan. She learns quickly. I remember when I first taught you the art of kobudo, it took you many lessons to learn to look for my next move in my eyes rather than my arms.”

  I preened under the old monk’s praise and even managed to avoid his next throw. But that was the best I could do. Finally, he took pity on me and bowed.

  “I look forward to meeting with you again, Keiko-san,” he said politely. I noticed with astonishment that he wasn’t even breathing heavily, whereas I was gasping for breath. With a supreme effort, I managed to bow deeply. He grinned, showing gaped yellow fangs, and walked away without another word.

  “I do believe you’ve managed to impress Riku-san,” Isamu said.

  I glared at him, suspecting sarcasm. But he looked surprised, and I relaxed.

  “Who on earth is he?”

  “He taught both Father and me the art of kobudo. Today, you had a taste of jujutsu, bodily fighting without weapons. Riku-san is also a master of swordsmanship and fighting with a staff. Also, the use of the naginata, Tomoe Gozen’s favorite weapon. They all form part of the samurai tradition. You will learn them all in time, from both Riku-san and me.”

  “But he’s a monk!” I protested. “How did he come to be a master of kobudo?”

  “Your education is sadly lacking, sister.” Isamu smiled. “Centuries ago, there were warrior monks who rose to be as important as samurai. They served their lords in battle, just as we serve the shogun now. They fell out of favor long ago, but down the years there have always been monks who have passed the tradition on to their own sons. Riku-san is probably the very last of them. He never married, nor has he ever taken a concubine. When he dies, there will be no one to follow in his footsteps.”

  “I am sorry for that,” I said sincerely. “Such a man should have a son to follow him.”

  We sat in silence until I got my breath back.

  “Are you ready for your next lesson, little sister?” Isamu asked eventually.

  I shifted carefully. I was stiff and wanted nothing more to soak in the bath and then crawl into bed. “Most certainly, brother,” I said cheerfully.

  “You’re sure?”

  I nodded, offended. Here I was, doing my best to pretend I felt no pain and was ready for anything, and Isamu was doubting me?

  “Certain,” I said firmly.

  “Excellent.” Isamu’s next words threw me completely. “What do you think would please Father more than anything?”

  I thought carefully before I replied. Father was rich. I could think of nothing he could not buy if he wanted it. Apart from status. Although our family was samurai, we still ranked below the daimyo, the nobles who were only surpassed in status by the shogun himself. And the emperor, of course, but the shogun spoke for him, and we all knew where the real power resided. Tradition dictated that a samurai could never rise to be a daimyo. But Father was a regional governor, and a proud man. Could it be possible that he aspired to surmount the social barriers and become a daimyo somehow? As soon as the thought came to me, I dismissed it. That could only happen if Isamu married into a daimyo family, and Harami’s family was samurai, like us. Then I recalled that Father often complained that he had not enough time on his own estate; his duties as governor often kept him away for long periods.

  “More time?” I said doubtfully. I was surprised when Isamu nodded.

  “You’re not too far off. Think, what does Father like to do above all else when he is home and has time to himself?”

  “Hunt,” I said immediately. Father loved the thrill of the hunt. In t
he correct season, he hunted deer. But above all, he loved the sport of takagari. He had men who did nothing but breed his goshawks for him and look after their every need. They did not train the birds; Father insisted he do that himself. I often thought that he loved his goshawks almost as much as he loved Emiko. Certainly far more than he cared for me.

  “That’s right. You are very perceptive, Keiko—for a woman. Father has often spoken to me of his dream to have a golden eagle for hunting. If we could give him that, then we would give him his heart’s desire. Nothing could raise us higher in his eyes, I promise you.”

  I was silent for a moment. Isamu stared at me, tapping an impatient rhythm with his fingers. I frowned.

  “Are there any golden eagles near here? And if there are, how do we get one? They nest high, don’t they? To avoid people?”

  “Oh, that’s all thought of,” Isamu said cheerfully. “The falconers have heard of a pair nesting about half a day’s ride from here, in the foothills of the mountains. I can climb well enough. I will take care of you on the mountain, have no fear. What do you say, sister? Will you come with me?”

  Isamu laughed. I had no need to speak, my beaming face spoke for me. My trust in my elder brother had been so great I had not even considered being frightened. Now that the moment for action was before me, I shivered with doubt. The mountain seemed impossibly high and impossibly smooth. Isamu shrugged off his robe and told me to do the same.

  “Robes would get in our way,” he instructed. “They would catch on the rocks and could make the difference between success and failure. At the very least, they would slow us up.”