By Shawn Carman
Edited by Fred Wan
Few people came to live in Dragon Guard City on purpose. For that matter, relatively few even chose to visit. It was simply easier to go around the region where the city was located, and other than a reasonably busy port and a reputation for exceptional fishing, there was little to distinguish the city in any way. According to legend, during the dawn of the Empire a peasant girl offered a rice ball to a stranger, who turned out to be a dragon in disguise. To reward the little girl for her selflessness, the dragon blessed her and her family, and since that day they have been among the most successful fishermen in all of Rokugan. Whether the legend was true or not was debatable, as was the case for most legends, but no one could deny the fruitful fishing in the area.
Most of the vessels in port were simple fishing ships, shallow water craft at best, or independent merchant vessels, poorly designed and suitable only for sailing along the coast. Moshi Kiyomori watched as the other sailors and fishermen stopped whatever they were doing to watch his ship as it sailed into the harbor. He had instructed the captain to take it in slowly, as he wished to have the most impact, and because he wanted word of his arrival to reach the inner portions of the city before he had left the docks. That would make his duties here far simpler.
The Crimson Summer sailed easily into port, stopping precisely at the most prominent of the empty docks. Kiyomori signaled for his attendants to follow him as the crew secured the ship to the dock. An extremely anxious-looking, portly little man was standing on the docks, wringing his hands as he waited for Kiyomori. He bowed very deeply and held that position. “Greetings, great and noble Mantis samurai. I am greatly honored to welcome you to Dragon Guard City.”
“Of course,” Kiyomori said with a smile. He tossed a single koku to the man, and heard his breath catch in his throat at the sight of it. “For the use of the dock.”
“It… ah… I…” the man stammered. “Y-you are most generous, noble Moshi-sama, but… this is the private dock of the city governor. His ship is expected back any time now, and I…”
“I will be certain to extend my thanks to him,” Kiyomori said. “And I will be sure to mention what a gracious and honorable harbormaster he has in his employ.”
“I… uh… thank you, Moshi-sama,” the man said, completely unsure of how to proceed.
“The governor is within the city, is he not?”
“He is, my lord,” the man agreed. “He sent his vessel out to deliver a shipment south to the Hub Villages, but he is here.” The man frowned. “How did you know that?”
“It is my business to know,” Kiyomori said. “You will want to find additional docks for other ships. I will be requiring several.”
“Oh,” the man said. “Very well, my lord. How many will you require, and when?”
“Many,” Kiyomori said. “And soon.”
* * *
The House of the Smiling Carp was the largest inn in Dragon Guard City, which was no small accolade. It was also clearly the only one truly suitable for visiting samurai. It was easy to imagine that it was constructed solely for the purpose of housing the merchant vassals who attended the city to make trade agreements regarding its lucrative fishing market. Kiyomori knew from experience that such men drank freely to celebrate lucrative deals, and they were far more generous when drunk than they might otherwise be. A single week of heavy traffic could probably fund such an establishment for a year, at the minimum. It was no wonder, then, that the sickeningly self-important governor of the city made this his home.
The ground floor of the inn was empty as Kiyomori entered. There were perhaps three dozen tables, and only one, the largest, in the center of the room, was occupied. The attendants seemed particularly distressed, but were on hand to fulfill any requirements their guests might have. Kiymori made note of this; it would be useful information later.
The man sitting at the center table was enjoying a bottle of sake, and had apparently instructed the staff to prepare a place for Kiyomori. The smarmy governor smiled broadly and gestured across to the empty seat, raising the clay bottle with an inquisitive expression. “Thank you,” Kiyomori said. “I will, yes.” He sat.
“Splendid,” the governor said. “I so seldom have guests who know how to enjoy themselves.”
“I should think in a city such as this you would have ample opportunities to indulge any hedonistic preferences you might have.” Kiyomori sipped the sake the man had poured for him. “Excellent. Autumn Dragon blend, is it not?”
The governor nodded appreciatively. “You know your sake well, Moshi-sama.”
“Not particularly,” Kiyomori said. “That is your favorite blend, however, is it not, Terajima?”
The governor’s expression froze for a fraction of a moment. “Well, it seems you have done your research, Moshi-sama. How else would you know such a thing?”
“It is my business to know,” Kiyomori repeated. “You certainly have enjoyed your position here, Terajima. It has made you a wealthy, and very comfortable, man.”
“It has,” Terajima agreed. “The Fortunes have blessed me, more than I deserve.”
“I do not doubt that,” the Mantis agreed. “I have heard some interesting tales regarding your ascension to the position of governor. It is somewhat unusual for an Imperial to sanction any master-less samurai as the governor of such a large city. Would you tell me of the circumstances surrounding your appointment?”
Terajima laughed. “You know my favorite sake blend, but not how I received my appointment?”
“That is not what I said,” Kiyomori said. “But humor me, if you would. Consider it… an act of hospitality.”
The governor nodded. “Very well, if you like.”
* * *
The monk sank his hands into the earth, feeling the soil and the stones beneath his fingers. He churned them, turning the soil over again and again, preparing it to receive the seeds he had in the pouch on his belt. He smiled to the timid peasants working alongside him, and they returned the expression. It had taken him weeks to earn their trust enough for that. Now, finally, having toiled alongside them for so long, they had come to trust him. It was an accomplishment that pleased him greatly.
One of the peasants, a young woman that Yoson had found to be extremely bright and engaging, if somewhat anxious, looked concerned. She glanced around the area where they were working. “This will not be enough,” she said. “We need to plant the entire area if we are to have enough wheat and rice to supplement the catch this season.”
The monk’s smile was as disarming as he could manage. “Remember what I taught you,” he said. “The soil here is exhausted from years of over-farming. It needs time to recover. That cannot happen unless you leave it for a season. Next season, you can rotate your wheat to this area, and it will be twofold what you expect.”
The woman’s concerns did not seem allayed. “We need the extra crops,” she said. “How can we meet our taxes without them?”
“I think you will find your taxes this season are dramatically lower than what you have been used to,” the monk said. “I give you my word on that.”
The woman frowned slightly, but she clearly wanted to believe the monk. “It is very strange for a man such as yourself to work the earth alongside… people such as us.”
The monk laughed. “I am something of an exception to the rule, I must admit. Others of my order might not be quite as accommodating, perhaps.”
“Who are you to promise such a thing as lower taxes?” an angry voice called out. The peasants scrambled at the sound of it, getting clear of the arable land and trying to retreat as they bowed as deeply as possible. “Look at what you are doing!” The city governor’s chief magistrate stood at the field’s edge, his deputies close behind. They snickered, but the magistrate seemed genuinely angry. “You confuse them with your lies! Why do you make their lives more difficult?”
“I am the only person in this city who has told them the truth,” the monk said, brushing the dirt from his hands. “Your master, the governor, grotesquely overtaxes them, keeping the surplus for himself. They starve while he sits at banquet.”
“How dare you!” the magistrate roared. “You are not fit to speak his name, much less question his edicts! I will see you executed for this, monk!”
The monk’s expression did not change. “It is not within your authority to perform such duty,” he answered. “It is likely not within your ability, either.”
“I have heard enough,” the magistrate said. “You are guilty of sedition and treason, and you are to be executed immediately. Do you have anything to say, Yoson?”
“You will address me by my proper name,” the monk said, slowly removing the outer robe that covered his upper body. “Hoshi Yoson. I am a magistrate in service to the Emerald Champion. Surrender now, and you will be shown mercy.”
There were gasps from behind the monk at the sight of his tattooed chest and arms, and some of the deputies behind the magistrate seemed to shrink away. The magistrate himself did not seem affected, however. “Unfortunate for you that you carry no badge of office.”
Yoson withdrew a small seal from within his obi. “Not that this will make much difference to a man as corrupt as you, I suppose.”
“As I said,” the magistrate replied, drawing his blade, “unfortunate that you carry no badge of office.” He gestured to the men behind him. “Kill him. Burn the body.”
The other guards stepped forward and fanned out. There were five of them, all armored and bearing a variety of weapons, from katana to no-dachi, and even one with a dai tsuchi. Yoson watched them carefully, but seemed completely free of concern. “You men are not beyond redemption,” he said, his voice calm and even. “Surrender to me and I will see to it that you are not punished for the commands issued by your superiors.” He glanced at the magistrate beyond them. “That offer does not extend to you, of course. You embraced your fate long ago.”
“And you embraced yours when you came to Dragon Guard City,” the magistrate said. “Kill him now!”
One of the yoriki, the largest and the one that Yoson had mentally chosen as the most aggressive, lunged forward, swinging his dai tsuchi in a wide arc over his head. The massive hammer came down toward Yoson’s head with such force that the air whistled around it. The stone tattoo on Yoson’s arm surged with power, and he struck upward with a closed hand strike. His fist met the hammer with an explosive sound, and the metal shattered from the force of it. The guard staggered backwards, his armor peppered by metal shards. Yoson stepped forward and struck him in the chest with an open palm, splintering his armor, then pivoted and swung his foot around in a roundhouse kick that caught the man in the throat. The guard was lifted from the ground and thrown a dozen feet backwards to crumple into the dirt. He did not move again.
“Twice I have asked and twice you have refused,” Yoson said quietly to the other guards. “I will ask a third time, as decorum requires. Refuse me again and there will be no turning back. Will you surrender?”
One of the men looked back at the magistrate, then licked his lips nervously. He shifted his weight back and forth from the balls of his feet, then darted in with a wide, sweeping strike from his no-dachi.
Yoson disappeared from the space where he had been only seconds before the blade cut through it. The attacker had only the span of a heartbeat to wonder what happened before Yoson dropped from the heavens overhead and landed on the extended flat of the man’s blade, snapping it instantly. He perched on the ground and leapt back up to hang in the air just long enough to kick the attacker in the face with such force that his head snapped back and nearly touched his own shoulder blades. The second guard dropped into the dirt.
The three remaining opponents circled the monk, approaching simultaneously. Two bore katana, and the third a chain weapon that he was circling slowly to gain momentum. They feinted, but Yoson did not respond. Finally, the man with the chain unleashed it toward him in a lightning fast attack. The monk allowed the chain to wrap around his right arm several times, then caught the kama at the end of its length. He yanked the chain, lifting its wielder off his feet and bringing him hurling toward Yoson. The monk stopped the man’s forward momentum with a crushing strike to his midsection. Then, before the body had fallen, he spun and kicked the man, sending him flying into the first guard rushing toward him with a katana. The blade ran through the man with the chain, and the force of the impact between the two caused a sharp cracking sound that left both men lying immobile in the dirt.
Yoson yanked the chain free from the corpses and pulled it to him, then swung it behind him. It wrapped around the neck of the second, slower man bearing a katana. Yoson yanked again, bringing the man hurtling toward him, then stopped him with an elbow strike that could have broken stone. And then the monk stood alone in the field.
“That is enough,” the magistrate barked. “Do not move.”
“If I do?” Yoson asked.
“Terajima!” the magistrate barked.
A young man, no more than a few years past his gempukku, stood near the peasants that Yoson had been working alongside only moments ago. “Hai, father?”
“Kill one of the monk’s pets. He needs to understand there are consequences for his actions.”
The young ronin looked at the peasants, horrified. He looked back at his father, then to Yoson, and then finally back to his father again. “No,” he said.
“What?” the magistrate demanded.
“No,” Terajima said. “I will not kill these people.”
“You are a wise and merciful young man,” Yoson said. He withdrew a scroll from his obi and tossed it across the field. The young man caught it and stared at the seal, confused. “I was granted leave by Seppun Toshiaki to appoint a new governor if, as I suspected, I found the current regime to be corrupt. You shall be that new governor.”
“What… what about my father? What about the governor? The current governor, I mean,” the boy asked.
“You will assume your new duties following their funeral rites,” Yoson said, and advanced toward the magistrate.
* * *
“An intriguing tale,” Kiyomori said, sipping the tea he had switched to during the governor’s story. “Surely the sort of thing that epic plays are made of.”
“The tale of Hoshi Yoson, perhaps,” Terajima said, “but nothing of the sort for me, of course. I am but a simple servant, a humble man of the people.”
“A simple servant,” Kiyomori repeated. “I think it might be more accurate to say a simple, astoundingly corrupt servant. If we are to be honest, that is. What a crushing disappointment you would doubtless be if Yoson could see what you have become.”
The governor’s smile faltered slightly. “I don’t believe you’ve ever given me your name,” he said, his tone somewhat more hoarse now. “It seems unfair to keep me at such a disadvantage.”
“Life offers no assurances of fairness,” the Mantis replied.
“I see,” the governor said. “Well, since you apparently will not identify yourself, I have no way of knowing if you are in fact even true Mantis, do I? You might very well be some shoddy pirate who overtook a Mantis vessel and hopes to take advantage of the good people of Dragon Guard City.” He gestured toward the service doorway near the kitchen, and five ronin entered the room. They were all quite large, and obviously well armed. “I think perhaps I should ask some of my city guards to escort you back to your vessel.”
“Are you absolutely certain you wish to do that?”
“Oh yes,” Terajima said. “Quite certain.”
“That is unfortunate,” Kiyomori said, gesturing absently with one hand. “My yojimbo will doubtless take terrible offense.”
One of the two attendants that had been standing wordlessly behind Kiyomori stepped forward. She removed her cloak and carefully set it aside, revealing a lithe frame and long black tresses that were tied back in an unusual style. There was an intricate tattoo on the back of her right hand. It might have been writing, but it was no kanji that anyone in the room had ever seen before.
Several of the “city guards” chuckled at the sight of the much, much smaller woman. One stepped forward and reached out as if to grab her roughly by the shoulder, but she locked eyes with him and he froze in place. There was a blaze of something in her eyes, something unidentifiable, and although her expression remained completely calm, the guard took a step backwards, then two more.
“No,” he muttered under his breath. “No, please. Please, make it stop!” The man turned and ran, knocking over two tables in the process before he reached the service entrance and disappeared into the kitchen. There was a loud clang as if something had been upset, and then the sound of the outer door opening and a panicked shout as the man fled into the city.
The other guards looked at one another uneasily, their hands on their weapons. Kiyomori’s yojimbo took a step toward them, but the Mantis raised his hand. “That will be enough, thank you, Kekiesu.” He looked at the governor. “I think we want to avoid anything more unpleasant than that, don’t you?”
The governor’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you people?”
“I am Moshi Kiyomori, chief shireikan of the Third Storm.” He paused for a moment. “I assume that you understand what this means.”
“Yes,” the governor’s tone was more subdued now, and he waved his guards away. “I still do not know why you are here.”
“Dragon Guard City is an extremely profitable holding that exists outside the spheres of the Great Clans,” Kiyomori said. “You are a capable administrator, that much has been proven time and time again. Unfortunately you are, as I said before, astonishingly corrupt. This will not be tolerated. This port is going to come under the control of the Mantis Clan, within a matter of days, a week at the most.” He leaned in closer to the table. “I will ask you this question only once: will you serve the Mantis, or be removed from power?”
“You have no right to remove me from power,” the governor said. “I have papers signed by Seppun Toshiaki, who…”
“…is dead,” Kiyomori finished. “And he was a traitor to the throne, or so some people say. Do you really want to risk tying your name to his?”
Terajima licked his lips. “I will not surrender easily. I have influence and allies here. I will fight this.”
Kiyomori smiled slightly. “Is that a challenge?”
He laughed. “I would be a fool to challenge a Mantis. I am no fool.”
“Then let us make it sporting,” Kiyomori said. “I challenge you to a duel. If I am the victor, you cede control of the city willingly.”
“And if I win, I retain my position, and the Mantis leave!” Terajima said eagerly. “It is the right of the challenged to select the means by which the duel will be conducted.” He lifted a piece of paper from his lap where he had been toying with it during the conversation. It had been folded into a tiny, intricate cart pulled by a pair of oxen. “I choose origami!”
Kiyomori’s expression did not change. “Of course. You are rather well known for your love of the art, after all. The downfall of being an arrogant braggart is that you have precious few secrets remaining.” He gestured for the other attendant. “I will be exercising my right to choose a champion for the duel. May I introduce Kitune Engo?”
All the color drained from Terajima’s face. “Kitsune… Engo?”
“You may have heard of him,” Kiyomori said. “In certain circles he is quite famous for his mastery of the arts.” The shugenja smiled. “All of the arts.”
* * *
Kiyomori grimaced and threw a stack of musty scrolls into a bag that he had previously designated as refuse. Terajima had used his formal office very little in the past ten years, it seems, and many of the trappings of his office were in such poor condition that they needed to be completely discarded and replaced. Which was perfectly fine with Kiymori. The governor had terrible taste in decorations.
Additional Mantis vessels should be arriving within the hour. Kiyomori’s superior, Yoritomo Jera, had tasked him with establishing a secondary port south of Kyuden Kumiko but north of the Hub Villages. Dragon Guard City had been perfect, and manipulating the governor had been a ridiculously simple matter. All in all, he imagined, it might have been the simplest conquest the Mantis had enacted in decades.
“Pardon the intrusion, Moshi-sama,” a voice from the entryway came, “but I am looking for the governor. I assume, based on the scuttlebutt in the street, that person is you?”
“For the moment,” Kiyomori replied. “And you are?”
The samurai in the doorway bowed. “I am Kasuga Toru, and it is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Kiyomori-sama.”
The Mantis smiled. “So little time in the city and already people know my name. It is quite flattering, really.”
“Perhaps you will find this more so,” the Tortoise said. “I have a business proposition for you.”
Kiyomori frowned slightly. “I am normally not the sort to traffic in mercantile matters. I can arrange a meeting for later today if you feel that…”
Toru waved his hands. “This is not a mercantile matter, Kiyomori-sama, although it does stand to profit both of us quite a bit.”
The shireikan rubbed his chin for a moment. “Very well, then,” he said. “Please continue.”
Toru smiled. “My branch of the Kasuga has never had tremendous political influence, despite all my efforts to the contrary. Fortunately, I seem to have outstripped my ancestors’ financial acumen by quite a wide margin. I am hoping to parlay that into a more influential position within the Tortoise Clan.”
Kiyomori’s frown had returned. “I am not certain I like where this is going.”
“No, wait, it is not what you think,” Toru insisted. “Are you familiar with Koeru Mura?”
“The site of the Minor Clan Alliance’s military encampment, I believe.”
“Yes,” Toru agreed. “After what recently happened in Kudo, you will of course understand that the Alliance is extremely concerned that a similar scenario might unfold in Koeru Mura as well.”
The new governor nodded. “You fear Lion annexation.”
“Exactly,” Toru said. “The Tortoise have invested considerable funds in developing the village, and losing it would represent a major financial loss. I believe the clan’s leaders are planning to approach the Mantis with a proposal for your intervention. If, however, I were to arrange such a thing first…” his voice trailed off.
“You would suddenly acquire the political recognition you desire,” Kiyomori said. “Interesting, I suppose. What is your proposition?”
“I will grant the Mantis control of the Southern Hub Silk Works,” Toru said. “It is among my most profitable holdings, but the trade for political power would be well worth it. All the Mantis need do is occupy the village so that no other Great Clan sees it as a target of opportunity.” He smiled and held his hands out. “Everyone benefits.”
Kiyomori nodded slowly. “It does sound quite profitable, I must admit. I will take the idea to my superiors, and I will be certain to mention your name.”
Toru bowed deeply. “Of course such a thing will only increase your standing as well, my lord! A well-deserved accolade, to be sure.”
“We will see about that,” Kiyomori said. But he smiled all the same.
*
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