Winds by Ikoma Uitukake
"No wall stands forever. Only duty stands forever."--Kaiu Hosaru, A Perfect Cut
* * *
Winds
by Ikoma Uitukake
While guarding a caravan for his lord, a samurai is faced with an unexpected form of danger.
Stung by a lover's betrayal, a samurai plans an appropriate revenge.
The grass stems dipped, rank by rank, as the gusty breeze washed over them, and as they lowered their heads so the colour of the plain changed from the palest fawn to a darker green. Yogo Ganshige lifted his gaze from the road, let his eyes follow the patch of false shadow as it moved and changed, split apart and met others, until it was lost forever on the ever-shifting carpet the covered the Moto lands. As he watched he felt his heart lighten, as if the wind had caught his dark mood and swept it away over the great still waves that rolled to the horizon. He smiled. This land suited his nature. The Ocean of Grass, he had heard it called, but those who spoke so were fools. These plains were no domain of Water, nor Earth, nor even Fire. This was the land of the wind. At the edge of his senses, he could almost see the little air-kami dancing with the grass-stalks, almost hear their laughter exulting on the breeze. He looked into the wind, letting it tug at the scarf that wrapped his face and swirl his robes around him, and laughed for the first time since leaving Shiro Moto. It was good to feel welcome again.
Startled by the unaccustomed noise, nearby guards and horsehandlers stopped and turned to look in surprise at Ganshige. A ripple of distraction spread up and down the little caravan until it reached the head, where Bayushi Tsimare turned in his saddle to send a single questioning glance at the newest member of his troupe.
"Kaze-no-kami blesses us, Tsimare-san!" Ganshige called back. Tsimare dipped his head briefly and turned back to the trail. Despite the distance and the older man's mask, Ganshige could tell he was far from happy with the new development. A carefree Yogo was hardly a good omen. But then nothing Yogo was.
The caravan began to get under way again. The horsehandlers muttered dialect phrases under their breath and chivvied the packponies into motion. The other guards exchanged uneasy glances, then returned to their stations. None of them questioned Ganshige, even with a look. He might be enrolled on the caravan's papers as a mere guard, but in truth he outranked all of them--even Tsimare, should Ganshige choose to press the point.
Ganshige however had no such intention. Indeed he had nothing but the warmest feelings towards Tsimare. The man might be dour as a Hiruma and mercantile as a Yasuki, but he had offered Ganshige a lifeline when he most desired it and Ganshige was genuinely grateful. He seriously intended to see the man rewarded when they returned to Scorpion lands. Right now, he was too busy feeling better than he had for weeks. The sun was shining and the air was dancing and Shiro Moto was falling further behind with every clomp of his horse's hooves.
Ganshige's good mood lasted until nightfall, when they camped where the road crossed one of the nameless creeks that wandered through the grasslands. The men picketed the horses, then clustered round the fires to drink and talk and throw dice while the rice cooked. Ganshige, by unspoken agreement, cooked his own rice by his own fire. He did not usually mind solitude--he had lived with it all his life, after all--but this night, as he sat in the half-light of the flames, half-listening to the voices and the laughter, he would have appreciated a little distraction. It would have kept his mind from wandering, back to places he had no desire to revisit. For a moment he even considered taking his bowl over to join the nearest of the shadowy groups, but then he shook his head. He had stood apart too long to be met with anything but resentment and suspicion. Instead he turned his attention to his food, picking at the rice with unwonted care and chewing every morsel with deliberate thoroughness.
A high note shrilled from the gathering darkness. One of the men had a bamboo flute. He bowed theatrically to his companions, then essayed a popular Unicorn tune as they clapped and cheered. Ganshige's eyes narrowed in unwanted remembrance. They had played that tune in the gardens of Shiro Moto, the day he had first seen Ushime dance. Abruptly he upended his bowl over the flames, quenched them, then stalked off to perform his nightly propitiations. He had no need of light to complete the rituals, and just then the darkness was welcome.
Full night brought no relief. He had been glad when Tsimare had chosen not to pay for lodging at one of the waystations, glad not to spend another night under a Unicorn roof, but he had underestimated the power of the night winds. Tsimare had offered his tent, for form's sake, and Ganshige had rejected it, for form's sake, and now as he huddled in his blankets under the pitiless gaze of the stars he cursed himself for a fool. Every breath of the breeze brought with it the sounds of the horses, the rustle of the grasses, the memories of the last time he had lain out on the plains, with Ushime.
He rolled over, pulled the blanket up over his head, screwed his eyes tight as he recited an old prayer to ward off unwanted influences. It was no good. His ear were full of the sounds of the night camp, his nose with its scent, that peculiar blend of sweat and smoke and horse he had somehow come to find familiar, his head with thoughts of Ushime.
Ushime. A true Unicorn, a child of the wind, trapped and confined even in the airy halls of Shiro Moto. She was beautiful there, she could be beautiful in stillness, in sadness, even in death, but only in flashes--when she rode, when she laughed, when she danced--was she alive.
On the plains she had been alive all the time. The air-kami had loved her, all of them, and wept that she could not hear them. Once, trading shamelessly on that love and a lifetime of stored services, he had made them visible to her and they had flown above her like a banner as she raced across the plains.
Ushime. The memories were coming faster now, and he could no longer try to fight them. The clouds of her breath, in a chilly spring morning. The light in her eyes, as she rode out across the plains and beckoned him to follow. Her hair flying free in Shinjo's wind and the speed of her horse. Her eyes again, giving back the thousand colours of a Moto sunset. Her silken softness in a fur-lined bedroll. Those were memories to warm a man in a Phoenix winter, except that they all ended one way. Her desperate, furious, tear-stricken face that fateful morning in Shiro Moto.
He should not have seen her. He should have told the servant to deny him, to send her away, as was his right as a guest. If he had been thinking clearly, if he had not still been half-stunned by the impossible news he had received only minutes earlier, he could have made a defence. The heartless seducer she had come to believe would have done so. But he was not heartless, nor had he been, at first, the seducer, and it had never occurred to him to refuse her.
She had stormed into the room in a fine rage, more beautiful, more alive than he had ever seen her, a sheet of paper--Chimura's testimony no doubt, or a summary of it--clenched forgotten in one hand. "Is it true?"
It was true, though he could hardly believe it. Chimura, who had served his predecessor five years, who he had been assured was reliable, had let himself get caught at the border. And against all loyalty, had tried to buy his life with Ganshige's name. The full extent of the disaster was still to strike home.
His silence had been answer enough. Ushime's face darkened. "Was that all I was to you?"
No, he wanted to scream, it was never like that. But his throat was tight and his lips would not form the words.
They stared at each other across an arm-span growing wider by the moment. Tears stood in her eyes. "I thought you loved me!"
He kept his voice as neutral as possible, describing a duty, not a matter of the heart. "It was my lord's command. He desired to know Miyake-san's dealings with the Crane." He swallowed and looked her in the face. "It was not about us, Ushime-chan. Nothing about us."
"Nothing about us," she repeated. "You were using me!"
"No." He held his head up, defying her. "When I followed you that morning..." he paused, caught his breath, "that was my will, not my lord's." That was truth, at the first. But her talk, her seal, the doors she left open, they had been more than useful. It did not matter, anyway. Ide Miyake's protection was her duty as much as its subversion was his.
"How could you?" There was more than fury in her voice, there was hatred, revulsion. He had lost her, he had known it all along, and yet he had had to hear it from her lips.
He looked away, fought to keep his voice steady. "You knew I was Scorpion when we met. You knew I was Yogo when we met." He wished that last had meant something, that this breaking would tear away his curse and at least leave him free. But he had chosen duty without regret, so how could this have been love?
"How could you?" she asked again.
"I had my lord's command." He summoned the first flickers of righteous anger. "Would you rather I had chosen seppuku? Or would you rather I had lied to you better?"
She had stood in silence for a moment, then turned and left without another word, slamming the door across hard enough to tear half the panes.
*
He had stayed to see Chimura executed. If the man had been steadfast, his death would have been no different, his family would have been rewarded and Ushime would have remained...Ushime. As it was, Chimura's family would soon be back in the fields, Ide Miyake had withdrawn and the Crane ambassador, now aware that his secret negotiations were no secret, had departed for Toshi Ranbo. There had been nothing left for Ganshige at Shiro Moto. He had not been charged--even the Moto could not take word of a heimin criminal over that of a shugenja of standing--but his purpose was revealed and the Unicorn had made their displeasure obvious. He had slipped away as soon as he could.
The caravan went on south in the morning. When they camped again next evening, Ganshige took Tsimare's tent.
*
The magistrates caught up with them before noon the next day. Ganshige had known they were coming; the winds had warned him before even he saw the dust-cloud in the sky, a full dozen Unicorn armed and armoured, bearing the banners of the Moto and the Khan. He had passed the news to Tsimare, who stopped the caravan in good time, and prepared his papers for inspection. He had his guards prepared too, within the ring of packhorses with bow or blade ready. There had been rumours of bandits, raiding the exposed road through the high plains, and while it would be a bold band indeed who counterfeited Moto Chagatai's banner, there was always the chance. There was a chance, too, that raiders might ride with the Khan's knowledge and consent, but Ganshige, his hand sweaty on an unaccustomed hilt, tried not to dwell on that.
His first fears proved groundless, for the leader of the group, at least, proved to be a genuine magistrate, his seal of office swinging from his neck. He dismounted and bowed to Bayushi Tsimare in proper form, and the caravan leader cautiously returned the bow, gesturing behind his back for the guards to stand down. Ganshige was quick to release his grip on his borrowed katana. Best to make no mistakes at this point.
The Moto, their leader proclaimed, were riding against "bandits and smugglers" who had been reported transgressing on the Imperial road. The first was ominous, the second more so, and Tsimare was swift to produce his papers. These were brusquely inspected, checked against a brief headcount of men and animals, and pronounced acceptable. Then, even as Ganshige was allowing himself to relax, the magistrate gestured his men forward. Completely ignoring the protests of Tsimare and the horsehandlers, they began to cut bags and bales loose from the packhorses that carried them, and tear them open to reveal their precious contents.
The guards around Ganshige exchanged resigned looks. There was nothing to be done. The Moto were more numerous and better equipped; resistance would be met with swift slaughter. Ganshige and the guards could only stand in a defensive huddle, careful to make no sudden moves, and wait for the magistrate to collect his "tax" and ride away.
The magistrate, however, was looking for more than loot. Ganshige watched with increasing disquiet as his men proceeded methodically from horse to horse, unloading each in turn, apparently indifferent to the leatherware and brasswork, bolts of silk and blocks of salt they left scattered in the grass. Even the carefully-padded boxes of glass were set aside, and the precious pots of perfumes from the Burning Sands. The Moto were clearly searching for something. Careful to keep his gestures unobtrusive, Ganshige called on his friends the air kami, asked them to bring him the searchers' conversation.
Their accent was hard to follow, but his own name sounded clearly enough. His disquiet increased further, but there was nothing to be done. Given sufficient warning, he might have concealed the packs that contained the guards' personal possessions, but having them vanish out of plain sight would attract more attention than it avoided. All he could do was summon his discipline, and wait.
The searchers found the right pony at last, and began rummaging through the bedrolls and furoshiki. An angry mutter arose from the guards, outraged far more by this personal injury than by the pillage of their master's goods. One even stepped forward, shouting in protest. Three watching Moto set their hands to their sabres, and smiled. The guard slunk back, face dark with frustration and rage. The muttering around Ganshige deepened. This was not the way the game was supposed to be played.
They were not even players in this game, Ganshige could have told them. The search was for him alone. Or rather, for his possessions. The magistrate had not spared more than a cursory glance at the men of the caravan. Ganshige wondered why. He had left behind his name, he had set aside his mask, but any proper search would soon locate the only shugenja in the group. It was as if they felt no need to find him personally--or they were certain of their ability to unmask him if required. Enlightenment dawning, he rapidly looked over the surrounding Moto. He soon found the one he sought; one of the few still mounted, one of the few who had taken no part in the search. The face was invisible behind a wolf's-head mempo, the figure anonymous in armour, but she was still too Unicorn to leave behind her horse. Maybe she doubted a Scorpion's ability to tell one beast from another.
The Moto became aware of Ganshige's scrutiny and abruptly looked away. Ganshige, watching closely, saw the tension in her posture, the tightening of her hands on the reins. She looked ready to bolt. Ganshige's heart sank. He had seen that reflex all too often, in amateur conspirators confronted with the reality of their actions. He wished it had not come to this. But all he could do was keep his breathing deep and even, centering himself, waiting for the blow to fall.
A shout of triumph came from one of the searchers. He pulled apart silken wrappings to reveal a mask, a simple half-mask in glossy black lacquer, edged with the faintest outline of silver. Ganshige fought down an unwanted surge of rage, both at the Moto and himself. He should not have permitted this. His mask should have been on his face, not in the dirty grasp of a Plains barbarian. But it was two hundred years old and more, his grandfather's mask and his grandfather's before him, and Ganshige had been afraid the wind and the dust would scar the surface. So he had packed it away, for safety. Like a fool.
The man holding the mask passed it over to another, a tall bushi in silver-trimmed armour, obviously an officer of some sort. The tall bushi lifted the mask high. "Yogo Ganshige," he called.
There was no longer any point in hiding. Ganshige stepped forward and bowed politely. "I am he."
"I am Magistrate Moto Zhangai," the bushi replied. "Did you think you could hide from us, Yogo Ganshige?"
Ganshige did not dignify the accusation with a reply. Zhangai's name was vaguely familiar, but Ganshige could not remember from where. He made a further mental note to repay the magistrate for his rudeness at the earliest opportunity.
Zhangai gestured to his men, who happily set about slashing up Ganshige's bedroll, tearing open his scrolls and reducing his small stock of trinkets and mementos to so much powder and twisted metal. He set his teeth, steeling himself to the loss, and trying to work out what Zhangai hoped to accomplish by such a provocation. He was not worried about them finding anything--his important information had gone out weeks earlier by a courier he trusted, and he was no first-year student, to hide incriminating material in his own baggage. Secure in his professionalism, Ganshige met the Moto's eyes squarely and did not spare a look, not even a thought, for the grubby bandages that bound the off-fore of Tsimare's number two pack-pony.
Zhangai suddenly appeared to remember he was still holding Ganshige's mask. Smiling broadly in Ganshige's direction, he held it out as if to return it. Then he opened his hand, let the mask fall to the grass and, quite deliberately, trod on it.
Twenty years of discipline kept Ganshige's mouth shut and his feet unmoving, even as his eyes burned and his hands clenched and his soul screamed with the desire for revenge. Nothing, nothing would be gained by his summary execution for attacking a magistrate. To avenge his grandfather's soul he must live, and to live he must play the heimin, and bow and smile and humble himself before the arrogance of bushi. So he bowed and smiled, a smile like the face of death, and promised himself a reckoning when Zhangai and his family and all his smelly gaijin Moto friends would learn the price of a Scorpion's anger. Including Ushime.
Including...Ushime. The thought took him by surprise and jolted half his anger out of him. He had no doubt that all this, intentionally or not, was Ushime's doing; her presence and her guilt were no coincidence. I made her hate me, he thought, and this is the fruit of her hate. And now I must destroy her. Ganshige shivered. The prospect of revenge brought no warming rush of anticipation, only a cold acceptance, a dreary prospect of blow returned for blow, pain for pain, until the inevitable ending. And all because she thought I loved her. Ganshige shook his head. Honour demanded restitution and he would take it, but he would take no joy in the quest. A matter of duty, not of love.
"Did you say something, Ganshige-san?" Zhangai's voice twisted the honorific into the worst of insults.
Ganshige raised his head and was silent.
"Tell me, Ganshige-san," Zhangai smiled again, showing teeth sharp as a dog's, and stirred the shards of Ganshige's mask with one foot, "what does it take to make a Scorpion fight fair?"
Fight fair...Ganshige almost laughed. There was no fairness in the clash of blades, as every bushi knew in his heart. If a Scorpion duellist had happened by, he would have returned Zhangai's "fairness" in kind. But he was no Isawa, to have a yojimbo at his call, and Tsimare was a mediocre swordsman at best. He stopped, as the thought of duellists brought back an unexpected memory. Months before, at Shiro Moto. Ushime talking about her cousin, who had studied with the Kakita. He looked again at Zhangai, not his face but the sword at his waist. A katana, not a sabre, the saya bound with five ribbons, one green, one gold, three scarlet. So that was what she had planned...
Zhangai looked as if he might speak again, but he was interrupted by a shout from behind him. Two Moto had been wrestling with one of Ganshige's more durable possessions, a folding bronze tripod made to support an incense-burner or lantern. Holding it between them, they twisted and strained until they managed to wrench off one of the legs. Something small and white dropped from the break and fell onto the ground. With a cry of triumph, the bushi holding the leg lifted it and shook it upside-down, scattering a little flurry of miniature scrolls cascading onto the ground. His companion threw away the remains of the tripod and dropped to on his knees in pursuit of this new prize.
Ganshige winced at the sight. He could remember, all too clearly, a warm night in Shiro Moto, one of the Unicorn festival days. Ushime, slightly drunk and giggling, sprawled on the mats in his chambers while he, rather drunker than he'd intended, did "Scorpion magic" to amuse her. He'd palmed her netsuke, pulled a flower from her ear (second try, she'd distracted him the first time), put a coin through a cloth. And he'd shown off the "ninja tools" the Scorpion had given him. Only the toys, the ones everyone knew and no-one relied on. A knife with a folding blade, a brush with a point, a secret cavity in a tripod leg. How could she have thought it was more than a game?
The Moto had descended on the scrolls like flies on honey, pulling them open with thick fingers, eagerly scanning the contents for proof of Ganshige's crimes. Zhangai's face was a mask of triumph; Ganshige's was simply a mask.
The first roar of coarse laughter caught Zhangai by surprise. It did not surprise Ganshige, but then Ganshige knew what those little scrolls were. Ushime's letters to him. All those little messages--some mundane, some poetic, some startlingly frank--she had favoured him with over their time together. It had amused her, when on duty in the southern watchtower, to roll them round arrows and shoot them in his window, like the heroines of the old tales from the Sands. Somehow he had not wanted to burn them, and they had been just the right size to slip inside the tripod. Ganshige did not have to hear the laughter, see the crude gestures of the bushi, to know that this was something Ushime would never forgive him. But then there was so much already she would never forgive.
The discovery of the letters seemed to mark the end of Ganshige's torment, at least for the moment. The bushi ambled back to their horses, with many chuckles and nudges and sly looks at the solitary mounted figure on the outskirts. Zhangai, red-faced, turned on his heel and stalked off to dance attendance on the senior magistrate, who was talking to Tsimare with some appearance of civility. Ganshige meanwhile stood rigidly upright, head high, refusing even to look at the wreckage before him. He would not give the Moto the satisfaction of seeing him bend.
At length the conversation was done; the magistrates mounted and led their men away, riding off down the road to the south. Still Ganshige did not bend, did not look down, though his eyes followed the departing horsemen. He would not stoop, he told himself, until their figures were lost in the dust, until there was no chance they might see.
He did not hear Tsimare's approach. "Ganshige-san, I must apologise." The tough old caravan-master sounded genuinely distressed. "I failed to protect you. I am shamed."
Ganshige returned the bow. "The fault is mine, Tsimare-san. It was I who brought them down upon us. I take full responsibility for any damage to your goods."
"The goods are my responsibility, Ganshige-san. As is your welfare. I should have--"
"You should have done exactly as you did. To bait us was their intent, and our deaths would have served no purpose. You did well."
Tsimare's eyes were still troubled. "There is more. Those men were on a mission--"
"I was aware of that."
"An official mission, from the Khan. There are bandit raiders reported to the south. They say the road is not safe. They suggested we turn east--there is an encampment half a day away. They offer...protection there."
"A Moto encampment." Ganshige made the obvious deduction.
"Indeed." Tsimare's voice betrayed his unhappiness at the prospect of being again at the mercy of the Moto.
The news made Ganshige no happier than Tsimare. He was silent a long moment, fighting against his own deductions. "I think," he said at last, "that we should take their advice."
"Do you not think it could be a trap?"
"If they desired to slaughter us, we would be dead by now. Likewise if they desired to rob us. I think you can trust in their protection."
"And what of you, Ganshige-san?" Tsimare asked quietly.
Ganshige paused, considering. The Moto might shrink from murder before witnesses, but an accident in camp was a very different matter. "You cannot put the caravan in danger for my sake."
"You should not risk yourself for me."
Ganshige bowed, admitting the truth of Tsimare's statement. "What will you do?" Tsimare asked.
"Before I decide, I must try to find out more."
When Tsimare had gone, Ganshige knelt and said a silent prayer over the shards of his grandfather's mask. Then he gathered up the pieces with reverent hands and set them in his satchel with his spell scrolls. Duty done, he left that place of anger and went to seek his oldest companions. Gentle as a lover, trustworthy as a mask, the air kami, as always, were waiting.
*
Tsimare was outraged when Ganshige spoke of his intention to ride after the Moto. "They'll shoot you down as soon as they see you!"
"They may try. If they do, I will at least know how the land lies."
"But why take such a risk?"
Ganshige shrugged. "What would you have me do, Tsimare-san? I face dangers on every side. At least this way I can find out which one is the greatest."
"Then at least let me ride with you." Tsimare managed a smile. "As you said, they did not try to kill me last time."
There was no graceful way to decline that, and so it was that Ganshige and Tsimare, mounted on the best available horses, found themselves setting out on the road south, in pursuit of answers.
*
By then, the Moto were little more than a cloud of dust on the southern horizon. But Ganshige had seen the telescope slung from the Moto leader's saddle, and it was not long before a smaller dust cloud detached itself from the larger and doubled back towards them. As it drew nearer, Ganshige spoke again to the air kami, drawing them to him with promises of prayers and offerings, holding them ready to unleash a blast of air that would turn aside arrows and, he hoped, stir up enough dust to hide their escape.
But it was but a single rider who emerged from the haze ahead. Ganshige relaxed and slowed his horse to a walk. With a prayer of thanks he released the mikokami from their service, but not too far. He had another task ahead for them.
The rider came closer. She had discarded the wolf's head mempo, but Ganshige would have known her at once anyway. He gestured for Tsimare to halt, and rode forth slowly to meet her, with only the kami to hear them.
Ushime no longer looked beautiful. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face pale and drawn even under its mask of dust. No hair fell below her helmet, which made her head look strangely small and vulnerable. Ganshige hoped she had just knotted it up, not cut it. She had so loved the wind in her hair.
Ushime made no move, no sound, simply waited while he rode up to her. Ganshige made the best bow he could manage on horseback.
"Ushime-san."
"Ganshige. Why are you here?"
"I am told that bandits threaten our passage south. I am told that your family offers sanctuary at an encampment to the east. I came to find if this was true."
She opened her mouth, closed it again, took a deep breath. Finally she spoke, her voice a harsh whisper. "I would rather the kites picked your bones than see you in my father's tent, but I too know how to obey. It is true. My word is my family's and our word is good. No harm will come to you while you are our guest."
In the silence that followed, Ganshige hear the kami whisper. She lies.
His expression never changed, though his heart turned over in that moment. "I thank you for your offer. And I want you to know that I never meant any hurt to you, and despite everything, I will always treasure the memory of our time together. If we had met in happier times--"
"If we had never met, Yogo-san, I would be happy." With that she turned her horse and set off to rejoin her clansmen.
*
Ganshige left the caravan two hours before nightfall, when it turned off the road onto the faint trail that led to the encampment. No one rode with him, though Tsimare had offered to come, or to send the best of his guards. Ganshige had turned the offer away with ruthless logic--one sword would do little against a dozen, and two were harder to hide than one. He had allowed Tsimare to give him a fresh horse, the best they had, and to furnish it with stores and gear to replace those the Moto had despoiled, but in truth he was eager to get away from the caravan and all it represented. Nothing good had come of his joining it, for him or others.
He rode fast, not on down the road but away to the west across the grasslands. He followed no trail, saw no landmarks and needed none. In time, when he called on them, the winds would lead him home. Right now, all he cared for was to get away, away from the road and its memories and away from the enemies that were no doubt hunting him. The Moto might boast they could track a mouse across their grasslands, but he had the kami to watch over him and the wind to hide his trail. Let them search.
When evening turned to nightfall he was in the middle of a vast emptiness, completely lost and happier than he had been since the day on the road, when he had heard the song of the plains again. It called to him, this land, this world of air and wind; it had come to feel more like home to him than the rocky hills of the Yogo. He made cold camp--no sense in courting danger--set his wards and said his prayers. He prayed to the kami of the plains, whose name he did not know--though that did not seem important; this was not a place for names. Two prayers, one for Ushime, that she should find the peace she deserved, and one for himself, that the land would remember him when he left, and welcome him when he returned.
Thoughts of leaving made him sad; thoughts of return made him shiver. He could not hide long in the plains, duty would find him where no enemy could follow. Soon, soon, he must return to his lord, make his report and accept his next command, and Ganshige had no doubt what his lord's command would be. Make them pay. Show the barbarians what it means to scorn a Scorpion. So soon, soon, he would have to return, to seek out Ushime and her family (who had offered back the betrayal he had given them) and destroy them, as they had sought to destroy him. Vengeance was his right, his duty to his lord, his grandfather, and all who had borne his name or worn his mask and yet, and yet...
She had landed no blow upon him. He had shamed her twice, once by design and once by mischance. If revenge was deserved, did she not deserve it? Zhangai had acted as an honourless boor, but he had done so to an honourable end, which Ganshige had denied him. Which dishonour was the greater? Ganshige, alone beneath the pitiless stars, finally accepted it did not matter. There was no justice in the clash of blades. There was no justice in vengeance. It was simply duty, and it was as hard as the ground beneath him and as cold as the night-wind. Almost he regretted not letting Zhangai kill him.
He lay long without sleeping, unable to rest, his thoughts flying this way and that like dust on the breeze, yet always returning to the same three places. The betrayal he had committed. The honourable death he had spurned. The vengeance he must take. When he slept, he slept badly, tossing in dreams of pain and loss, of Zhangai's sword and Ushime's eyes and the mocking laughter of the Moto bushi. It was almost with relief that he awoke to the beating of hooves and the cries of the air-kami. Ushime, he thought, still half-dreaming, and knew that in that place he could not resist her.
But the riders he saw, rushing out of the fading night like the spirits of the plains themselves, were not Ushime, and Ganshige was still Scorpion enough, Yogo enough not to set aside the cup before the draught was drunk. He called to his friends, his only friends and they embraced him gently and bore him away.
The raiders were surprised to find a single saddle-horse alone on the plains, far from any camp or trail. But they were practical men, and not disposed to refuse good fortune. They searched briefly for a rider or other booty and then rode off into the sunlight, their mounts scattering clods and tufts of grass behind them as they ran.
Their trail had faded, half-reclaimed by the grass, when Zhangai's troop, fresh trophies swinging at their saddle-bows, came upon the place days later. The trackers dismounted and tried to make sense of the tangle of foot and hoofprints. As they stood there, silent, wondering, a voice came to them out of the grasses. A man's voice. "Forgive me."
They all heard it, even Zhangai. The bushi looked around wildly for an ambush. Ushime bit her lip and almost called an answer. But all that came to any of them was the lonely song of the wind on the plains.
* * *