The sight of the decapitated rōnin didn’t upset Ayumi nearly as much as the painful memories that it evoked: decades-old memories of her childhood home littered with headless corpses and severed limbs, the paved stones of its central courtyard caked in a thick layer of dried blood. She rarely thought about such things anymore, but the sight of the dead samurai brought this ancient trauma flooding back. It wasn’t so much the violence itself that she found distressing; it was the terrible stillness that inevitably came in its aftermath that always drove Ayumi to despair. This moment was no exception. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep from remembering the silent piles of loyal samurai who’d once served her family with honor and distinction, left to rot in the garden where Ayumi and her brothers had once played onigokko among the cherry trees.

She put her old pain aside as best she could, and continued to scan the execution grounds for Kenshin. She breathed a sigh of relief when she finally spotted him, sitting on a low stone wall with his head in his hands. She began to navigate her way across the square towards her husband, cutting a path which ran perpendicular to the crushing swell of onlookers jockeying for a better view. Ayumi could sense the hushed malevolence that was coursing through the crowd, as two eta dragged the body away, while a third went to retrieve the head. The Shishi prisoners stood nearby, their eyes filled with the hope that perhaps this disturbance might buy them another day’s reprieve. Nearby, Takamine Taro wiped the blood from his sword while several of his men yanked the foreign prisoner to his feet. Taro’s smirking lieutenant crossed the execution grounds, drew one of his pistols and pressed its barrel against the foreigner’s temple.

Ayumi approached her husband and sat down beside him.

“Kenshin… Kenshin, what happened?”

He looked up at her, regret in his eyes. “I didn’t know.”

“What?”

“He said he would put an end to the standoff. I didn’t know what he was planning to do.”

“Kenshin...”

A loud clatter traveled through the crowd, as three dozen armored Ishida soldiers marched towards the execution grounds. They stopped ten paces from the Sabakugumi, and the two groups of samurai eyed one another with suspicion. Naitō Nobuhiro and Takamine Taro emerged from their respective groups, pausing briefly to size one another up before meeting in the impromptu no-man’s land. The tension between the soldiers and the police force grew thicker with each passing moment, the Ishida samurai terribly outnumbered by Taro and his rōnin, yet equally formidable with their superior weapons and armor.

Ayumi stood, hoping to get a better view. The brief conference between Taro and Nobuhiro was tense, but cordial. The two men bowed to one another out of obligation and then parted ways, Taro going to confer with his pistol-toting lieutenant, while a bystander pointed Nobuhiro in Kenshin’s direction. Ayumi heard a groan emerge from her husband as Nobuhiro began walking towards them.

“Nobuhiro-sama,” Kenshin stood and bowed. “I delayed the foreigner’s execution until your arrival, just as you asked.”

“I don’t recall asking for this,” Nobuhiro scowled, gesturing towards the headless body being carried away. The Ishida commander retrieved a cigarette from a pouch that hung from the faulds of his armor. “I should never have entrusted you with this task. Lord Ishida will hear of your failure.”

“Failure?!” Kenshin blurted. “Nobuhiro-sama, I… I deeply regret not being able to save the boy, but… What matters is that Reardon is still alive!”

Nobuhiro shook his head as he struck a match across the hilt of his katana. “Not for long.”

Ayumi turned to look, just in time to see a group of eta pull down another cross from the hillside, while a pair of Sabakugumi proceeded to drag the foreigner by his throat up towards it. The crowd began to jeer and shout in approval.

She turned back towards Nobuhiro. “You’re not going to stop it?”

Nobuhiro lit his cigarette, and exhaled a lungful of smoke. “Not anymore,” he muttered as he extinguished the match with a wave of his hand.

Kenshin balked. “But... Terutsugu was insistent—”

“To hell with Terutsugu,” Nobuhiro spat. “Look around you. A samurai is dead at a foreigner’s hands. These people want blood. Only a fool would stand in their way. My men cannot quell a riot of this size.”

The Sabakugumi tied the struggling foreigner to the prone cross. Hibiki chuckled to himself as he supervised, absentmindedly twirling his pistol. Ayumi watched in horror; she certainly had no love for this brutish Texian criminal, but if what Kenshin told her was true, the fate of the Ishida Clan may well rest in his barbarous hands. And yet, Nobuhiro was right — stopping the execution now may light a spark that would set Akaishi Province ablaze with revolution. Ayumi stood by and watched, helpless.

“Lord Ishida needs the prisoner alive!" Kenshin insisted. "He must be questioned, you said so yourself! You must stop this!”

“Only Takamine Taro can stop the execution now,” Nobuhiro retorted. “And I assure you, he won’t listen to me.”

Memories of Ayumi’s devastated childhood home once again forced their way into her mind. She glanced up at Akaishi Castle, and remembered the debt that she owed to Lord Ishida Tadashi. He was her liege lord, yes; and as such, she was sworn to serve him. But her debt to her lord ran far deeper than mere fealty. After the fall of Oukangen, Lord Ishida had risked everything to conceal Ayumi here in the desert. It was a debt she could never begin to repay. She grit her teeth and made a decision.

“But Taro might listen to me.”

“What?” Nobuhiro exclaimed, as if only just now noticing Ayumi’s presence. “You?! Don’t be ridiculous. What makes you think—?”

“Are you sure?” Kenshin asked her, concern on his face, fully understanding the gravity of her decision. Ayumi nodded, and unconsciously clutched the medallion under her kimono. Nobuhiro just laughed in disbelief, his guffaws sending cigarette smoke in her direction. The Ishida commander turned and marched back to his men, laughing all the way.

“Ayumi, you don’t have to do this.” Kenshin placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll be putting your safety at risk for the sake of a degenerate and a criminal.”

She placed her own hand over his. “I’m not doing it for him.”

Kenshin let out a solemn sigh. “Then you’d better hurry.” He untied the katana from his obi, and handed the sheathed sword to Ayumi. “Your degenerate is running out of time.”

She nodded, and took her father’s sword from her husband’s outstretched hand. Then she reached into the folds of her kimono, and lifted the medallion over her head. Kenshin gave her a supportive nod as Ayumi turned and pushed her way through the crowd. By now the prisoner was firmly secured to the cross, shouting in his guttural language, while the eta prepared to hoist him up onto the hillside. Ayumi reached the edge of the crowd and continued onward, towards the ring of Sabakugumi sentries. The guards raised their weapons as she approached.

“Stop right there!” one of them barked.

Ayumi held her arms out to her sides, her father’s sheathed sword in one hand, her medallion in the other.

“I will speak with Takamine Taro.”

“Get back!”

Ayumi took a defiant step forward. “My name is Ukita Ayumi. But I was once known as Akutagawa Masako, daughter of Akutagawa Tokimasa, Lord of Oukangen Province.” She held her hand out and offered her medallion which displayed her family crest: four wide diamonds, each with a smaller diamond nested inside. “Show this to Takamine Taro.”

The Sabakugumi guard looked uncertain for a moment, then scoffed. “Nonsense. The Akutagawas are dead.”

Ayumi shook her head. “Not all of them.”

A murmur passed through the crowd, and Ayumi could hear the name “Akutagawa” repeated more than once. Meanwhile the eta dragged the foreigner’s cross up the hill, while the condemned man sputtered and shouted at them in his native tongue. Ayumi held her ground, still offering the medallion. The uncertain guard glanced around, as the news of Ayumi’s true identity spread through the crowd.

“Pardon me,” came a polite voice from Ayumi’s right. Another Sabakugumi guard approached Ayumi, and bowed. He was a young man with a kind, open face. As the young guard straightened, an uncertain smile spread across his face. He reached out his hand.

“May I?”

Ayumi nodded and handed the medallion to the newcomer, while the disagreeable guard looked at him askance. She waited as the young man examined the medallion closely, turning it over in his hands. Suddenly his eyes widened with recognition, and he fell to one knee, holding the medallion out in offering to her.

“Lady Akutagawa! Forgive my previous impertinence, I wasn’t certain that, that…” The flustered guard trailed off, and cleared his throat. “My name is Yasuda Ryo, son of Yasuda Tokuzo. My father and uncle both had the honor of serving House Akutagawa at the Battle of—”

“Their service is appreciated,” Ayumi interrupted, “but we don’t have time to discuss family histories at the moment.” She closed the young sentry’s hands around the medallion, and gestured towards Bill Reardon, whose cross was being hoisted into a vertical position and secured to the hill. Ryo stood, and bowed three times in rapid succession.

“Of course. Of course! Please, wait here Lady Akutagawa!”

Ryo turned and ran towards Takamine Taro, holding the medallion with both hands. Hibiki intercepted the young samurai and barked questions at him, too indistinct for Ayumi to hear. After a while Taro took notice of the argument, walked over, and began to question Ryo. The young guard handed the medallion to Taro, who turned it over in his hands, examining it. Taro asked a question, and Ryo gestured towards Ayumi.

Behind them, the eta were reaching for their spears, preparing to execute the foreigner. Taro scrutinized Ayumi from afar, then turned his scrutiny back towards the medallion. Ayumi waited at the edge of the crowd, suddenly aware of her posture, struggling to remember the lessons Lady Miho taught her as a child. Finally Taro shouted a command at the eta, who stopped and lowered their spears. The condemned foreigner breathed a visible sigh of relief, then immediately began to laugh, mocking his executioners.

Taro walked to the edge of the crowd, and approached Ayumi. He stopped and regarded her for a moment, before finally handing the medallion back.

“I suppose you expect me to bow,” Taro scoffed.

“What I expect is the repayment of a debt which remains unsettled,” Ayumi said, “a debt you failed to honor when my father died.”

“If you truly are who you claim to be.”

Without another word Ayumi held out her father’s sword, handle first. Taro hesitated a moment, then yanked the blade from its sheath. He examined it skeptically, turning it over his hands, looking down the blade, testing its balance. Ayumi waited, as the famous samurai turned away from her and took a few precise swings of a sword which was arguably more famous than even he was. The sword was named Shinjitsu-giri, forged by the legendary swordsmith Nagasone Kotetsu more than 200 years ago, passed down by generations of Akutagawas. As far as history was concerned, the sword had disappeared after the Siege of Oukangen, and was presumed destroyed.

Taro was very familiar with Shinjitsu-giri, having served under Ayumi’s father during the war, and had even wielded the famous sword for a short time after her father’s death. Taro’s skepticism seemed to melt away as he swung the weapon, taking it though entire routine of strikes and parries and feints. Finally Taro looked up from the blade, and gave Ayumi a long look of reluctant acknowledgement.

“Your father was a good man,” Taro sighed, re-sheathing the sword and returning it to her. “A wise man.” Taro looked back at the jabbering foreigner, then again at Ayumi. He shook his head in disbelief. “You must take after your mother.”

Taro turned to Ryo, who stood a safe distance away.

“Untie him. All further executions are hereby suspended.”

Ryo bowed deeply, then turned to the eta and began barking orders. Within moments the foreigner was untied, causing large pockets of the crowd to mutter to one another in disbelief. Meanwhile the foreigner rubbed his wrists, a look of amusement on his face, as though he never believed himself to be in danger. Gradually, the indigence of the assembled onlookers began to grow, and before long they were shouting obscenities at Taro, their shared anger and frustration boiling over. Surrounded, Ayumi held her father’s sheathed sword in her hand, and briefly wondered if she would need to wield it once more, just as she did at the fall of Oukangen.

Ayumi felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked back to find Kenshin standing at her side. Taro shouted commands at his men, ignoring the reaction of the crowd. The Sabakugumi guards spun their prisoners around, and began to march them back towards the prison, the foreigner included. Satisfied that his orders were being followed, Taro broke off from the group and headed back towards Ayumi. The shouting coming from behind her intensified for a moment, but one look from Taro silenced most of them. Ayumi could understand why — Taro was intimidating even when he wasn’t particularly trying to be, and at the moment, he was angrier than she’d ever seen a man. Taro stopped and stared at the two of them in turn; first Kenshin, then Ayumi.

“Consider the debt repaid,” he spat. For a brief moment he just looked back and forth between the two of them, and it took every ounce of Ayumi’s will to return his gaze. Then Taro turned, and followed the rest of his men out of the plaza. Kenshin stirred uncomfortably beside her, in a familiar way which meant he was working up his courage for something. Finally he steeled himself, and shouted at Taro’s back.

“What was his name?”

The Sabakugumi commander stopped, and turned.

“What?”

“The boy,” Kenshin gestured towards the headless corpse of the Sabakugumi guard, which the eta were now carrying away. “What was his name?”

Taro looked annoyed, as if the very question was an affront to him.

“I don’t have the slightest idea.”

* * *

Yoshio rolled his shoulders from side to side in a futile attempt to dislodge the bead of sweat which had invaded his upper back, and now seemed to be gradually burrowing a hole into the skin between his shoulder blades. The itch asserted itself there beneath his armor, where neither sword nor scratching implement could penetrate. It was just one of several nuisances that plagued him during his shift outside the castle gates, and in his boredom he’d taken to ranking them. Boredom was currently at number five.

At the very top of that list, more bothersome than the heat or the boredom or the unscratchable itch, was the endless bickering of his fellow sentries. Not that it was unusual for the guards to pass the time by discussing current events; it’s just that in Yoshio’s experience, the more interesting the events, the less interesting the conversation.

“Lord Ishida demands unquestioned loyalty and obedience from his own men, and yet he himself does not obey the Taikō’s laws!”

“The law merely states that foreigners may not enter our borders without the Taikō’s written permission…”

“Under penalty of death!”

“…And Lord Ishida issued a proper execution order in accordance with the law. What the law does not specify, however, is the swiftness with which such a sentence must be carried out.”

“Nor does it say that a daimyo must be the one to deliver the Taikō’s justice. His lordship had no grounds to interfere with the barbarian’s execution. Takamine Taro was well within his rights as a loyal subject of the bakufu—”

“Taro is loyal only to to himself, just as you are!” The sentry unconsciously lowered the tip of his spear. “How dare you question the judgment of our liege lord?”

“Hold your tongues, both of you!” That was Ichimonji, the head of the watch. Yoshio looked over his shoulder and saw his bedraggled superior in his usual spot, leaning in the shady corner where castle gate met stone wall, his armor only half-buckled, his helmet pushed forward over his eyes. He looked as though he’d had a bit too much saké to drink the previous night, a common affliction with Ichimonji. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

“So sorry, Ichimonji,” one of the debaters — a fat-faced young samurai named Ujiteru — jeered as he offered a cursory bow. “It’s just that I have a very hard time understanding Lord Ishida’s decisions of late.”

“Understanding?” Ichimonji chortled as he pushed his helmet away from his eyes, forcing himself into a vertical position as he scratched his scraggly beard. “Since when does Lord Ishida require your understanding? Or your approval?”

“Of course,” Ujiteru reluctantly bowed again, indignation in his eyes. “Forgive me, sir.”

Ichimonji stood in silence for a moment, letting the tension hang in the air. Then he shambled out to join the rest of the men, squinting in the harsh sunlight. A wry grin spread across Ichimonji’s face as he clasped Ujiteru on his shoulder.

“No need for apologies, Ujiteru. We all lose faith in our masters from time to time. After all, no one can deny that our lord’s actions can sometimes seem mysterious.” Ichimonji staggered a few paces away from the gates, then spun on his heels to address the group, leaning on the scabbard of his katana to steady himself. “Why at this very moment, by our lord’s decree, we all find ourselves assigned to sentry duty, locked in glorious battle with heat and tedium, so that we may defend this impenetrable fortress and its indestructible gate from no one in particular!”

The samurai all chuckled at this characterization, even both of the men who, just moments earlier, had been at each others’ throats. Yoshio marveled at how deftly Ichimonji had defused their conflict — for all his faults, the head of the watch certainly had a skill for enlivening the morale of his men.

“On the other hand,” Ichimonji continued, “just because there are no enemies at the gates, does that give us grounds to abandon our post? Ridiculous! Each of us is bound by blood-oath to carry out the orders we are given, without question! If a plague were to exterminate all life on the Earth save for us nine, honor demands that we still be here the following morning, defending these gates from the sun and the moon and the stars in the sky.”

“Just promise us we’ll have shorter shifts!”

Their laughter was so uproarious, many of the sentries didn’t notice Ukita Kenshin approaching the gates. The laughter stopped altogether when they saw Kenshin’s companion.

“Well hello there, Kenshin-san!” Ichimonji rasped, deliberately ignoring the figure who shuffled a few steps behind the translator, and the unease that accompanied him. “It’s good to see you again! We were just discussing your recent adventure at the execution grounds, you’re the talk of the town!”

“Yes, I’m well aware. Unpleasant bit of business, that.”

“Even more unpleasant for the man who lost his head, eh?” Ichimonji slapped Kenshin on the shoulder, much to the translator’s annoyance. “Funny how the world manages to keep itself in balance. You spare the foreigner, and the gods take Taro’s man in payment.”

“Let us pray they consider it a fair trade.”

As the two samurai exchanged pleasantries, Yoshio’s focus remained on the silent figure who stood behind Kenshin. He was a komusō monk, one of the most revered — and mistrusted — figures in all the realm. Like all komusō, Kenshin’s companion wore a basket of woven reeds over his head that obscured his face, the intended purpose of which was to achieve enlightenment through the obliteration of the self, but in practice only served as convenient disguise for all manner of thieves and assassins. The anonymous holy men were a common sight on the streets of Akaishi-juku, playing their shakuhachi flutes for alms in the town’s markets and thoroughfares. But no one knew for certain what proportion of komusō were true devotees of Zen Buddhism, and what percentage were rank counterfeits. In Yoshio’s experience this ratio was probably much smaller than people suspected, having never once seen one of the holy men behave in a manner that was even the slightest bit nefarious. But then, there’s no harm in being cautious, and the monks themselves didn’t seem to mind the scrutiny. After all, the komusō were always treated with great respect — albeit, from as great a distance as possible.

After a sufficient quota of small talk had been satisfied, Ichimonji finally acknowledged the monk, casting a dubious glance in its direction. “Looks’s though you’ve picked up a stray.”

“No no, Ichimonji," Kenshin insisted, “the monk is with me. As you’re no doubt aware, Lord Ishida has fallen ill, and Captain Nobuhiro thought the komusō’s music might raise his lordship’s spirits. I have his clearance right here.”

Kenshin retrieved a small scroll from his kimono and presented it to Ichimonji, who struggled to examine the document as he blinked the sleep from his eyes.

“A komusō in the castle?” Ichimonji blurted. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. It’s expressly forbidden…”

“The monk’s pass is signed by Nobuhiro himself, as you can plainly see.”

Ichimonji read the document again, then shot another sidelong glance towards the komusō, who simply stood there waiting, flute in hand. To Yoshio’s eye, there was something strange about the monk’s posture, some intangible incongruity that was raising alarms in his mind. Most komusō had the slumped shoulders and hunched back of a man humbled before the world, a man who spent his days sitting on the dusty ground playing his flute and relying on the generosity of passers-by. But this monk’s body language said… well, something entirely different. Yoshio just couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. He didn’t dare voice his concerns, so he was glad when Ichimonji voiced them first, handing the scroll back to the translator.

“I don’t know about this, Kenshin. I’d argue that the presence of Nobuhiro’s signature on this document does more to cast suspicion onto Nobuhiro than it does to absolve suspicion of this monk.”

Kenshin raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, Ichimonji, but didn’t I just overhear you speaking to your men about the importance of obedience? Your own misgivings are immaterial — I have signed authorization from your superior that compels you to admit us.”

Ichimonji seemed taken aback at first, but he quickly caught himself. He began to laugh, shaking his head.

“How right you are, Kenshin! Truly, I’m that fool who can’t take his own advice!” Ichimonji waved toward the embrasures to the unseen samurai beyond the gates. “Open the—!”

“Why not have him play his flute?”

Ichimonji was stunned into silence, as he and Kenshin each turned towards the source of the question. Yoshio wondered to himself which of his fellow sentries would be fool enough to stick his nose into the matter, until he came to the horrifying realization that the words had come out of his own mouth.

“What?” Kenshin blurted, taken aback. “What?!” he repeated, forcefully this time. “What did you say?”

Yoshio bowed, casting his eyes towards the dusty ground. “So sorry Kenshin-sama. It’s just…” He gulped. There was no going back now. “It’s just that the komusō are renowned for their skill with the shakuhachi flute. If he truly is a holy man, I’m sure his proficiency will be immediately apparent.”

Kenshin let Yoshio’s suggestion hang in the air for a moment, then he took several paces towards Yoshio, bringing himself toe-to-toe with the sentry, towering over him.

“What’s your name, samurai?”

“Yoshio, sir.” He bowed again.

“Yoshio, are you an expert in honkyoku music?”

“I…” Yoshio wilted under Kenshin’s scrutiny. “I didn’t mean to suggest—”

“Clearly you seem to believe that you are. Perhaps you can tell us, exactly what qualifies you to distinguish between a master shakuhachi player and a talented amateur?”

“I… I simply meant—”

Kenshin turned his back on Yoshio, not the least bit interested in the sentry’s response. “Ichimonji, I commend your efforts to quell insubordination within your ranks, but it would seem you still have some work ahead of you. Now… do you intend to open the gates? Or shall we summon Nobuhiro and see how he feels about all this?”

Ichimonji wasted no time: the command was given, the gates were opened, and Kenshin and his komusō companion disappeared into the castle just as quickly as they’d arrived. It was a long while before Yoshio dared look up again, to see the foul expression on Ichimonji’s face.

“We’ll discuss this later,” Ichimonji grumbled. “When my head isn’t pounding.”

Ichimonji returned to his favorite corner and pushed his helmet over his eyes, leaving Yoshio to contemplate the knot in his stomach, and where it ranked against the heat and the boredom and the unscratchable itch.

* * *

“I feel like a damn fool in this getup.”

“Then it suits you,” Kenshin whispered. “Now keep quiet.”

Bill Reardon adjusted his headgear for the hundredth time, struggling to peer through the narrow slot in the front where the latticework was spaced ever-so-slightly farther apart, theoretically serving as its visor. This had been difficult enough in the light of day, but now that they were past the castle gates and within the torchlit labyrinth that lay beneath the castle, Reardon found it impossible to see where he was going. He just shuffled forward, relying on Kenshin to guide him, careful to keep his stride short to prevent himself from falling on his face.

He still couldn’t believe all it took to sneak into the castle was to throw a basket over his head, but when Kenshin had presented his plan the previous night in Reardon’s cell, he’d assured him that it would work. “It is a grave offense to unmask a komusō under any circumstance,” he’d explained as he presented Reardon the monk’s robes, flute, and beehive-shaped headgear. “Your identity will not be discovered.”

“I know I asked for a new hat,” Reardon had said when he’d first taken the basket in his hands, “but this ain’t exactly what I had in mind.”

The whole thing seemed more than a little silly, but he knew he had no choice but to follow Kenshin’s instructions for now. No matter how much it irritated him, it was clear that he’d need the translator’s help if he was going to negotiate with Lord Ishida. But at the moment, that help was proving more than a little inadequate, as Reardon struggled to navigate through the tunnels by the constantly shifting light of Kenshin’s torch.

“Ow!” Reardon grunted as he slammed his sandaled toes into a sandstone wall that’d snuck up on him. “Son of a—”

Kenshin quickly shushed him, as he spotted a pair of samurai coming in the opposite direction. Reardon could barely see between the reeds of his headgear, but he could hear them muttering to each other in the hushed tones of men who held secrets as dangerous as their swords. Their whispers came to a halt when they noticed the tender-toed monk. Kenshin bowed to the samurai as they passed, while Reardon endured his injury in silence, gritting his teeth and gripping the flute behind his back like a cudgel. Thus far, none of the previous passers-by had confronted them, but now that these samurai were up-close, Reardon could see that they wore officious expressions that suggested they might enjoy enforcing a longstanding ban on suspicious holy men. But neither of them seemed eager to be the one to take the initiative — they exchanged sidelong glances, each waiting for the other to confront the monk. They passed without a word spoken, and it wasn’t long before the pair of samurai disappeared into the darkness once again. Reardon relaxed his grip on the flute, and felt the blood rush back into his fingers.

“This’s one hell of a disguise you picked out,” Reardon grumbled as he rubbed his toes. “Y’do understand the whole point of a disguise is to blend in, yes?” Kenshin’s only response was to shush him again, and they resumed their trek upward through the bowels of the butte.

They walked for what seemed like an hour, twisting through an endless series of corridors and stairwells and chambers, past stone hallways that echoed with the distant sounds of woodworking or bladesmithing or excavation, others that issued the faint scents of gunpowder or yeast or salted fish. Every so often they arrived at a checkpoint where an official would re-verify Kenshin’s paperwork while a retinue of guards looked on with suspicion. These encounters went much the same as the one at the main gates, the commander clucking disapprovingly at Kenshin’s scroll but ultimately allowing them to pass, into another steep stairwell that led up to the next series of corridors.

It wasn’t until the fifth or sixth of these stairwells that Reardon noticed the slight draft that would occasionally waft down from above. He craned his neck as best he could, and he spotted the holes that were bored into the ceiling, spaced at regular intervals roughly ten paces apart, each about the size of a man’s fist. Reardon’s imagination ran wild with visions of boiling liquids being poured through those holes onto the heads of some invading army, flushing them back down from where they came. In the end, he supposed it was far more likely that the holes were simply used for ventilation, but the thought of being boiled alive in those tunnels remained with Reardon through the rest of the climb. His mind wandered back to his childhood, when his favorite pastime had been to pour boiling water down the mouths of ant hills and watch the devastation that would follow. Once, Bill had asked one of the nuns if God felt a similar thrill when He sent floods and earthquakes to the earth, but she only gave him a good thrashing as her answer. He remembered wondering whether the nun felt the thrill too, when she beat him.

A glimpse of sunlight snapped Bill Reardon’s focus back to the present as Kenshin led him into a bright, high-ceilinged chamber. Unlike the mostly-empty corridors below, this room was brimming with activity — one side of the chamber opened into a wide, gentle staircase, and through his visor Reardon could make out dozens of figures moving up and down the steps, many of them hauling boxes and bushels and God-knows-what. The remaining walls were lined with about a dozen arched doorways, each flanked by its own pair of samurai guards. Sunlight spilled down the broad sandstone steps, so Kenshin smothered his torch in a standing pail of ash, grabbed Reardon by the arm and guided him into the crowd.

They fell in behind an ornate palanquin — apparently empty, considering the ease with which the two servants carried it — and followed it all the way up the stairs to the castle grounds. The heat grew more intense with each step, and inside his reed basket Reardon felt as though he were suffocating on his own breath. When they reached the the top and stepped out into the withering sunlight, it took every ounce of willpower for Reardon to keep himself from tearing the damned thing off his head. But when he spotted the unmistakable outline of the castle’s central keep — the one he’d seen from that ridge a week earlier, with its towering white walls and its stacked set of red-tiled roofs with the curled corners — his resolve strengthened. After robbing the First Bank of El Paso, braving the Akaishi desert, enduring a Fusōnese prison and facing down Taro’s posse of executioners, Bill Reardon knew that very soon the fruits of his efforts would ripen in the audience chamber of Lord Ishida Tadashi.

Twenty minutes and seven checkpoints later, that’s exactly where he was taken. Their escort slid the doors shut and went back downstairs, leaving Reardon and Kenshin alone on the highest floor of the castle’s tallest tower. Reardon ripped the basket off his head without waiting for an all-clear from Kenshin. He wiped the sheen of perspiration from his face with his sleeve, gulping down the fresh air. When he finally got the sweat out of his eyes, he was surprised at what he saw; Ishida Tadashi’s audience chamber was remarkably austere. There was a low throneless dais at the far end of the room, and propped against the wall behind it stood a suit of armor which (Reardon assumed) belonged to Tadashi himself. Otherwise, the room was completely empty. Its dark wooden floor was oiled to a sheen from wall to wall, as were the thick wooden posts that held up the roof, and the wooden slats that shuttered the windows. Considering the dry climate, Reardon couldn’t help but wonder about the amount of effort that must’ve been required to keep the room looking the way it did — not to mention the amount of wood polish.

Kenshin walked to the center of the room and pointed to a spot on the floor in front of the dais. “Kneel,” he commanded. Reardon rolled his eyes, but he did as he was told; by now he was accustomed to being bossed around by the persnickety translator. That’s the last command you ever give me, samurai. You, or anyone else. That morning, Bill Reardon had awoken a prisoner. By day’s end he’d be a kingmaker.

Kenshin chose his own place on the floor, off to one side and at right angles to the dais. They knelt in silence for a while as Reardon continued to wipe the sweat from his brow, trying to hide the fact that he was still catching his breath. Now that he was off his feet, he was beginning to realize just how exhausting the climb had been. Yet when he glanced at Kenshin, the samurai knelt as collected as could be, not a drop of sweat on his face. Course, he hadn’t made the climb with a damned bassinet on his head.

Minutes passed before Bill Reardon felt rested enough to speak.

“So when’s the boss get here?”

Kenshin glanced at him with only his eyes, regarding Reardon like a schoolboy who’d spoken out of turn. The samurai cast his gaze forward again, ignoring the question.

“What then, we just wait? ‘Cause frankly, I sorta got my fill of the whole sitting-in-silence thing back in my cell...” When Kenshin ignored him, Reardon shook his head. “You people must have some ways to pass the time ’sides starin’ at the walls.”

Kenshin continued to stare at the wall. Reardon threw up his hands.

“Know any good jokes, at least? Parlor games? Ghost stories? Dirty limericks?” That’s when Reardon remembered the strange musical instrument he still held in his hand. A grin spread across his face. “I know...”

Fffwwwaaaaaaaaaaa— Reardon placed his fingers on the flute at random and blew. The sour sound that came out the other end was finally enough to get Kenshin’s attention.

“Stop that!”

“Stop what? I’m the famous kimono monk, remember? Greatest flutenist in all the land!” He blew again, this time wiggling his fingers over the holes all at once, tilting his head back and forth to an imaginary rhythm. Fffwwaaa-oo-iiiiyyyy-aaaa-oo-thffff-ooo-aaa...

“You’d be wise to show some respect, you nitwit,” Kenshin exclaimed over the cacophony. “Lord Ishida will be here any—”

BOOM! A thud shook the floor, cutting right through Reardon’s “music”. He nearly dropped the flute in surprise when a section of the wall slid aside in the corner of the room. Two boys of about twelve entered, each carrying some small wooden furnishing that Reardon couldn’t identify. They placed their thingums on the dais and scurried back through the hidden doorway, and in the space beyond it Reardon could see an armored honor guard slam the butt of his staff into the wooden floor. BOOM!

Next came two aristocratic-looking samurai. In the lead was was a smallish man in his late thirties, wearing an elaborate suit of armor and a helmet with a gold crescent-moon on its brow. The samurai walked with the cunning watchfulness and rigid posture of a man who’d clearly been tempered by warfare; if Takamine Taro was made of the hardest stone, then this man was made of the sharpest steel. Behind him walked a fat old samurai in a loose-fitting kimono, as soft as the other man was steely. His swords clattered uselessly at his side, and he fanned his sweaty face as he went. Bill Reardon was happy to see that at least one other person in the castle who was affected by the heat.

As the two samurai knelt across from Kenshin, a third man appeared in the doorway. He was the youngest-looking of the three, resplendent in several layers of elaborately embroidered robes. At first Reardon thought this might be Lord Ishida, until he saw that no one had reacted to the man’s arrival in any way. The newcomer looked Reardon up and down with suspicion, then took his place on the floor next to the dais. There was a long silence, and Reardon was about to speak when the honor guard slammed his staff into the floor again. BOOM!

And suddenly there was Lord Ishida Tadashi. There was no mistaking him — the man who entered the audience chamber had a palpable air of authority, validated by the bows that each samurai bent in his direction. Bill Reardon didn’t bow, but unconsciously he set the flute on the floor like a child told to put away his toys. Lord Ishida walked to the dais and sat crosslegged, removing his swords. With ritualistic grace, he placed the weapons on one of the strange wooden furnishings, which Reardon now understood to be a sword stand. Then he faced the room and leaned forward on the other wooden googaw — an armrest, apparently — and there was a long silence as Bill Reardon and Ishida Tadashi scrutinized one another.

The Lord of Akaishi looked to be about forty, based on the traces of grey in his hair, and in his wispy pike-devant beard. The top of his head was shaved in that strange samurai way. He wore simpler robes than the man who knelt beside the dais (his brother, Reardon speculated, the resemblance was undeniable) and he wore no jewelry, no crest, no symbols to signify his position. All that served to identify him as the Lord of Akaishi was the steel in his eyes, and the force of his will. But Reardon thought he could detect a weariness hidden behind that imperious gaze. Given what he knew of the Ishida Clan’s troubles, Reardon couldn’t say he was surprised to see hints of weakness in this otherwise powerful man. In fact, he was counting on it.

Lord Ishida reached into the folds of his robes, and retrieved a pouch made of raw canvas, tied with twine. Reardon recognized it instantly. The Lord of Akaishi loosened the twine, and threw the pouch. It landed in front of Reardon with a clank, and a handful of rectangular silver ingots spilled out onto the floor. Each bar of silver was engraved with the same symbol: six circles, in three sets of two, each with a small square nested inside. Lord Ishida pointed at the sack full of silver, and calmly asked a question.

“Where did you get that?” Kenshin translated.

Reardon made a face. “What, no formal introductions?”

Kenshin clenched his jaw. He exchanged a few words with Ishida Tadashi, and also with the man who might be Tadashi’s brother. Kenshin turned to address Reardon again.

“Where did you get that?” he repeated.

Reardon cleared his throat, and gathered himself. “First Bank of El Paso. In the vault, to be specific. But you already knew that, didn’t you Chief? What you really oughtta be asking is, where’d they get it?” Reardon held up one of the silver ingots, and presented the crest that was engraved upon it. “All’a that Sanada silver in a Texas bank… mighty peculiar, if y’ask me.”

Kenshin’s eyebrows raised a fraction. “You’re familiar with the mon of the Sanada Clan?”

Reardon shrugged, feigning modesty. A month ago he wouldn’t have known the Sanada Clan’s crest from the Texian flag, but that was before Gustave Lavoisier had set him onto this score. It was Lavoisier who’d sold him the tip about the First Bank of El Paso’s recent influx of silver bullion. Not only that, he’d told Reardon where the silver had come from, and why. If Gustave had only known where that bit of information would take me.

Kenshin and Lord Ishida had a brief exchange. “You’re very well informed, for a bandit,” Kenshin said.

“I try to be. ’Specially when there’s profit in it. I mean hell, it’s plain to see your country’s on the brink. Don’t take no genius to see that. That’s the kind of chaos that breeds opportunity... for all of us.”

Lord Tadashi scoffed as he spoke. “What do you know of our country?” Kenshin translated.

“I know plenty, Chief. I know the coastal clans get more powerful every year — all that Mashita gold and Sanada silver buys a whole lotta influence, not to mention a whole lotta samurai. And I know the Taikō can’t do nothin’ about it, not without looking like a tyrant, turnin’ the rest of the clans against him.”

As Kenshin translated, Reardon could see Lord Ishida’s expression change, from skepticism to something that vaguely resembled acknowledgement. Seems Gustave was onto something.

“The only thing keepin’ the coastal lords in line,” Reardon continued, “is they ain’t got the firepower to face the Taikō head-on.” Reardon held up the ingot and shook it. “Till now.”

Lord Ishida nodded as he put the pieces together. He and his three advisors had a long discussion, while Reardon and Kenshin waited. The hook’s been baited. Now let’s see if this fish bites.

Finally, Lord Ishida addressed Reardon again. “So,” Kenshin translated, “the Sanada Clan is purchasing arms in Texas.”

“You guessed it, Chief! But that’s not the best part…” Reardon leaned in, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. Lord Ishida leaned in as well, listening intently despite the language barrier. “I’ve got proof!”

Kenshin translated, and Lord Ishida squinted skeptically.

“What proof?”

“A bill of sale. Or an invoice, or a manifest, or some damned thing. I wouldn’t know the difference anyway. All I know is, it’s a piece of paper that lists every firearm and piece of artillery set to be sold to the Sanada Clan. It’s got signatures and seals and everything. I found it in a lockbox at that very same bank. Leave it to bureaucrats to document their own illicit arms deals.”

There was another long conference. Naturally Bill Reardon didn’t understand a word, but he could feel Lord Ishida struggling to restrain his excitement.

“Where is this manifest?” Kenshin asked.

“Comancheria. Some of my boys are holding onto it for safekeeping.”

“How many weapons has the Sanada Clan purchased?”

“Enough to equip an army. Plenty’a guns in Texas, Chief, lemme tell you. More’n enough to spare.”

“How soon are they to be delivered?”

Reardon shrugged. “Fairly soon, I’d imagine. I don’t rightly know, the thing didn’t have any dates on it.”

Lord Ishida and his advisors had a long conference. Fat Samurai still seemed skeptical, and Steely Man and Maybe Brother were unreadable. But none of that mattered to Reardon. In the end it was Lord Ishida’s decision, and he had stars in his eyes.

“Now then,” Reardon interrupted, rubbing his hands together. He didn’t want to give him too much time to consider. “Whattaya say we talk business?” After Kenshin relayed the question, Lord Ishida gestured for him to continue.

“Alright look Chief, I don’t have to tell you how valuable this thing is. With this evidence, the Taikō’ll have more than enough justification to move against Lord Sanada before his weapons’ve had a chance to arrive. Matter’a fact, I’ll bet the Taikō will be so grateful, he might just give you Taho Province when it’s all over. Just think, Chief: when the dust settles, all those silver mines could be yours…”

The stars in Lord Ishida’s eyes grew brighter as Kenshin translated. Only Maybe Brother gave the slightest of disapproving looks, but he remained silent like the rest. I’ve got him, Bill Reardon thought as he suppressed a smile. I’ve got him in the palm of my hand, and they all know it.

“Or you can do nothing,” Reardon added with a shrug. “And before long, the coastal clans will have superior firepower to go along with their superior wealth and numbers… Plenty ’nough to overwhelm you and your precious Taikō both.”

Lord Ishida nodded, stroking the corner of his beard in thought, or to conceal the grin on his face. His advisors said nothing, they only watched and waited.

“So whaddaya say, Chief? You in the market for what I’m selling?”

It was a very long time before Ishida Tadashi responded, but it was worth the wait.

“Name your price, Mr. Reardon.”

And so he did.

Next Chapter: Chapter 4