Chapter Four—The Twin Cities

Disgrace.

Rōnin.

Criminal.

Outcast.

These were the words churning within the mind of the young nineteen-year-old Haru Tantaiama. And they were all true. A sickly feeling continued to come and go that coalesced within his core. At times he could forget it, but whenever his surroundings quieted, his mind began to stir, to nag and to scrape at him.

What was this feeling? he wondered. Was it guild?

Hai—that was what it was. It was guild. But the others did not feel this way—as was evidenced by their attitudes, their easy acceptance. The young disgraced samurai continued wondering how the others could be so cavalier about what had happened as the sounds of the ship’s crew going about their duties filled the air from behind.

Haru stood upon the prow of the… What was the ship’s name? In their haste, and in Haru’s deep ponderings on the matter of his honor, he had been unable to remember the name of the ship. Or was it that he had never discovered the name?

The cold wind blew against his face as his hair, no longer tied into a topknot atop his head, whipped behind him. It was summertime, but the skies had become grey and black with storm clouds, the waters a dark grey and choppy as a cold wind blew in from the Northwest.

The ship sailed on, tacking this way and that as it sailed across the seas, it’s final destination in the direction from where the wind came. The very same sess Princess Noriko Kurosawa had sailed. Rightfully, she would now be the empress of the Mikuma Empire. But that was not to be.

Not now.

The Wakiagaru crisis had begun when the man with the legendary title Ninth Spear infiltrated Yukai City and attacked without warning or provocation. Thank the kami that Sakuraichi Ujio and reacted swiftly. The man was a true hero to the empire now.

Everyone loved him.

Though Daimyō Akio Tsuji had been their lord, he was a lord suborned to the great daimyō Sakuraichi. A hard man, now called the shōgun, despite sitting the imperial throne. In his swift action to save the empire, he had also assumed control of the empire. But Haru was uncertain if he meant to rule as emperor.

There was much controversy regarding this subject, and indeed it was still a mystery what the shōgun’s plans were. And whatever happened to the previous shōgun? Many assumed he had been killed in the battle, and that was what the new leader said. But something itched in Haru’s skull about the validity of that.

The conflicts surrounding the Wakiagaru incident were murky at best. There were many “versions” of what had happened, many opinions. Perhaps they would never know. Some said the new shōgun had usurped the rightful throne of Noriko Kurosawa, and should that be true, by extension, Haru and Hiro and Ujiro had all fought on the side of an aggressor.

Was that not dishonorable?

Still others said Sakuraichi intended to hand the imperial reign back to the princess, and still others claimed she had escaped before he could have her executed as he had the emperor and the crown prince executed.

Sprinkled of cold rain hit the rōnin standing by himself on the foredeck. With a heavy sigh, Haru tightened his arms as he hugged himself for warmth. He still had not changed his clothes since their imprisonment. But that hardly mattered now. Without home or country—they sailed to new lands—to the Twin Cities.

It was a place Haru had only ever heard of, had hardly cared about, though his knowledge of this tiny mountainous chain of islands had come into more focus after Princess Noriko had escaped to live there in exile.

Now he would be exiled to this place as well.

The winds of fortune were cruel and mysterious and Haru could do nothing but smile bitterly at his present circumstances.

Footsteps approached from behind.

“Haru-kun.”

It was Hiro in his slight rasp of a voice, though it was not an unfriendly one. “Nani shiteruno desuka?” he said, asking what Haru was doing. “It is cold.”

Turning, he looked upon his friend. The man was older than he, his skin slightly darker. There were subtle lines at his eyes and on his face, indicating the frequency of his joviality. Hiro’s hair reached much farther down his back, almost to his waistline. He had it tied into a loose collection near the nape of his neck, but that didn’t stop it from whipping about in the wind. There was a wildness about him, something that had always been there, but that Haru had only noticed for the first time just now.

The muscled samurai huddled within a once-thick cloak that was now threadbare as Haru regarded him. Then he said, “I was thinking.”

“Thinking? About what?” He asked the question as if it surprised him that anything existed that was worth thinking about at this time.

Should Haru tell him? He wondered if he should discuss his thoughts with the other two men. He knew they would listen, albeit, even if they jeered and made mock of him. They would never do it in a biter sense, but he knew Hiro and Ujiro would not be able to help themselves.

That was the kind of men they were. If they had deep concerns on the topic of their shared honor, or lack thereof, they would brush it off. Though perhaps they would not be able to hide the feint twitch of their eyes, the momentary downcast expressions before quickly bringing up the curtains once again, and then finally covering them with smiled and proclamations of intent to find some adventure, or a woman, or a tavern.

Commoners, Haru thought, but not without a sense of mirth. Then he smiled. “It is nothing. I am only anxious to see the Twin Cities.”

“Ah,” Hiro said, nodding. “This is where Princess Noriko has come for her exile. You know this, yes?”

“Hai,” Haru said with a nod.

Then Hiro seemed to sober for a time, and he nodded as well. “Mm.”

Both men regarded the choppy waves of the sea and the roiling black clouds. There was a flash in the distance, as a bright jagged line cut across the misted horizon. It took some time, but the rumble of the gods followed afterward—as it usually did.

Finally, Haru asked, “Why is she not in Yukai City?”

“We fight for ourselves now,” Hiro said.

“What—as mercenaries?”

“Why not?” he asked, spreading his arms flippantly. “I hear there is much coin to be made in the Twin Cities. It is a place filled with foreigners, and other scum.”

“And other scum?”

“All the scum the world has to offer—pirates! Smugglers. There are monsters I hear”—nodding excitedly, his smile came back and deepened—“out in the hills outside the city.”

A subtle ball of fear formed in Haru’s stomach. “Monsters?”

“Hai. But in the city, you cannot use magic. So to fight them, you must use your sword.”

“I do not have those abilities, Haru-san. You know this.”

“Mm.”

“This is why… we have more opportunity in a place like the Twin Cities.”

“Is it outlawed?”

“Outlawed?” he asked in surprise. “The magic? Yes and no. They have special stones. They draw the magic—syphon it from your being. That is why you cannot use magic.”

“So you will no longer be the Whirling Leaf?”

“Ah!” Hiro said in reproach as he raised a quick finger as though he were some kind of sensei who had caught his pupil by a nerve that would force him to stand still—and if ever he became one, he would be worthy of the stories for no other reason than that he was a terribly irresponsible man—“Ma-shyo a-to. Hai?” He laughed, his mirth infectious at this time and Haru could not help but chuckle as well.

Martial arts. Magic… Through the assiduous study by various masters, many forms of fighting, many styles, had transcended mere expectation in the eyes of lesser mortals. Achievements only the most learned men of fighting could achieve.

And there were many, spread across the world, separated by seas and by time and by language.

Was it magic?

That was something debated by sorcerers and philosophers and religious men to this day. But that it was magic in the sense that power was drawn and then manifested into the open—it was not.

A question, one not of the fighting arts, came to Haru. It regarded his friend, and he decided to ask about it. “Do you have children, Hiro-san?”

“Nani?” he asked, as if Haru had suddenly pushed him off the boat. “Of course not! I am not even married.”

“I was only asking. Please accept my sincerest apologies, my friend!” He slapped his hands together and bowed. “Gomenasai!”

“Oh no,” he said, cutting Haru off with a hand. “Do not apologize. It is fine. But…” he added, glancing about conspiratorially. “Ujiro has a daughter.”

Eyes widening, Haru said, “What? He does? I did not know.”

“Hai,” Hiro said with a chuckle. “Do not tell him I told you this.”

Nodding, Haru swore that he would not.

And then their conversation seemed to die for a time and together the two men watched the seas, looking for any sign of their destination. They were supposed to arrive today, if “day” it could be called, for it seemed mostly like night, though with an ambient light as if one were experiencing the world through a dark shade.

Hiro glanced up at the skies. “The kami spirits are angry.”

“Do you truly think so?”

“Mmm,” he growled deep in his throat as he nodded. “Now come inside where it is warm. We will find you a cloak, my friend. Eh? Look at this. It is wonderful, yes?”

Regarding the rags, Haru nodded. “It is… yes, it is.”

Laughing, Hiro led the way. Haru followed him across the deck, and then unable to stop from reacting any longer, Hiro scrunched in on himself and cried out “Aiiy! Samui desu!”

The younger man laughed at his friend’s highly over exaggerated declaration that he was cold.

The journey through the choppy waters persisted. Many of the passengers had gotten sick, or were just now making their ways to the top decks to empty their roiling stomachs. But none of the samurai had any desire to ever do so, no reason that came from the voyage.

Among the other travellers were many different kinds of people, most local Mikuman Imperials, some of which were highborn in their silken kimonos and their pristine tabi, though, as nobles tend to do, especially those with money, kept to their own in other parts of the ship—the luxurious cabins, while the poorer travellers, such as the three disgraced samurai, were housed in bunks in the common room. It was also where the gaijin stayed. This difference in accommodation however, did not stop the higher class passengers from intersecting with their lesser counterparts through the companionways.

Not long after Hiro and Haru returned to the many bunks separated by narrow walkways, a commotion broke out among one high class lady in a green kimono with red floral designs and perfectly done-up hair and a blustering man in rags with a round paunch, much the same as the samurai. Ujiro became quite cross for no other reason than that he thought her tone was shrill, and most annoyingly duckish, yet in truth, what irritated the older samurai most was his throbbing headache—like a katana blade was being driven into his skull.

“I am Umo!” the man spat angrily. ”I am the show runner of the famous Akaima Dancing Fans and a Kurosawa Samurai! You will show me respect, woman!”

“That dusty out-of-business troupe of traitors who danced for the dead gaijin-loving emperor? Really? Please! Who do you think you are, sir? Be gone with you—you stink!”

“Wha—“ The man calling himself Umo blustered furiously. “What did you say to me?!”

“Can you not hear me? I said leave, you swine. You stiiink like the pigs! Guards! Guards! Someone help me! This man is molesting me!”

“What are you talking about, woman—I haven’t even touched you!”

“I am doing something about this!” Ujiro yelled, and sat up in his bunk.

The thunk of wood was what made Hiro turn his head and regard the older samurai, who screamed, his face turning red. “I will cut them to pieces!”

Haru glanced about, saw the commotion, for how could he not, when the woman screamed, and the man blustered, his face purple with hatred, all the time Ujiro hissing and cursing about.

“I am! Haru-kuuun,” he growled. “Give me your sword!”

“Whaaat?” someone shrieked.

With bulging eyes, Hiro starting babbling. “No! Nonono! Shhh!—Quiet—no!” He patted the air with his hands. “Wait, listen. Ujiro-san, listen.” He jumped out of his bunk and his bare feet tapped against the decking. He reached up and took the older samurai by the shoulders.

And now dozens, if not hundreds of other passenger’s, human and demihuman alike, were watching and listening to their every word.

With two separate scuffles taking place, if even only in raised voices currently, heads turned this way and that, as people asked questions in worried tones, thinking possibly a fight was breaking out. A baby whaled, making everything the more difficult while parents yelled at their children to keep their distance from the goings on. More sailors trailed into the common room to investigate, asking questions concerning the commotion.

A man pointed in their direction, then he seemed to indicate the shrill woman and the blustering man in the soiled tunic.

Ujiro seemed to notice this, and fortunately Hiro was able to stop him from intervening. One does not intervene in the disputes of the highborn, especially when they were on the run from an army searching for deserters. Reminding the older man of this calmed him considerably, though he still grumbled quite furiously about his head.

The ruckus was soon abated, and all was quiet for a time. Two of the disgraced samurai were able to sleep, the one with the headache notwithstanding. After a time—though hours had passed—Ujiro sat up in his bunk, and feeling his headache had retreated, said, “Once we land, we will have to find work as quickly as possible.”

There was a pause, and he wondered if the others were asleep, but then the second-oldest of their group spoke. “With our swords,” Hiro added. He did not bother to sit up in his bunk so he could look down on Ujiro, who was two bunks below him and separated by the walkway.

Haru was directly under Hiro and could not see him unless both men leaned out, which only Haru was doing as he spoke. “Yes, Hiro told me this earlier.”

“Mm,” Ujiro hummed musingly, his tone deep and grainy, far worse than that of Hiro’s voice, which was only mildly old. “It will not be hard, I think.”

“That is what I told Haru-san.”

“My only concern,” Ujiro said, speaking up to the second oldest of the three, “is that we look like beggars.”

Haru caught a glance of Hiro picking up the loose folds of his cloak and inspecting them as his arms moved about over his mattress. “Maybe it will be low quality at first”—and then his tone became more animated midsentence—“but once they see what we can do, they will find us better things. Trust me.”

“Mm,” Ujiro noised, and glanced toward Haru, who caught his gaze. There was a subtle smile there. He had begun to grow a beard.

It would not be long before they looked like desperate robbers willing to kill for a load of bread from the worst kind of slum. And as those thoughts came to him, he glanced about the bunks, where hundreds of other passengers lay, coughing and speaking, or whispering among themselves. One mother growled at her child who misbehaved, hissing orders for him to cease is evil actions.

Across the common room was another area where the hammocks were—where the lowest of the low for destitute passengers huddled. One man attempted to start a fire, but was quickly stopped by the sailors.

They were always present, watching, which seemed to most of the passengers to be a very good thing.

To Haru, the cold wind during the storm felt almost winter-like. But summer was upon them and he looked forward to the hot sun on his skin again. He just hoped the weather in the Twin Cities was not always gloomy and storm ridden.

As something pulled, a general motion, Hiro opened his eyes and saw the bottom of the bunk above him. It was the ship. She felt like she was tacking again. But they had stayed on this heading for some hours. Though he slept as Ujiro had, Hiro awoke much earlier, so his sense of time was more accurate.

Above decks, shouting by the sailors ensued, a general call for something, and a bell rang out. “We are there,” he said, deciding the matter.

“So soon?” Haru asked.

“What do you mean ‘so soon’?” Ujiro snapped iritatedly. “We have been on this bucket for days now. You have been so lost in thought you have barely noticed.”

“Hai,” Hiro said from above. “You are very pensive, Haru-kun. You need to pay more attention. We must keep our eyes open—be vigilant.”

The younger man watched as Ujiro glanced up toward Hiro with an annoyed expression on his face. “Are you mocking me, boy?”

“What?” Hiro asked distractedly. “No. Of course I am not. Why would I mock you?”

Ujiro grumbled something about Hiro having little care for the things he said concerning the young Haru-kun. But perhaps he was simply trying to make a good impression upon him? To be a good example?

The younger man may have lost general track of the time spent on the voyage for no other reason than that he spent the majority of his time brooding within his own thoughts, but now, waiting to get off the ship and being forced to wait in the interminable lines, he began to finally feel impatience.

The smells were not so bad as when they had milled about the common room in the narrow walkways between the bunks. While on board, the three samurai had been able to afford thin soup with fish and white-rice bread that required a lot of chewing. The food was not fit for a Yokai to say the least, but with the meager funds Ujiro still had, at least they were able to fill their stomachs.

But now, in the long lines, the three samurai stepped up the companionway, along with the other commoners. By now, as they made their way to the top deck, the nobles were coalescing to the gangway, which had not yet been placed onto the dock.

The heads of the many travellers, the vast majority being human with very few demihumans present did not distract Haru in the least, as the view of the city beyond greeted them all.

Children shouted and laughed while their parents pointed. It seemed many of the passengers were also seeking a new life and had never before seen the Twin Cities.

Squinting, Hiro regarded what part of the city he could see. It was a wall, with a massive round gate, metal entablature forming the head of a massive serpent with fire-like tendrils streaming from its neck, its angry eyes upon the seas ahead. The wall was dark and greenish in hue, with the top half painted in red at the top.

The beast’s head was also a bright green, probably once a shining, warm metal such as copper that had turned due to the touch of the salty seas. The city within was mostly obscured, save for the towering castles and the shorter structures climbing the mountains within. The Twin Cities was a veritable fortress.

The word was that it was impregnable by sea, and now that Hiro saw it, he nodded, agreeing with the rumors. A thousand ships could attack, and surely they could easily destroy the harbor and the docks where their ship was now landing, but to breach the city? Impossible.

“It is… magnificent,” Ujiro said with a smile. “I have seen sketches and heard talk in the taverns but… I have always believed them to be fanciful imaginings.”

“So did I,” Hiro said. He laughed excitedly and turned to Haru. “What do you think?”

The young samurai was smiling, the excitement plain to see on his face. “It is a wonder, truly.”

“Hai!” Hiro said with a nod.

For anyone who had never laid eyes upon the Twin Cities or the like places of the world, it was truly a wonder to behold, but the three samurai, each of them in their own separate minds, also felt that the awe of the city was accompanied by a foreboding broodishness, but each one of the men dismissed these fleetings as nothing more than the dark clouds in the skies, of the cold rains that made their flesh prickle, and of the flashes of lightning that occasionally lit the skies without warning, save for the low and moody rumble of thunder that constantly travelled upon the horizon.

The Twin Cities was, in truth known to none of them, but suspected by all of them, to be a place perfect to lose oneself outside the world of their honor.

Together, the three disgraced samurai—the rōnin—stepped away from the gangplank and onto the wet docks just outside of the walls of the great city.

Craning their necks, each of them, as well as the many nobles and other passengers that had come across the sea, marveled still—and would continue to do so as they discovered every delight, every filthy alley, every coin to easily come their way, as they discovered the city firsthand.

Smiling broadly as he stalked forward with his staff, for that was what it was now, since Ujiro had removed the blade head from the pike, he glanced about and breathed in deeply. “I foresee a wonderful new future for us here, my friends.”

“So do I,” Hiro added.

Haru nodded. “Mm.”