Three Duck Street
“Well,” Shin murmured as he looked around. “Perhaps a touch more difficult than I anticipated.” Three Duck Street was a filthy mess, full of rotting fish, torn sacking and other wharf debris. Lanterns were necessary, despite the fact it was only just late afternoon, for the shadows cast by the overhanging roofs were thick and impenetrable. He could hear rats skittering just out of sight. At least, he hoped they were rats.
He turned in place, letting his gaze stray across the alleyway, searching for any sign as to what might have taken place on the night in question. Thankfully, it hadn’t rained since then. Drawing his wakizashi, he used the blade to clear away debris, revealing footprints in the muck. A man’s sandals and something else – a padded slipper of some sort. Whoever had worn it had left a light tread. A woman, perhaps. Okuni?
“No way to tell,” he said to himself. He turned, following her tracks with his eyes. He followed the trail, careful not to accidentally erase the prints. There was no telling how many people passed through this particular alleyway on a given day, but something about these prints had struck him as noteworthy, besides the fact that they’d survived undisturbed. Whatever sort of footwear they were, it was not the sort of thing worn by a heimin fisherman or merchant. Nor was it the footwear of a noble.
Whatever it proved to be, he followed the trail out of the alleyway and down another, where the tracks became deeper and more frenetic. “Signs of a struggle,” he muttered. He caught sight of something embedded in a nearby doorframe.
He swept his sword out, dislodging the errant bit of metal with the tip of his scabbard. It fell into his waiting palm a moment later. It was a shuriken, or what was left of one. A dried patina of something smeared the edges. A shinobi’s weapon, for times when a death was more important than its manner of occurrence. He paused as the implications sank in.
To the heimin, shinobi were little more than legends. As a nobleman, Shin knew better. They were all too real, but they were taboo – forbidden and forgotten. Every clan employed their services, but to admit such would be almost as great a crime as utilizing them in the first place. If shinobi were involved in this, it meant things were decidedly more complex than he’d first assumed.
He frowned and paced along the narrow alleyway, following the footprints. There were dark stains on the wall – handprints, he realized. He placed his hand over them, noting the size difference. Definitely a woman, and injured.
“She was leaving. Perhaps her business was concluded,” he said, softly. “Moving down the alleyway, when she was attacked. Perhaps they were waiting for her to leave…” He stopped. “Or for someone else to leave. Her contact?” He started moving again. “So why isn’t she dead?” There was only one answer that fit – she had fled. But where?
He looked up and saw the wharf. “Ah,” he said. It was a shabby stretch of bank, clustered with rotting jetties and small boats. Fishermen, mostly, looking to sell their catches at the smaller heimin markets that shadowed the larger trading quarters of the city. People hastily averted their gazes as Shin prowled towards the water. The blood trail was faint here – a superficial wound, or else she’d managed to bandage it on the run.
He stopped at the edge of the wharf and peered down. There was blood on the wooden steps that led down beneath the jetty. He paused and turned back the way he’d come. For a moment, he’d felt as if someone were observing him. He swept the street with his gaze, hoping to spot a familiar face, but saw no one. Frowning, he started down.
The steps were roughly made and set deep into the soil of the riverbank. They carried him down into the shallows below the wharf, where a large section of the bank had been carved away in order to make room for support pylons and secondary jetties. Similar spots littered the length of the river. Some were simply shrines, forgotten by all but a few fishermen and mudlarks.
The others were used for any number of illicit purposes. Shadows clustered thick in the forest of pylons and stone foundations, and in some places there was room enough for a small boat to navigate the swirling eddies of the shallows.
Reeds rose from the water in dense patches, and frog-song was omnipresent, nearly drowning out the cries of dockworkers and the splash of oars. An abbreviated quay of roughhewn stone and rotting wood sat atop the water. Mooring posts ringed it, and a statue of a frog maintained a lonely vigil from its perch atop a cracked plinth.
Shin genuflected to the statue instinctively. It might only have been a small kami, but it was a kami nonetheless and worthy of respect. He turned and spied more blood on a nearby pylon. She had been making for the water. A long run for someone injured, especially an actress. He knew trained bushi who wouldn’t have made it this far.
“Desperation – or skill?” A glint caught his attention, and he awkwardly shuffled across a length of rotting wood to the next pylon. Using his fingers, he pried a small metal disk from the pylon. Like the other, it had a sharpened edge that was stained a curious color, and he was careful to keep his fingers away from it. Another shuriken – and something else… a strip of bedraggled silk that had been pinned to the pylon by the shuriken.
He sheathed his wakizashi and stretched it between his fingers to study it. It was the same material and color as the scrap he’d found in the rice, he was certain of it. It wasn’t the sort of thing laborers or sailors would wear. Nor an actress, come to that.
But a shinobi, possibly.
“Ha,” he said, softly. “That is interesting, isn’t it?”
This Okuni was definitely not the woman he’d imagined her to be. She was more interesting, for one thing. His desire to speak to her had only increased.
It was a striking coincidence, and Shin did not believe in coincidences, at least not in regards to matters of this sort. Still on his heels, he turned, studying the water. He had no way of telling whether she’d made it or not – only a feeling. If she had, there was a good chance that she was still alive. And if she was still alive, that meant – what?
Wood squeaked. He rose to his feet, smiling to himself.
There were two of them. Ronin, clad in Kaeru-gray and armored. “Good day, gentlemen. How might I help you today?”
“You can answer a few questions, Crane.” The voice came from behind them. A third figure descended the steps – Kaeru Azuma. “Like why are you here, rather than investigating as the governor requested?”
“Who says I’m not?” Shin said. He cocked his head. “Are you spying on me?”
“Do not play the fool, Crane. It insults both of us. The governor dispatched me to collect a report on your progress.” Azuma looked around. “So tell me.”
“The Lion insist the Unicorn are guilty, but refuse to elaborate. The Unicorn deny any knowledge of the crime, but have no proof of their innocence.”
“And the Dragonfly?”
“I have not spoken to them yet.”
“Why?”
“I have not yet received an invitation.”
Azuma grunted. He was silent for a moment. “I was against your involvement.”
“I was against it as well,” Shin said, agreeably. “But here we are.”
“Yes.”
Azuma fell silent. Shin waited for a few moments, and then asked, “What do you think about it all?”
“What do you mean?”
“The rice. Do you have a theory?”
Azuma shook his head. “No.”
Shin heard the lie in his voice. Azuma had a suspicion, but didn’t want to share it. “That is a shame, for I find myself in need of one. I cannot see a reason for it, you see… why provoke war, when it serves no purpose?”
“There is a reason,” Azuma said. “Honor.”
“Honor is not a reason,” Shin said.
“Honor is the best reason – and the worst.” Azuma looked at him. “How much do you know about this city’s history?”
Shin frowned. “Not as much as I should, I admit. Military history has never been an interest of mine.”
Azuma sniffed. “And you a Daidoji. A generation of Iron Cranes are wailing in shame in the afterlife.”
“Oh, I suspect they were wailing long before now,” Shin said. “But continue, my lord. I am always eager to be educated.”
Azuma gave him a steady look. “The more we speak, the better I begin to understand your reputation.” He dismissed Shin’s reply with a wave and continued. “This city once belonged to the Unicorn. It was among those holdings given over to the Lion to hold in trust until the clan’s return. When the Unicorn came back, the Lion were expected to turn it – as well as much of the surrounding region – over to its original owners.”
“Let me guess, the Lion disagreed with this.”
“Most strenuously, in fact. So much so, that they schemed to reclaim the city, at least. And they did, annexing it unopposed.”
“I can’t imagine that,” Shin said.
“At the time, the Unicorn had little interest in the city. But the annexation changed that.” Azuma paused. “Eventually, at high cost, order was restored and an imperial governor was installed – not to stop the fighting, but to ensure that it does not begin once more.”
“So Tetsua implied,” Shin said. “So far, the truce seems to be holding, however. And I’m sure there have been other incidents – possibly worse ones. Why should this one tip over the plum cart?” He paused. Azuma hadn’t come all this way just to give him a history lesson. He wanted something. Perhaps to deliver a warning. “What’s different this time?”
Azuma said nothing. Shin followed his gaze, back to the distant shrines. “Kuma,” he said, in realization. “Tetsua admitted that both the Lion and the Unicorn felt his judgement to be… biased.”
“That is a polite way of putting it,” Azuma said. “Tetsua is a good man. A good governor, despite what some claim. This incident puts all that he has worked for at risk.” Azuma looked at him. “You ask what is different? Tetsua is weak now. His reputation suffers – and will suffer further, if things get worse.”
Shin blinked. “You think this was done to hurt his position. To weaken him in the eyes of the clans. To what end?” The question was an obvious one. He well knew the reasons, but he wanted Azuma’s opinion on the matter.
Azuma snorted. “You think the Great Clans are the only ones who can play politics? The Hantei have their own games, and they play to win.”
Shin frowned. The political one-upmanship of the imperial families was not unknown to him. There were more of them than there were posts to be filled at times, and that made competition fierce. Tetsua’s position was one of great influence – influence he had chosen so far not to wield. But someone else might not be so discerning. “Do you have any proof?”
“Proof? No. Merely a feeling. Tetsua has too many enemies and not enough friends. I wager that when the culprit is discovered, the trail will lead back to some third cousin twice removed, looking to secure himself a position as governor at Tetsua’s expense.”
“There are simpler ways of having a governor recalled,” Shin said.
Azuma shrugged. “Perhaps. But you asked for my opinion and I have given it.”
Shin nodded. “So I did. And I consider myself illuminated.” He paused. “I trust you are conducting your own investigation?”
Azuma hesitated. “If I am?”
“Then I have done you a disservice. Popular opinion has it that the Kaeru are nothing more than ill-bred ronin, incapable of loyalty save to the coin.” He paused, and then hastily added, “I never believed it of course. But it is good to have my opinion confirmed.”
Azuma grimaced. “We are not a family in the normal sense, it is true. We are a collection of orphans – men and women without masters or homes, looking to make something from nothing.” He met Shin’s gaze. “Do you know what Kaeru means?”
“Frog,” Shin said. “I thought it was a joke.”
“No more than your own clan name is a joke.” Azuma looked at the statue of the kami on its plinth. “This place is our home now. It is the city of the frog. It is as much our holding as it is the Lion’s, or the Unicorn’s. And we will defend it – and its ruler – to the last drop of Kaeru blood.”
Taken aback by this declaration, Shin could only nod. Azuma turned back to him. “I will leave you to your investigation, Lord Shin. And I wish you luck.”