SWORD AND SORCERESS XVI, page 13
Neko hit the ground with her fist, fighting the wave of frustration that swept through her. Now they were comparing her to a baby! She'd messed up the kata, letting her own emotion ruin the perfection of each
graceful movement. Such carelessness always drove her teachers away, and sometimes Neko despaired of ever mastering their lessons. Three years ago when she'd left her father's home, cast out for a dishonor not her own, she'd been accepted into the ranks of the kami as a changeling child. She'd given up her dream of becoming a samurai and had become instead the kami's student, a masterless warrior who had yet to earn a sword from her demanding and mysterious teachers. In all that time, Neko had never regretted her decision to join the kami, but there were times when she wondered if the kami regretted claiming her. The very thought depressed her—without them she was nothing, she was . . . she was alone.
A sound, soft and far off, distracted her, catching her attention. She turned, lifting her chin and cocking her head slightly to catch the sound on the morning breeze. Shouts and cries of alarm floated through the woodlands. Someone was calling for help, and a quick glance around confirmed that the kami were quite gone. She was all that was left to answer the cry. Quickly, Neko pulled on her sandals and raced into the forest, heading north toward the voices.
Inhumanly sharp hearing led her toward the far-off cries, and she emerged from the dense woodlands to find herself poised on a hill overlooking a wide valley. Much of the valley was cleared for fanning, and a great crop of rice grew along a winding river that flooded regularly and kept the ground fertile and moist. Protected along the rise of a hill was a small town, and beyond that Neko could see the great flared roofs of a warlord's castle.
A small army had emerged from the castle. Armored samurai on horseback, faces hidden behind hideous war masks, rode behind a group of foot soldiers. The samurai waited at the entrance to the town while the foot soldiers tromped through the streets kicking in doors and dragging peasants out into the sunlight. Other peasants who'd been tending the fields, rooting out weeds with
their bare feet, now stood timidly along the stone streets, watching in horror as the soldiers destroyed their homes.
Neko had seen such scenes before. The samurai wanted something from the town: food, treasure, women, servants—it didn't matter what. They took whatever they wanted and left the peasants to repair the damage they left in their wake. In theory the samurai protected the people of Ameratsu's land, the master of this castle named guardian of this particular village. But in truth they were more like giants in a playground, tromping around and destroying everything with their own wars of honor.
Neko sprinted down the green hillside. She spied a group of foot soldiers dragging an old man from his home. They pushed him to his knees before the samurai, and beat him cruelly with bamboo staffs. He raised his thin arms protectively over his head and cried out for mercy, but the blows did not cease. A few more blows and Neko feared they'd crack open his frail skull. Already his arms were battered and bloodied, and she could hear the wrenching sobs of his family watching nearby.
"Leave him be!" Neko cried, and she dove into the fray. Three well-placed kicks laid out the old man's main tormentors. Even as the last one fell, Neko snatched his bamboo staff out of his hands. She stood over the beaten body of the peasant and swung the staff forcefully at the remaining foot soldiers. Four more soldiers dropped from Neko's resounding cracks to their heads. Others moved in to stop her.
Quick as a cat, Neko danced past all of them, her blows and kicks landing so swiftly that the men fell in a tangled heap in her wake. But one loud bark of command from the samurai warlord ended the battle. The rest of the foot soldiers backed away, leaving Neko standing in the center of her fallen, unconscious foes.
Staff still in hand, she moved to the old man's side, catching hold of one of his arms and dragging him to his feet. She motioned with her head toward his weeping
family. They rushed swiftly to her side and carried their old father away, leaving Neko alone before the angry warlord and his samurai.
Neko turned to face the warlord, staring defiantly up into his masked face. His long braided hair was streaked with gray, and the demonic mask he wore was painted with jeweled colors befitting royalty. His samurai, forty in all, sat frozen and silent on their horses, each man perfectly schooled in his discipline. Their hands rested upon the hilts of their katanas, the swords a mark of their rank and honor.
Neko's hand tightened on the bamboo staff as she gazed balefully at the warriors before her. A group of common foot soldiers she could handle, but forty armed samurai were another matter entirely. She could escape to the rooftops as swiftly as any cat if her life was pressed, but she'd stepped into this confrontation to save the peasants. If she saved her own life only to lose theirs, her interference would have served no purpose at all— save perhaps to rouse the warlord's anger.
She had one chance, and she took it. She picked a samurai out of the forty at random and pointed her finger at him defiantly. It was challenge enough. Honor demanded that he face her. The warlord nodded, and the samurai dismounted from his horse and strode forward. Around them all grew silent.
The two of them bowed to one another. "Tsuzuki no-kokoro," Neko informed him with a wry grin.
Through the eye slits in his mask, Neko saw the samurai narrow his gaze in confusion. She smiled grimly—let him worry about the cryptic lesson of the kami. Perhaps it would distract him enough to give her the advantage.
He drew his sword, the bright blade of the katana gleaming in the morning sunlight, and Neko knew immediately that the man would be no match for her. A master swordsman would never waste such a movement of his sword—the very act of unsheathing should have been the killing blow, the graceful motion of drawing a weapon the only strike needed in a fight.
With a loud battle cry the samurai rushed forward, his blade blazing like the sun as it flashed down toward Neko's head. Unblinking, Neko stepped aside, spinning the bamboo staff and sweeping the samurai's feet out from underneath him. As he fell, Neko caught his hand, wrenching the sword from his grip. He struck the road, and Neko lowered his own blade to his throat. The samurai froze momentarily, then quickly removed his mask so that he could gaze defiantly into the face of the warrior who now held his life.
Neko slowly removed the blade from his throat and stepped away. The samurai hesitated a moment as he realized that she was not going to kill him. His only move then was to sit up, resting upon his knees, head bowed as he waited for events to unfold. Neko, heart pounding from the confrontation, turned toward the warlord, schooling her features to remain calm and unemotional despite the nervous energy sizzling through her body.
"Green-eyed girl," the warlord remarked, his gruff voice echoing with displeasure at the way events had transpired. "Are you perhaps Neko-Butou-san, the changeling child called Cat-Dancing by the kami?"
Surprised that the warlord had heard of her, Neko could only nod her head. "I am Neko-Butou."
Behind the war mask, the warlord's eyes gleamed brightly. "I am Kokou, Daimyo of this land. I came to this town seeking the master swordmaker Hibashira, but you will serve my purpose far better."
Neko frowned. "I'm not yours to seek."
Her words caused a stir among the foot soldiers, and they milled about uncertainly, waiting for their master's orders. If the samurai were surprised by Neko's defiance, they did not show it, remaining unmoving and stoic.
For a long moment Kokou said nothing, and Neko could feel him staring hard at her, looking perhaps for some sign of weakness. She schooled her features to remain as uncaring as a cat's—had she a tail, she would
flick it in nonchalant boredom the way her teachers so often did.
Finally the warlord came to a decision. With swift gestures, he removed his war mask, revealing stern and deeply lined features. "This evening my enemy Daimyo Hokorashii dines with me in my castle. There our best samurai will compete at kata in a contest to prove who has the superior fighting style. We need an unbiased master to judge the contest. I came here to find Hibashira to judge the contest—but you, a student of the kami, would serve far better in that capacity."
"Why should I care which of your samurai has the better style?" Neko demanded.
He smiled grimly at that. "Because if you agree to judge, I will spare this village. These peasants claim that Hibashira is no longer here. I do not believe them. If you do not stand in Hibashira's stead, I will tear apart this village in my search for a judge."
Neko stiffened, her gaze moving swiftly toward the frightened villagers. They watched her hopefully, their dark eyes pleading for her aid as they trembled beneath the unmerciful stares of the stoic samurai. It seemed she had two choices—fight or judge. As the kami would tell her, it would be foolish of her to fight when there was no need.
She brushed a few strands of dark hair back from her forehead as she glanced longingly toward the quiet forest she'd left. Were her teachers watching her now from the safety of the trees? Would it concern them that this warlord had tricked her into service, however brief it might be? She could see no alternative. "I will judge your contest."
Kokou bowed curtly, and then pointed a finger at the defeated samurai still kneeling on the ground. "You must deal with him first, Neko-Butou-san."
Neko bit her lip pensively and glanced at the samurai—he had been defeated. If he or any of the other samurai judged him also dishonored, he'd have no choice but to take his own life. At the moment she held
his life in her hands—how she chose to give it back to him was entirely up to her.
She took a step toward him and thrust the tip of his sword into the ground before the kneeling man. He gazed impassively up at her. "There is no dishonor in being defeated by a superior foe," she informed him, trying to strive for the same tone of voice her kami teachers used on her. With one sentence she gave him back his life—but she couldn't help adding a final warning to both him and the warlord. "The dishonor would have been in attacking these unarmed peasants. I have spared you that."
She could feel the hard glares of the samurai, but no one spoke against her. The defeated samurai bowed his head deeply to Neko and stood. He took back his katana and immediately set it against the stones of a small retaining wall. With one mighty blow, he snapped the shining blade in two. The blade had been unsheathed without drawing blood, and had been taken from his hands by an opponent—in his eyes it was now useless. Neko sighed regretfully, but she supposed it was better the cost of a blade than the cost of a life.
Evening found Neko in the warlord's castle, seated upon a silken mat in an enormous open courtyard. No single room in the castle could contain all the visitors, so they'd moved outdoors beneath the light of the full moon. Against the coolness of autumn's breezes large fire pits had been set alight in the courtyard, and the flickering lights of the colored flames danced shadows across the walls. Hokorashii and his samurai arrived and greeted Kokou with stoic respect despite the heightened tension in the air.
At Kokou's bidding, they were all seated around the courtyard on the silken mats provided while artfully painted women in brightly colored silk kimonos served an evening banquet. The samurai all knelt at attention, hands on their katana hilts—the aggressive posture a sign of respect toward their fellow warriors. Only the
war masks had been set aside in concession to the evening's peaceful gathering. As guests in Kokou's house, no one would fight unless unduly pressed or offended.
It had been a long time since Neko had been present at such a gathering of samurai. Not since her father's great banquets had she been forced to sit and listen to talk of great battles and wars fought over insults and possessions—ideas that now seemed foreign to her after spending so much time with the peaceful kami.
Bored, she let her mind wander, her gaze drifting about the courtyard. It was a beautiful night, the air scented with the sharp aroma of spices burning on the fires. High overhead the moon glowed brightly, reminding her of the kami's lesson that morning. Moon reflecting on water—it still made no sense to her.
"Neko-Butou-san?" Hokorashii interrupted her thoughts. "Kokou-san tells me that you are a student of the kami." There was a question in his voice, even though he did not fully vocalize it. To do so might infer he thought Kokou was lying, and such an insult would not be borne.
"I am," she nodded.
Hokorashii's eyes narrowed deeply as if he were trying to perceive something worthy in her to warrant such an honor. "It must be a great experience," he pressed.
"It is a humbling experience, Hokorashii-san," Neko corrected with a smile.
The samurai laughed at that, and even the women of the court hid their faces behind their hands and giggled at her answer.
"And will you judge our contest fairly, Neko-Butou-san?" Hokorashii continued. "Will you watch everyone in this courtyard and tell us who has the most perfect form without bias for allegiance?"
Neko nodded her head. "I will judge. As a ronin warrior, I have no allegiance save to the kami."
Her reply satisfied Hokorashii, and he nodded to Kokou. Kokou waved his hand, signaling the start of the contest. Servants rolled out huge drums, and as their
pounding music echoed through the courtyard, the fires were built higher. Neko watched in some fascination as the evening meal was cleared away quickly and efficiently. Servants ran about preparing the center courtyard for the samurai who would perform their katas.
A group of very young, richly dressed boys brought out a large silk mat and began unrolling it, covering the center flagstones with the bright material. Kokou's sons, Neko guessed, judging by their rich jewels. She frowned in sorrow when she saw one of the boys roughly shove an ancient servant woman out of his way as he prepared the center court. Apparently Kokou had taught his sons his same disregard for peasants.
The old woman, bent and gray-haired, had been sweeping ash from around the large fire pits. Young men tended the flames, but the old woman was responsible for keeping the hearths clear of any ash that might escape on the wind. She fell when the boy shoved her, but once the boy moved on, the old woman righted herself and continued with her sweeping as if nothing had happened. Her brush strokes were slow and precise, and the plain grayness of her hair and clothing let her blend into the background largely unnoticed.
Once the courtyard was prepared, a dozen samurai rose to stand opposite Neko. AH had been dressed in white robes at the request of Hokorashii—white with no sign of rank or house on their person so that Neko could not tell who served whom. The first one came forward, standing proudly on the mat. He bowed to Neko, Hokorashii, and Kokou, and then to the pounding music of the drums he began his kata.
His movements were straight and strong, his lines perfect and clean. He moved with a violent swiftness, his war cries deafening as he fought imaginary foes. Neko watched closely, seeing a myriad of things in his movements—strength, stamina, speed, and, above all, pride. He crashed through the form with a violent flurry that left all watching breathless, and when at last he came to a swift stop, his eyes were blazing eagerly as the ap-
proval of his fellow samurai washed over him and increased his pride tenfold.
He stepped aside then, and the second contestant stepped forward. In contrast, his kata was circular, a swirling dance of graceful movements delivered with violent accuracy. He stretched and twisted, his strikes reaching both high and low as he kicked and spun. He was like a dancing cobra, ever moving, never resting. Neko could see from his features that he was caught up in the form, reveling in his own speed and finesse. When he finished, he added a flourish to his bow, and the corners of his mouth twisted with pleasure.
When the third man began his form, Neko guessed at last the nature of the argument between the two houses. One school taught linear movement, the other circular. As the contest continued, Neko began watching the others in the room as well, trying to guess which Daimyo favored which style. Faint signs gave them away, the twitch of the mouth, a gleam in their eyes, the prideful set of their features. A quiet communication was taking place between the warlords and the contestants. Each man sought not only Neko's favor, but the approval of their master as well—and Neko could tell by the set in their stance at the end of each kata if they had won their master's favor or displeasure with their kata.
It reminded her distinctly of her own kata practice that morning. She, too, had sought the approval of her masters, the kami. Even during the pure concentration of her form, she had been focused on the temple cats studying her from the sidelines, watching intently for the twitch of a tail or the fanning of whiskers. It had been a mistake, she guessed now—a mistake she had compounded later when she'd faltered in her kata through confusion over the dragon's cryptic words. She'd let outside influences fill her mind with too many thoughts. Kata, her teachers had once told her, was the perfect union of body and mind—movement without thought; thought without conflict.
