Chapter 8: The Mystery Piece

I was furious, but not at the kid. No, I'd need a mirror to reveal who angered me the most.

After a long silence the young woman in the red kimono replied, though with her back still turned. "You're right. What does a wealthy juvenile know of hardship? I scarcely know your name, let alone your grief!" Masami spun on her heels to face me, with her anger more composed than before. "How can I permit you as my protector if you won't even tell me who you really are?!"

Who I really was? I was exactly what you think: a no-good, vagrant swordsman for hire. Or maybe she wanted to know about my past as a street urchin who stole from hardworking farmhands. Who beat up on the smaller kids until they bruised all over just for fistful of stale rice.

Or maybe she wanted to know about the ungrateful student of a sympathetic samurai, who betrayed his master for a bit of chump change. Forsaking the man who was the closest thing to a father he would ever have. What a horrible human being.

My life made for a piss-poor story no kabuki house wanted to dance to. Masami had the curious mind of any good scholar, but this was one tale she wouldn't want to hear. And aside from that...

She'd never see her "Apricot Ronin" the same way again.

"Let's just say I'm a mystery. See if you can figure me out yourself."

I decided that giving the kid a challenge would quiet her dangerous line of questioning. Intellectual types always love solving puzzles, and Masami was no different. I'd have to make sure that this was one riddle she couldn't unravel.

Aside from that, being a mystery had its advantages both in and out of combat. It was a sort of protection; forcing your opponents to hesitate at your feints and your lovers to linger at your every word. The more either knew about you, the more likely they'd take you for granted. That was a lesson learned the hard way.

The shugenja gritted her teeth while issuing a look of determination. I was starting to think that I might have underestimated the little lady's resolve. "Very well. I'll decipher you like a Shinto manuscript of antiquity." Her gaze intensified, and it was my turn to look away towards the door. I felt like I was being appraised like a dusty old tome.

I needed to find Masami better books to read.

I was about to follow up on my original question when Masami bombarded me with queries of her own. While I was glad that they weren't about my past, they were about as pointed as razor-tipped shuriken.

"Why must you continually disparage my expertise? Had I used my shugenja arts, that innocent child would have been in no danger!" She turned her nose upwards in an attempt to look down at me, even if it was a physical impossibility. She then started giving orders.

"Your methods sicken me. I hereby forbid threatening innocents from this time forth!" I visibly flinched, holding back an irrational outburst the kid didn't deserve. There was more than a little merit to Masami's criticism, but that didn't change the fact that Akio took orders from no one. Even when I killed folks for a living, no one told me how to do it.

Otherwise I might as well have been a soldier

"Go purchase a samurai if you want to give someone orders. I do my job my own way."

If you thought about it, Hyugans loved being dull: following orders, setting schedules and partaking in regular tea breaks. There was a comfort there, to have a daily and rigid schedule. You didn't need to think much as your days blurred into weeks, weeks into seasons and so on.

And then you died. No, I think I'll forgo the lukewarm oolong tea. I'd rather drink saké that burned the roof of my mouth than live that sort of life. No one told me what to do, not even a shugenja.

The kid wanted to know why I stopped her from using magic earlier. So I told her.

"Don't use your magic unless you need to. It creates as many problems as it solves—a ronin attracts less trouble than a shugenja ever could." And it was true. With my katana, I could kill a squadron of soldiers. Maybe more, if they each took their turn. But from what I knew of shugenja, Masami could kill an army. She could carve out her own province, start a rebellion and challenge the Emperor.

There was one more point I wanted to make, but I couldn't bring myself to voice it out loud. If Masami started using magic to solve our problems, I'd start relying on her. And I couldn't afford to rely on anyone. I would end up hesitating at that crucial moment: when I held out hope that there was a trick in that knapsack of hers when there really wasn't.

That would be the moment I became weak, and the moment I died.

"I suppose I cannot hide this any longer." With shoulders slumped in a display of resignation, she pulled out a letter from her knapsack. But what drew my attention was the giant red seal atop it, a wad of dried wax that rivaled a geisha's lipstick. Stamps on official documents were not uncommon, but this one was in a league of its own.

"Well? Go ahead and read it." The kid hassled me onward. Sweat dripped from my brow, and it wasn't from the humidity. I looked down at the elegant lines of chicken scratch. Shit.