Iron master, p.17
Iron Master, page 17
But, in the meantime, how could they help? The question was put timidly to Noburo through her husband. Noburo explained that the two women acting as her chaperones were in the employ of the merchant. The fact that he had provided two Vietnamese women was an insult in itself and showed what an uncouth fellow he was.
The innkeeper and his wife, who were both of Chinese descent and thus superior to everybody except the Sons of Ne-Issan, were quick to agree.
Having ascertained that he could rent the small pavilion he had used on his previous visit, Noburo produced a small vial of powder – a potent sleeping draught that was to be mixed in two cups of sake that the innkeeper would generously offer the courtesan’s servants with their supper. When they were soundly asleep, and the other travellers had retired for the night, he would, with their consent, introduce the lady into the pavilion where her noble lover would be waiting in the hope that she would receive him with a generous heart and a giving nature. By morning he would be gone, never to see her again, the lady would be back in her chamber and her chaperones would be none the wiser.
The innkeeper gazed misty-eyed at the money and agreed it was a most excellent plan; his wife swore to guard the secret with her life and managed to convey by a lingering sidelong glance that while the master lay in the arms of his loved one she would not be averse to pleasuring his trusted servant. For Noburo, nothing was less likely but, aware she was his principal ally, he responded with an equivocal glance and withdrew, leaving her in a lather of pleasurable anticipation while her husband’s eager fingers riffled through the sweet-smelling pile of new dollar bills.
By the time the wafer-thin crescent moon had risen, Steve’s body felt rested and his mood had mellowed considerably. Which was just as well, because the ronin had begun to saddle their horses.
With a huge yawn, Steve got to his feet and stretched his limbs, then leapt up to grasp an overhanging branch and hung there to loosen his spine. Ohh, yeah, that’s better… Just what the doctor ordered. Dropping down, he did a few more limbering-up exercises, then scooped some water out of the nearby stream and splashed it over his face and down the back of his neck.
Okay, world, I’m good and ready. Do your worst…
The worst the world had to offer was another slow night-ride. But now there were only nine ronin. Noburo was one of those who had gone missing, leaving his two sidekicks to head the column. Steve, whose saddle-sore butt was soon sending out a new wave of distress signals, switched his thoughts away from the means of locomotion and tried to work out what might lie ahead.
Even without understanding the language, it was obvious to him that Clearwater and her two minders had been set free and left to find their own way home. But what had been the point of the exercise? From the little she had been able to tell him, Steve knew she was now the ‘body-slave’ of one of the top Iron Masters; a certain Nakane Toh-Shiba who had just moved into the No. 1 spot on Steve’s hit list. He also knew she had been transported across Ne-Issan in conditions of great secrecy, had sailed with Yama-Shita to the trading post and had then been put back in the box for return to Toh-Shiba. At which point, Noburo’s ronin had spoiled everything with their raid on the convoy: a convoy which also contained two long-dogs. Clearwater had only caught a fleeting glimpse of them, but she had seen enough. The itinerant duo were Jodi Kazan and Dave Kelso, en route for the Heron Pool where Cadillac was now busily at work trying to build imitation Sky hawks.
But not for much longer, amigo. Your old friend Stevie, who you so kindly shafted by first picking his brains, then assuming his identity, is aiming to throw a nice big spanner right in the works.
Thanks to Clearwater, Steve now had three names to work with: Yama-Shita, old Golden Nose, who had set up the deal with Mr Snow; Min-Orota, another high-wire in whose domain the Heron Pool was located and who, apparently, was funding the operation; and Nakane Toh-Shiba, the Jap who now ‘owned’ Clearwater. He was some kind of top-level government official based in Min-Orota’s territory.
Three interesting pieces that all linked together, but how did they fit into the rest of the puzzle? Steve had coaxed Noburo into admitting he was an agent of ‘those who have an interest in this matter’: his exact words. Was that the purpose of this present journey – to meet the person, or persons, running what amounted to a covert operation against the trio led by Yama-Shita?
As the column continued its slow progress across the forested terrain, threading its way from one dimly lit clearing to the next, Steve mulled over the known elements of the present situation. If a meeting did materialise he had to look and sound confident, and be poised to exploit any opportunity that presented itself. If he failed to make the right connections, he was unlikely to get another chance. The biggest problem was his crippling lack of knowledge of the present set-up inside Ne-Issan. Without these facts it was virtually impossible to figure out who was doing what to whom. He had to rely on the winning combination that had served him so well in the past: intuition – his elusive sixth sense, the voice that sometimes made itself heard in the recesses of his mind, and his incredible luck – what Mr Snow and Clearwater kept calling the will of Talisman.
The more Steve thought about it, the more evident it became that it was Clearwater, not Cadillac, who was the key element in the equation. For reasons he did not yet fully understand, her transformation from patterned grass-monkey to clear-skinned long-dog had made her a valuable asset; a prize that Yama-Shita and his friends had gone to considerable lengths to conceal. But why? What made her so different from all the other Tracker renegades held prisoner in Ne-Issan? Was it because she was the only female, apart from Jodi, that had fallen into their hands? Or was it because this Nakane Toh-Shiba found her as stunning to look at as he did? Was it the Jap’s present physical relationship with Clearwater that was the cause of all this clandestine activity? Was Toh-Shiba breaking the rules – and were his friends Yama-Shita and Min-Orota involved in the cover-up?
The raid on the convoy was proof that somebody was on their case: somebody with sufficient clout and resources to employ close on a hundred ‘ronin’ operating from a secure, well-established base-camp. That ‘somebody’ – Mr X – was opposed to or, at the very least, concerned about what was going on: concerned enough to gamble men’s lives in order to find out who was behind the mask. And powerful enough to command the loyalty of men prepared to die, as more than forty of them had, in order to satisfy his curiosity. Noburo had asked Clearwater no questions; the house-women had been ignored. He had merely inspected his hard-won prize and, to judge from his outward reaction, had not been overly surprised to find what looked like a long-dog, clothed in Iron Master finery.
Steve thought back over what Side-Winder, his fellow-Mexican, had told him about Ne-Issan, searching for clues as to who ‘Mr X’ might be. Toh-Shiba, the Jap now waiting to repossess Clearwater’s body, was a government high-wire. Yama-Shita and Min-Orota were domain-lords. Were they plotting something? Were the aircraft that Cadillac was attempting to build to be used in a bid to seize power? Side-Winder had talked of an ‘undercurrent of conspiracy’. Were they plotting against other domain-lords or… against the government? Could the ‘someone’ whose identity Steve was trying to establish… could ‘Mr X’ be… the Shogun?
Steve felt his brain quiver as he came to this realisation. It was as if an ice-cool electric current had suddenly connected all of his several billion brain cells.
Yep… that’s how it plays, Brickman. You just hit the jackpot.
The column halted. Two ronin appeared out of the darkness and untied Steve’s Wrists and feet. Through the trees, Steve could just make out several faint points of orange light arranged in a regular cluster. From his scavenging expeditions he knew they came from the lighted windows of dwelling places. This, then, was the rendezvous point.
The two ronin brought Steve to the head of the column where Noburo Naka-Jima now stood illuminated by a thin ray of light from a masked lantern. He had dispensed with the ragtag look and was now dressed like a man of some distinction. He wore a black outfit trimmed with blue. Several white word-signs and symbols were arranged across the chest and back of his jacket. His bald head was partly covered by a wig swept up at the back into the top-knot that was the exclusive hallmark of the samurai.
‘You will now take off clothes and wash body,’ he said, pointing to a wooden bucket full of water.
Steve stripped off his walking skins and stood shivering in his blue wingman’s underpants. Noburo motioned to him to take those off too. The sight of the hair that ran down from his navel then spread out across his pelvis brought some muttered comments from the dinks standing around him. Someone handed him a square block of fat and made rubbing motions as another guy emptied some of the water over his head. Steve worked up a rich lather. The block was a solid version of the liquid soap the Federation provided in push-button dispensers. More water was thrown over him. Christopher, it was cold! He worked the soap over his body until he reached his toes, got another drenching, then was handed a towel. A good hard rub got rid of most of the goose pimples.
Noburo sniffed the air coming from Steve’s direction and gave a nod of approval. ‘Now you dress in different manner.’
One of the ronin handed Steve a cotton loincloth and showed him how to wrap it around his private parts, then another guy brought over a sack to put his dirty clothes and his other belongings in. With that task completed, Steve was provided with a pair of white cotton socks, a brown, loose-fitting cuffed jacket and trousers like those worn by Clearwater’s minders and a pair of flat-soled shoes. A square straw mask with two eye-slits was placed over his face and fastened at the back of his head and round his throat, then a hooded waist-length cape made of woven straw was draped over his shoulders and closed by means of a loop and toggle just below the collarbone. Finally, another pair of white socks was slipped over his hands and tucked up his sleeves to hide the tell-tale patches of coloured pigment.
Steve’s wrists were tied together again, but his horse-riding days were over. Two ronin who had changed into red-stripe outfits rode up as Noburo remounted. All three horses had been dolled up by the addition of tassels attached to the harness, their tails had been partly braided and the body of Noburo’s mount was now draped with a black cloth decorated to match the outfit of its rider.
One of the red-stripes took the free end of the rope that ran around Steve’s wrists and hitched it to his saddle; the other took charge of the sack containing his old outfit. Noburo’s party waved goodbye to the nine ronin they were leaving behind and set off towards the distant points of light. Steve didn’t have time to wave. He was too busy trying to keep up.
*
Near midnight, as the inhabitants of the now-silent post-house slumbered, a figure swathed in black, with only his eyes visible through a gap in the strip of cloth wound around his head, entered the darkened pavilion through the half-open screen that gave on to the garden, and sat down cross-legged opposite the waiting ronin.
It was Toshiro Hase-Gawa. A small lantern placed on the floor to Noburo’s left provided the only illumination. Revealing his face to the ronin, the Herald exchanged the customary greetings and then listened intently to Noburo’s account of the raid and his subsequent discoveries. The loss of some forty men was regrettable, but it was reassuring to know his informants had not lied. The love-object was indeed a long-dog.
As requested, the ronin had sent separate confirmation of this fact directly to the Shogun by courier pigeon. Noburo then announced that the kami who had snatched them from the jaws of death following the raid on the convoy had intervened in their favour yet again. The Herald could now examine the merchandise himself: ‘Yoko Mi-Shima’ and her two chaperones had rejoined the road convoy and were spending the night at the same post-house!
Mastering his surprise, the Herald asked how the examination could be conducted without giving the game away. Noburo explained the arrangement he had made with the innkeeper and his wife who, if she was as good as her last whispered word, was now abed with one ear cocked for the three owl-hoots which would summon her to the silent steam-laden bath-house and into Noburo’s arms. She was destined to be cruelly deceived, but Noburo intended to make a handsome apology in the morning. He would blame his non-appearance on the need to guard the ill-starred couple during their midnight tryst, then leave with a backward glance that hinted at unfinished business.
Toshiro listened with an amused smile and laughed in all the right places, but his light hearted manner concealed mixed feelings at learning of the long-dog’s presence in the post-house. The fact that she was now here and, thanks to Noburo, could be viewed whenever he desired called into question the wisdom of his original plan. Had it been a rash and futile action? Had men’s lives been uselessly squandered?
He decided they had not. Gazing surreptitiously at the body of the long-dog through a bath-house screen, or from behind the door to her bedchamber with Noburo beside him as an independent witness, would have proved his accusations were well founded but it would not have thrown the conspirators into disarray.
That was the real purpose of the kidnapping. It raised doubts, it hinted at the possibility that at least one of their secrets was now known to others and fuelled the ever-present anxiety that their conspiracy had been uncovered. Perhaps Lord Yama-Shita would decide that the long-dog was now too great a risk and arrange to have her assassinated. That would certainly eliminate one problem – but it would also end his hold over Nakane Toh-Shiba. It might even cause the Consul-General to turn against him.
Yes…either way there were interesting times ahead.
Toshiro maintained his show of good humour and congratulated the ronin on his artful handling of the situation. ‘So when may I be permitted to see the lady who has led me to risk all for a last passionate encounter?’
‘Soon, sire,’ replied Noburo. ‘But first, there is another person I must bring to your attention.’ Without further explanation he unwrapped a piece of cloth to reveal the combat knife, and proceeded to tell the Herald about Steve’s intervention to halt the slaughter of the camp women and his subsequent revelations.
Toshiro listened impassively, then reached out and touched the knife. ‘Why do you show this to me?’
‘Because it is more than a knife. It is a weapon filled with the power of the long-dogs. The…’ Noburo hesitated ‘… power whose name we dare not speak.’
The Dark Light…
Toshiro examined the knife cautiously. It was well crafted but the quality and sharpness of the steel blade was markedly inferior to the swords and daggers produced in Ne-Issan. He offered it back to the ronin. ‘Show me…’
Noburo released the hidden pressure catches and removed one of the wooden side-pieces revealing the device hidden inside. He had observed Steve’s actions and had practised opening the hilt several times in order to avoid looking clumsy in front of the Herald. He had even taken out the stylus and used it to press various buttons just as the cloud warrior had done, but he had not found out how to make the moving word-signs appear.
What Noburo had done – although he did not know it – was to cancel the automatic broadcast of Steve’s call-sign programmed by Side-Winder, plus the brief twelve-hourly transmissions Steve had keyed in himself. The result was to take Steve completely off the air. For the last two days, the high-flying ears of the First Family had searched for his signal and drawn a blank. The last fix AMEXICO had on him was in the area of Big D – the ronin’s secret hide-out – but now, no one knew where he was, or what had happened to him.
Toshiro inspected the microcircuitry inside the handle but was none the wiser. ‘Did the cloud warrior explain the purpose of this device?’
‘Yes. It is like a courier pigeon without wings. He uses it to send messages through the skies – and also to receive the commands of his masters.’ Noburo shook his head in wonderment.
Toshiro also found the idea fascinating, but he was acutely conscious that they were playing with fire. The hidden contents of the knife made it a forbidden object whose power might destroy those who tampered with its mechanisms. He was obliged to take it with him in case the Shogun expressed a wish to see it, but its presence in the room made him feel uneasy. Toshiro got the ronin to show him how to release and replace the wooden side-pieces, then told him to wrap the knife up and place it in another room until they had concluded their business.
When Noburo returned he had the mysterious cloud warrior in tow. The tall dark-haired figure whose wrists were tied together went down on his knees before the Herald and bowed respectfully.
‘Remove the mask,’ said Toshiro, in Japanese.
Noburo untied the straw mask and adopted a cross-legged position facing them, on the Herald’s right.
Steve sat back on his heels and kept his eyes lowered until the black-clad figure addressed him. Noburo had given him a crash course on how to behave, stressing that this high-flyer did not owe him any favours and was apparently a stickler for protocol. Social inferiors – and especially outlanders – did not sit in the company of samurai. They knelt. Above all, they did not come on like Jack the Bear.
Toshiro studied Steve’s patterned face and forearms with a mixture of suspicion and distaste. He had never been this close to a grass-monkey before. He paused, uncertain what tone to adopt in this situation. He thought over what the ronin had said about his extraordinary martial skills and his fearless responses when questioned and decided to address him in a firm, but not overbearing, manner. ‘I understand you call yourself a cloud warrior. What is that exactly?’
