“He will come. Patience.”

“He will not come. This is a wasted journey, Hamesu,” said Mirumoto Irozu, “a fool’s errand. We have left the mountains and our true duty to chase filthy Ronin.”

“Would you say that sunset is like a bloodied silk screen or a blushing maiden’s cheek, Irozu?” replied Kitsuki Hamesu, staring out the window of the tea house, “ and was our journey invigorating and interesting, or pleasant and calming?”

“What in the heavens are you jabbering about, Hamesu?”

“Planning polite conversation. We can’t just charge into the conversation as though it were a battle. It would be most rude and imprudent to ask the gentleman if we can hire his band of Ronin as mercenaries without at least commenting on the prettiness of the Crane lands.”

“The man’s a Ronin, a man without honour or civil manners. You Kitsuki are fools. You’re playing at being a courtier, but this is no palace.” Irozu waved his hand vaguely around, as if he were dispersing some illusion of smoke that had made his companion think the tiny establishment was some wondrous court. “Not even the Cranes have time for such twittering nonsense these days, with the troubles in the south. They’ll hire both the Red Samurai’s men and the other lot.”

“Indeed. As the empire is at present most inharmonious, due to the disagreements between the other clans, those who walk the uncertain path of the hired sword are much in demand. The mercenary we are to meet here, Sanetama, I judge to be a sensitive and noble man. Therefore, if polite conversation will win his favour, then you and I will make polite conversation, Irozu, and you will sound sincere about it. Drink your tea.”

Hamesu sat back, lifting the porcelain bowl to his lips. He paused for a moment, reflecting. The village was a well-known meeting place for mercenaries, and those who wished to hire them. Hamesu had been sent to gather a small force, and Irozu was to lead the mercenaries north, striking at the Naga from the rear. “In large-scale strategy it is important to cause loss of balance. Attack without warning where the enemy is not expecting it, and while his spirit is undecided follow up your advantage and, having the lead, defeat him” wrote a master. Hamesu considered this, and considered the slim pouch of gold at his side, and wondered exactly how many mercenaries would be needed to cause a loss of balance in the Naga.

There were two bands of mercenaries in town, but they only had enough to hire Sanetama’s men. The others, lead by a man named Morishu, were asking a high price, one that could only be met by a rich Crane or Mantis. Morishu, known as the Red Samurai, was renowned as a dangerous and skilled warrior.

A monk ran past the tea house, shouting. “Murder murder! The shrine is defiled, oh in the name of the heavens come quickly, help help murder murder!” Irozu leapt up, spilling his tea, and ran for the door, heading for the nearby temple. Hamesu smoothly swallowed the last remaining mouthful in his cup, then walked to the door. The monk ran past him again, his bare feet slipping in the mud. He wore a simple brown long-sleeved robe. It flapped open in the wind as he ran, revealing black and orange markings on his chest and forearms. Hamesu stepped out of the tea house and followed the monk and Irozu towards the temple.

It was certainly a Crane temple. The Crane had embraced Shinsei ’s philosophy of simplicity and casting off worldly goods with the same enthusiasm they had embraced long, bitter, protracted wars. They purchased the best tools, and got someone else to do the job. The monk stood barefoot in his threadbare robe on a magnificent marble floor. Beautiful paintings, a few fine woven mats, expensive burning braziers and small gold and jade shrines to the kami decorated the wonderful temple. By a golden lion shine, one of the perfect mats was stained with a deep rich red stain. A samurai was kneeling on it, but he had slumped forward. There was a deep gash in his back, just over his kidney. He was quite dead. There was a strange smell in the room, like the smell of a charnel field.

“Murder!” said Irozu. “Monk, did you see anyone?”

“Yes, lord,” replied the monk, “as I entered the temple to perform my devotions, I saw a tall man, dressed in red armour, flee by the back exit.”

“The Red Samurai! The other mercenary!” shouted Irozu “he murdered his rival!”

The monk paled. “My lord, pray do not leap so hastily. I am but a humble monk, and my word counts for little.”

Hamesu knelt by the Ronin’s body. He reached out, careful to touch only the man’s armour, and pushed the corpse forward slightly. A deep gash in the flesh, white rib bones shone in the gory canyon. There were three other small cuts, one above and two below the wound. He glanced down – Sanetama was barefoot.

“Look at the tracks, Kitsuki-sama” said the monk, pointing at the bloodied floor. A telltale bootprint in the pool of blood…and a short trail of similar prints on the marble floor lead past the burning braziers towards the rear of the temple.

Hamesu stood and walked towards the rear of the temple. The booted prints led straight to a small door at the rear of the temple. There was a small bowl there, so those entering could wash their feet after removing their footwear. The bowl was empty. Hamesu opened the door, and looked up and down the street. There was no sign of any bloodied prints, but the day was warm and the ground to hard to retain prints. There was one wet patch. Hamesu looked at, and then walked back into the temple.

He inhaled deeply, and took a few sure steps to the nearest brazier. He reached up and pulled a burnt piece of leather from the flames.

Hamesu smiled at the monk. “Did Hoshi-sama know we were coming, or were you sent to stop any attempts by the Dragon Clan to procure aid?” he said happily.

The monk was unmoved. “Forgive me, lord, I know not of what you speak.”

Hamesu walked towards the monk, holding the piece of leather. “Sanetama was meditating here, by the Akodo shrine. He would have heard the sound of a booted man creeping up on him – for the assassin would have had to walk on your fine marble floor.” The confidence and strange joy in Hamesu’s voice was plain.

“He could have been taken unaware” said the monk.

“Unaware? A trained AKODO samurai? Perhaps by a stealthy barefoot killer, but not by a big booted Ronin like Morishu. Sanetama was a cultured, honourable man, and here he lies in front of the shrine of the Akodo ancestors. Many Akodo became Ronin when Hantei the 39th stripped them of their name.”

The monk shuffled his bare feet nervously. “But there are bootprints here. Clearly there was a booted man here.”

“Indeed – after the killing. A half-booted man, anyway. The killer carried a boot, slew Sanetama, and then put on the boot. By leaving bloodied tracks, he tried to trick me. Once the killer reached the door, he threw the boot into the brazier to burn. He then washed his bloodied hand in the water bowl, threw the fouled water out into the alley – and ran out past the tea shop.”

“You accuse me, of the Order of Shinsei” exclaimed the monk, flexing his hands. “I have no knife, and you will find no blade in this temple.

“Indeed – for you murdered him with your own claws! Hoshi makes his own Ise Zumi, the Dragon have met them in battle. You bear the tattoo of the tiger.”

Hamesu pointed at the monk’s arms. Orange and black bands could be seen in the shadows of the sleeves.

“Your pride in your own trickery lead you astray, monk” said Hamesu, “you pointed out the physical evidence, and spoke little of your own eye-witness account. You were trying to appeal to the KITSUKI technique!” Kitsuki Hamesu turned his back on the monk, and walked towards the Togashi shrine. “Doubtless you hoped that we would run off and arrest Morishu the Red. With both mercenary bands leaderless and scattered, there –“

The monk sprang forward, his teeth sharp, eyes glowing orange, fingers shifted into claws. Irozu’s katana flashed, neatly slicing the monk’s head from his shoulders. An instant later, his wakizashi neatly pinned the monk’s body to the mat.

There was a moment of silence.

“You’ve killed a holy man, Irozu, “ said Hamesu, “that’s probably bad luck.” Irozu, who’d been alternately befuddled and irritated during the whole conversation, knelt to clean the monk’s blood from his swords. “Well… what do we do now?”

Hamesu lifted a heavy key from the monk’s belt. “We compound our crimes by stealing from this temple, and use the riches to hire both bands of mercenaries. Then we go back north and unbalance the naga with an awful lot of killing.”

“Have you no honour left, Kitsuki? Stealing from the dead to hire Ronin?”

Hamesu lifted the solid jade statue of Togashi from its niche. “Kyuden Kitsuki is destroyed, friend. Your home is under siege. We have no time for twittering indecision now. If I survive, then I shall meditate on my wrongs, and if I or Lord Yasu or Lady Hitomi demand it, I shall pay my karmic debt with my own life. But if we do not succeed in stopping those who have defiled our lands, I shall be dead and my Clan with me.”

He turned and walked towards the temple treasury. He glanced over his shoulder at Irozu, who was standing over the bodies with smouldering anger in his eyes. In an uncharacteristically bitter tone, Hamesu added “by the way, Mirumoto Irozu, by saving my life when the monk attacked me, you took responsibility for my life and my deeds. My kharma is your kharma. So you’re in this with me until the end.”