Laura Rowland - The Ronin’s Mistress

“What shall I tell them?” Ukihashi asked.

Oishi held her hands, looked into her eyes. “People will say terrible things about me. They’ll probably be true. But I swear that no matter what I do, I love you and our girls. Tell them that. Remember.”

Ukihashi whispered, “I will.” She embraced him, then Chikara, for the last time.

Oishi and Chikara traveled to Miyako. That summer, at a teahouse named Ichiriki, they secretly met up with nineteen ronin that Oishi had sent there. The men had become laborers, traders, or monks. None sported the trappings of their former class. Oishi and Chikara had left their swords at their lodgings; hats covered their crowns, where stubble had begun to grow. After greetings and toasts, Oishi said, “Let’s take an oath.” He raised his fist. “I swear, on my ancestors’ graves, to deliver Kira to justice and avenge Lord Asano.”

Chikara’s and everyone else’s fists shot into the air. Voices solemnly repeated the oath. A foreboding silence fell. Then one of the men said, “Why have you come, Oishi- san ? I thought you were going to stay in Edo until it’s time for the deed to be done.” When Oishi explained, the man said, “Kira has spies in Miyako, too. They’re always watching us. They’re bound to find out that you’re here.”

“I’ll give them something to report.”

The next day Oishi began frequenting the teahouses, where he pretended to drink too much. He became loud and obnoxious; he picked fights. He took a mistress, a young girl named Okaru, who was too stupid to realize that she was just part of his act. One day he poured wine over himself, then collapsed on the street, in a feigned, drunken stupor.

Chikara waited nearby, watching people jeer at Oishi. A man with a cross face stopped and said, “Oishi- san ? Is that you? Why are you lying in the gutter? What happened?” He recoiled in disgust. “The rumors are true, then. You’ve become a bum.” He announced, “This is Oishi Kuranosuke, former retainer to Lord Asano. He doesn’t have the courage to avenge his master’s death. Faithless beast!” He trampled on Oishi and spat in his face. “You are unworthy of the name of samurai!”

Oishi signaled Chikara to stand back while a crowd joined in the taunting, kicking, and spitting. His plan to defame himself worked. The winter after he and Chikara left Edo, they learned, from their own spies there, that Kira thought he had nothing to fear from the Asano ronin. His estate was no longer as heavily guarded as a fort. It was time.

Oishi contacted the ronin who’d gone to other cities. Forty-seven men, counting Oishi and Chikara, still remained loyal. They returned to Edo, one by one, anonymously and inconspicuously, and gathered at a cheap inn.

“I’ve found out Kira is having a banquet at his house tomorrow,” Kinemon said. “He and his men are sure to drink so much that they’ll be easy targets.”

“We’ll attack late tomorrow night,” Oishi decided.

Kinemon unrolled a large sheet of paper on the table. “Here are the plans for the house.”

“How did you get them?”

“I married the daughter of the man who built Kira’s estate. I stole the plans from his office.”

Reviewing the plans, Oishi discovered the secret exit in Kira’s bedchamber. The forty-seven ronin checked the equipment they’d brought; they settled on their strategy. Oishi looked around the table and said, “You can back out if you want.”

Chikara and the others were moved to tears. They knew he was giving them a chance to save their lives, and if they took it, he wouldn’t think ill of them. He loved them that much. His generosity cemented their loyalty to him and to their dead master.

“We’re not backing out,” Chikara said. “I swear, on my ancestors’ graves, to deliver Kira to justice and avenge Lord Asano.” The other men seconded him, renewing their oath.

Oishi’s stern expression didn’t hide the gratitude in his eyes. “Tomorrow night we go to meet our fate.”

* * *

When Chikara had finished his tale, Hirata said, “So you waited almost two years just to put Kira off his guard. That’s all there was to it?”

“That’s it,” Chikara said.

Hirata raised the issue that Chikara’s story hadn’t clarified. “After Kira was dead, why did you wait for orders?”

“Because my father said we should.”

Hirata shook his head.

Chikara frowned, offended. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“You’re hiding something. I can tell.”

“How?” Chikara backed away from Hirata, suspicious and fearful. “Are you doing some kind of magic on me?”

Hirata had learned to read dishonesty in human energy auras. It made them vibrate at a quick, erratic frequency, as Chikara’s aura did now. But he said, “I don’t need magic. Look at yourself.” He pointed to Chikara’s reflection in a mirror on the wall of the martial arts practice room where they stood. “Your eyes are open too wide. That’s fake innocence. And if you fold your arms any more tightly around your chest to hold the truth in, your ribs will crack.”

Dismayed by his transparency, Chikara let his arms drop and forced his face to relax. “We waited because we had to trick Kira. We waited for orders because my father said to. That’s my story. I’m sticking with it even if you torture me.”

No one could stand up to the kind of torture Hirata could administer. But Sano was opposed to torture because it often produced false confessions, and Hirata generally agreed with Sano. Besides, Hirata felt a profound respect for Chikara. The young man had gone where few of his elders had the courage to go. Hirata sought a kinder way to make Chikara talk.

“I admire you people. You followed Bushido to its most extreme limits.” Hirata wasn’t just seeking a way to gain Chikara’s trust; he genuinely admired the forty-seven ronin.

Chikara’s chest inflated with pride. “Yes, we did.”

“Most samurai will never know what that’s like.”

“No, they won’t.”

Hirata knew. He’d once taken a blade intended for Sano and suffered the injury that had almost killed him and would have crippled him permanently if not for his mystic martial arts training. But the attack had happened so fast that he hadn’t had time to think, whereas the forty-seven ronin had had months to come to grips with the personal risk that their act required. Hirata found himself wanting to save the forty-seven ronin, even though he must maintain his impartiality for the sake of the investigation and he had a duty to uphold the law.

“I think it would be a pity if you were condemned to death,” Hirata said. “The world needs good samurai like you.”

Chikara smiled at the compliment, caught himself, and resumed his imitation of his father’s stern expression. “I did what I had to do. I’m not afraid to die.”

Probably he didn’t comprehend the finality of death. Hirata remembered his own youth, when he’d felt invincible. He hadn’t truly understood that he was mortal until he’d been hurt. And he doubted that any man could imagine the agony of ritual suicide until he did it himself.

“But maybe you don’t need to die,” Hirata said.

Chikara scowled. “You’re trying to trick me. You’ll promise to help me, and I’ll tell you things, and then you’ll break your promise. Well, I’m not that stupid.”

“What things?” Hirata asked.

Chikara looked abashed because he’d as good as admitted that he had something to hide. Then he scowled harder.

“The reason we’re having this conversation is that the government can’t decide whether you’re heroes or criminals,” Hirata said. “The shogun has formed a supreme court to figure it out. Heroes, you live. Criminals, you die.”