Scott McGough: Heretic, Betrayers of Kamigawa

Pearl-Ear did not share their joy. Instead, she peered upward once more, straining in vain for a glimpse of Michiko-hime in the tower above.

Princess Michiko was not at the window of her lavishly furnished cell during her father’s address. She did not see the crowds, the soldiers, or the dragon, and though her thoughts often turned to Lady Pearl-Ear, she did not look for her tutor through the thick haze outside.

Instead, Michiko sat at her writing desk, busily inscribing the same complicated symbol on a blank scroll with a stiff-bristled brush. Lost in concentration, she muttered to herself as she traced the same lines over and over until the ink-soaked paper all but dissolved under her efforts.

She had seen no one but soldiers since her imprisonment-not her father, not her tutor, not her most intimate friend. She was well fed and given free access to any books in her father’s library, provided he approved them beforehand. She had read voraciously over the long months of her captivity, first a series of historical tomes about Kamigawa then scholarly texts about different spiritual practices. The daimyo had refused to supply any information she requested on the kami war, but he seemed content to let her complete her formal education on her own.

Apart from her books, Michiko was completely cut off from the outside world. The castle was well warded against any spells that might be cast to communicate with her, and the physical barriers of wall and sentry deterred any other kind of contact. Her friends, her mentor, her servants, and her father were all out of reach.

Michiko continued to trace the symbol. Fortunately, she had made acquaintances that her father didn’t know about. One of her books detailed the practices of kanji magicians, who used special symbols to focus their magic. A seasoned kanji mage could burn wood by carving the symbol for fire into it or induce fever by chalking the right character on her victim’s front door. By combining different symbols into the same kanji, even more powerful spells were possible.

The princess glanced down at the disintegrating sheet of parchment, still muttering to herself. When she had started practicing, she would often stop after the symbol for “messenger” before going on to the kanji for hyozan , or “iceberg.” Since taking her brush in hand several hours ago, she had not paused at all, blending the two symbols together in a series of smooth, practiced motions, chanting all the while.

The symbol under her brush twitched. Michiko’s eyes widened, but she kept tracing and chanting. It was beginning to work. She struggled to remain calm and to keep her rhythm steady.

There was a wet cracking sound as the kanji tore itself free of the paper and rose into the air. Michiko slid back in her chair, unwilling to breathe for fear of disrupting the ritual. She edged over so that she was between the floating symbol and the open window.

The messenger symbol did not try to leave, however, but floated before her as if waiting. Michiko took a breath and spoke softly, but clearly.

“Find him in the Takenuma Swamp,” she said. “I have a new commission for him and his reckoners.”

The symbol bobbed in the air. Michiko drew another breath and went on.

“Tell him I am in my father’s tower. I am a prisoner. Rescue me, and the reward will stagger the greediest of hearts.” Michiko paused, remembering her previous encounter with this would-be savior. “Even his.

“Go now,” she said. “Tell Toshi that I will be waiting for him.”

The messenger symbol rotated in the air before the princess then shot out of the open window and disappeared into the gloom.

Toshi Umezawa sat at the bar in one of the worst taverns the world had ever known. Most of the buildings in Takenuma Swamp were grim, but The Rat’s Nest was in a class by itself. The cups were filthy, the wine was foul, and the clientele was criminally insane. It was perched up on bamboo stilts like every other establishment in the Numai section of the swamp, but the Nest’s east end had sunk far deeper into the muck so that foul, oily water lapped at the patron’s feet at one end of the room.

There were only two things on the menu: a grayish rice wine that tended to strip the enamel off ceramic cups and a wad of unidentifiable meat on a stick. Apart from the nezumi-bito rat-folk, who could eat just about anything without retching, Toshi had never seen anyone take so much as a bite of the meat skewer without turning green and fouling himself.

Toshi mimed taking a sip of wine but poured the gray liquid on the floor instead. He surreptitiously filled the cup from the flask of water he wore on his belt then poured that out, too. Only then did he fill the cup again and drink. The wine residue was still too strong, though, and he grimaced as the noisome liquid burned his throat.

Toshi had spent a large part of his life convinced that he deserved better than he got, but this outing marked a milestone in his disappointment. I’m a newly spiritual man, he thought. Surely I shouldn’t have to pray for a decent drink.

Around him, a handful of nezumi and human reprobates also made do with the extremely limited menu. None of the other patrons paid much attention to the average-looking fellow with the long hair and the samurai swords, which was one of the reasons he had chosen this bar and this district. Almost all of the fen residents were outlaws, thieves, or ochimusha like him. Unless he had stolen from them or they were planning to steal from him, they had no business to discuss.

The door opened to his left, and Toshi glanced at the newcomer. He smiled briefly. Here was someone he had business with, someone who was a damn sight more pleasant to look at than the grubby one-eyed bartender or the filth-caked nezumi at the far table.

Kiku stood in the doorway for a few seconds, sneering in disgust at the interior and everyone in it. She was stunningly beautiful and resplendently dressed, wrapped in pale purple silk and fine embroidered satin. Her wrap was slit up each side below her waist, revealing her shapely legs up to her hips, and her blouse was tightly wound around her to display both her considerable curves and her natural grace as she walked. She sported wide, flaring sleeves that ended just below the elbow and matching purple gauntlets that covered her forearms to the backs of her hands. Her bright black eyes glittered like precious stones, but the rest of her face was concealed behind a folded paper fan she used to waft the foul tavern air away from her face. A large purple camellia decorated Kiku’s shoulder, its soft petals a perfect contrast to her sharp eyes and painted fingernails. Toshi thought her poise and beauty would have stood out at a rich man’s formal banquet, but here in the Nest she was like a beautiful dream of an angel bringing him water in the desert.

Toshi sipped his drink to hide another smile. An angel, to be sure, but a dangerous one who could kill just about everyone in the room in one fell swoop if she cared to. Kiku was a jushi , a mage for hire who specialized in dark magic that was as powerful as it was unpleasant. Toshi had worked with Kiku before, so he was respectful but not afraid. He had convinced her to meet him here precisely because she was so formidable.

Kiku visibly steeled herself and strode boldly into the tavern. Wisely, none of the other patrons attempted to speak to her or catch her eye on the way. She stood next to Toshi for a moment, spread a purple satin square on the moldering old stool, and rested lightly on the edge of it.

“There’s been a change in plans,” she said. She snapped her fan shut and rested it across her lap. “Boss Uramon wants to see you now.”

Toshi smiled foolishly. He toasted Kiku and spilled some of his drink on the bar. “That’s not a problem. I want to see her, too.”