Dueling Swords Part 3

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Dueling Swords, Part 3 by John Burkhart

Even I am not so dense to believe I would be outright given the honor to serve as a permanent yoriki to an Emerald magistrate directly. Given the people I performed for, being assigned to a Unicorn Magistrate was the first step for the promising young samurai.

The name of the magistrate I was to serve as yoriki was one Ide Bantu, and I was to travel to Shiro Ide to meet him. After taking time to clean myself from the dust of the ride, I made my way through the hallways of Shiro Ide.

I found Ide Bantu in a gallery, looking at picture of another Unicorn on horseback. The picture displayed him in full sunlight, with his back to the mountains, presumably looking toward the Empire. Looking a little closer, and noting that Bantu's kimono had the same mon, an open hand in a purple octagon, I decided he was an Ide.

“It is an excellent portrait, isn't it?” Bantu asked without looking at me. His voice was smooth,

If he was going to base his first impression of me on my skill at art criticism, I was in for a very rough relationship. “Yes,” I said, though my voice betrayed my uncertainty.

There was silence for a moment. “You do know who that is, right?”

No. I didn't. I cast my eyes around the portrait again, noticing the metal plated marker. “The Imperial Advisor,” was the caption, and “The Shining Diplomat,” must have been the portrait's title. Even I knew who the Advisor was. “Ide Tadaji,” I replied.... and then bit my tongue to stop from adding: “But it looks nothing like him. For one thing, he has a club foot – he cannot ride a horse.”

He looked up and down the wall at the other portraits. “A number of clans had commissioned portraits of my Daimyo. I think this is my favorite.”

I looked up and down the hall, the all showed a man, all with a horse, all looking impressive. All looking nothing like Tadaji. I said nothing.

Bantu turned toward me and met my eyes, giving me the impression that I'd passed – barely. He was a heavy set gentlemen, older than I was by a few years. His thin cheekbones reminded me of the Crane I'd recently visited. “It is a perfect capturing of his soul,” Bantu concluded. “You are Moto Gonnohoye?” he asked, studying me intently.

“Hai, Ide-sama,” I said, bowing.

His face maintained neutrality. “Very good, Gonnohoye. We will be leaving tomorrow for a tour of our provinces.”


I would hesitate to say that the next several weeks involved solving crimes. I hate to think that I had peaked as a crime solver completely by accident. Thwarting the attempted assassination of a family daimyo with the last person ever I thought could be a culprit? It would have harded to top that. But the things we were asked to investigate were... anticlimactic.

It did not help that that Bantu and I did not really see eye to eye.

Our first investigation was in the outskirts of Duzaki Toshi, a smaller city not far from Shiro Ide. A minor sensei of the Dojo of the Left had discovered some sort of coded message, and was absolutely paranoid that a Scorpion Actor had infiltrated the dojo to steal secrets of the Unicorn.

The note itself was straight forward, if not exceptional calligraphy. Even if the kanji made no sense to me, I could tell exactly what it was trying to be.

When asked how I would approach the case, I thought back to previous trips with Kitsuki Agama. “Try to solve the encryption? Investigate where the message was found?” I offered.

For the next few hours, I think we interviewed every single Ide student that was in attendance.

All of them denied leaving the message.

A few of them offered to try to decode it for us. I wish Bantu had taken the student up in the offer, it would have saved a lot of headaches. Instead, we went through a mind numbing back and forth investigation of interviews and inquiries.

And what was this mystery code? Love poetry. When we finally tracked down the source, it was a young Utaku samurai-ko. Being a gate-warden at Duzaki Toshi was her first assignment after her gempukku. She had designed the code to attract the attention, and then perhaps the affection, of a particular student.

I was inclined to laugh the whole thing off – there certainly wasn't any harm done, and I firmly believe compassion is the most important virtue of Bushido.

Bantu apparently believed otherwise, and while he didn't do more than alert the Utaku's direct superior, the way he did it rankled me. It felt like he was insisting that something should be done about it. If that was his call to make, he could have always written to her daimyo.


The other major investigation was the the one that actually captured my interest. We had received multiple reports of a 'creature' slipping through the plains, coming from the south. This was more likely to be a situation for the Imperial Legions. But we were in the area without pressing engagement, so Bantu assigned ourselves to the matter.

I have to admit, this was somewhat more to my proficiency. I knew how to hunt and track animals and people over the plains and occasional woodlands. It took us a few days, but we had horses, and occasional sitings – though no attacks – we were able to make progress.

We had tracked our quarry to one of the small forests that dotted the plains. Small numbers of peasants worked it to get wood for arrows. Our quarry had made many stops like this one, it must have been easier to hide from passing patrols.

As we approached this one, though, our horses became to act agitated. Let me rephrase that. Bantu's horse was agitated. I could tell mine was uncomfortable, but I had it too well trained for it to snort and buck about like Bantu's was doing.

I politely didn't say anything. I simply dismounted, and walked along with both horses, placing a hand on Bantu's. I allowed my own calmness, and my own horses good behavior to hopefully spread to Bantu's own steed. It worked, somewhat. Bantu dismounted as well, and we began our hunt in earnest.

Which didn't honestly, take too long. Our horses could track our quarry – though they didn't actually want to. When we found it, I nearly lost my grip on Bantu's horse, as it reared up in alarm and possibly anger. Even my horse was finally showing signs of agitation – it snorted and whinnied – clearly upset.

I responded by looping the lead over a thick low branch.

“No kill! No fight!” squeaked an alarmed voice.

Through the thick of the trees I saw it. A five foot tall rat. A light brown five foot tall rat. A kimono and travel pack wearing light brown five foot tall rat. A pure white tail swished behind it.

“No fight!” it shouted again, looking at us in the same wide eyed terror that was in my face when I saw the angry half-gaijin ghost. It held up empty paws in plaintive supplication.

Bantu's face sprouted a disgusted look and his hand moved to his katana. He walked forward purposefully. My next act was rash, and I'm surprised it didn't get me killed.

It still might.

I stepped between them, holding up my own empty hands. “No fight,” I said agreeably.

“That's a ratling. Those are vermin,” said Bantu irritatedly. “You've seen what our horses think of them. Stand aside.”

“My duty as a samurai is to kill when necessary,” I said, forcing myself to remain calm.

“No kill!” said the ratling again, backing up, his eyes on fixated on Bantu's hand.

“And to know when it is necessary,” I finished. “Anything intelligent enough to say it is unwilling to fight deserves to be heard out.” I turned back to it. “So, ratling, Why have you come here?”

The Ratling visibly took a deep breath and appeared to calm down, “I am Zin'tch,” he a rememberer in training from the Tattered Ear clan, from near the Big-Big wall.” Zin'tch's pure white tail twitched, his Rokugani wasn't perfect, but very good. I glanced at Bantu. His face was a careful neutral mask.

“A rememberer?” I asked.

Bantu said nothing. I suspect he was in shock that his new yokrii disobeyed about as close to a direct order as one could get. Perhaps it was a sign that being a magistrate was not for me.

“Most Nezumi no remember well-well. But some Nezumi are blessed with good-good memory. We have important duty of remembering for the tribe.”

I nodded. “But why are you here?”

“I seek to be acknowledged as a true rememberer by council. I am on Torre'chek.” His tail twitched again as he paused, searching for proper words. “A story quest. I must find or create a great story that can be used to remind the old and teach the young.”

It certainly sounded like an honorable pursuit, to me at least. “So where do you seek this new story?” I asked.

His eyes glanced hesitantly to Bantu's kimono. “Maybe explore beyond big-big desert. Most Samurai stories known to Nezumi. Need something new, from far-far away.” He twitched, and even I could tell the Nezumi was holding something back. After a few seconds pause, he blurted it out. “Thought maybe could offer gift to Open Paw Horse Riders for story from big-big desert.”

I blinked at him, then turned to look at Bantu,and while I was on the verge of laughing, the coolness of Bantu's face did not settle my nerves. My eyes had fallen on the Ide Mon, which was, after all, an open hand. Bantu wasn't impressed. “What could you possibly offer the Ide?” he asked, sourly.

“Small tribes say Ope... Ide offer gifts in exchange for messages to friends on desert. Say Ide chief have great honor. Ask for pictures from all Samurai tribes.” He unslung his travel pack.

I believe I could hear Bantu whisper, “No. He didn't.” If he wasn't in shock before, he was about to be.

The portrait, enclosed in a frame of willow bark, was instantly recognizable. Unlike the others, It showed Ide Tadaji – no less impressive looking, but eschewing any horse, and clearly showing his deformity. The paints and colors were, if anything bolder than, if not quite as good as, the ones hanging in Shiro Ide... but the Nezumi clearly didn't have the resources the clans did, either. I was impressed.

Even Bantu looked impressed despite his anger. I suppose the shock of something so lifelike from something he thought as a savage broke his world view somewhat. It took him a few seconds to recover. "That is not art."

Zin'tch looked crestfallen. “How is no art?” He asked.

I wanted to ask the same question. I also wanted know how they had seen Ide Tadaji. I suppose one of them had stolen a glance. Or maybe one of their rememberers had met him before – Zin'tch never said he painted it, after all.

“Art is supposed to be works of beauty. Samurai create art to inspire people! To bring out the nobility that is in the greatest of samurai!”

Zin'tch closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. I'll say this about the Nezumi, they do not hide their emotions.

I think my Grandfather would have really liked them.

“Why do Nezumi paint?” I asked softly.

Zin'tch opened his eyes, meeting my own. “Nezumi no remember well well. Nezumi paint to help remember what friends look like.”

How is it that I feel I had more in common with a talking rat than the humans I grew up with?

“Maybe I can help, Zin'tch of the Tattered Ear.” What could I do? Well, Grandfather had told me plenty of stories of Medinaat al-Salaam, the Jewel of the Desert. While I was no practiced storyteller, I could relate a story or two.

Zin'tch was overjoyed, and listened as a child would. At the end, he offered me the painting. “Perhaps give to Ide Chief?” he asked. “In name of Nezumi allies?”

Bantu, to his credit, did not interrupt us. His initial rage must have cooled.

I thought not. “Are there Ide who come to your friends?” I asked. When Zin'tch nodded his assent, “Perhaps you can tell me who they are, and I can let them present in name of your allies.”

Zin'tch nodded to me again, and provided the information. After this, he bowed as a Samurai would. “No fight when no need is act of good good name, Far Far Desert Rider.”

“Moto family,” I told him. “Gonnohoye”

“Moto Gonnohoye,” he repeated, correctly. He bowed again. “I go look for other stories to bring back to tribe. Thank you for your gift of stories.” He scurried away.

Bantu looked at me after the Nezumi had left, and anger slipped into his voice again. “The Steel Chrysanthemum declared Nezumi a Shadowlands menace.”

I blanched. “I can't imagine a Shadowlands creature caring to remember their own history – or history of another culture, not like that.” I said, careful not to say that I thought the Emperor was wrong. "If you killed him," I added, "You would have damaged relations with a group the Ide Family makes use of as couriers."

Bantu narrowed his eyes at me. He was plainly conflicted. "Vermin," he finally said, his eyes darting to the portrait in my hand. "But perhaps useful vermin."

I released a deep breath, and carefully put the picture in my own travel pack. I hadn't decided yet if I was going to follow through on the Nezumi's request to get it to Tadaji. I didn't know the Nezumi contacts, nor how they would take it, if I could find them.

But it did get me thinking more about art – and the multiple reasons to paint a picture.