An easterly wind brought a damp heat from the distant Isles of Spice and Silk. On this cool day, the humidity served as a shock to the system in the pre-dawn. It slipped through kimono and warmed the skin, brought a flush to the body. Reminded you of the comforting warmth of your bed.
The Lonely Shore failed to live up to its name this morning. A man dressed in grey and brown and black all muddled together by the wear of the road walked from the large fishing village down to the shore. He was not alone in feeling that warm air on his skin.
A liar's wind he thought. The cold would return soon. As he stopped at the lapping shore, wave upon slow wave soaked his feet. He looked left, then right. Dozens of heimin fishermen carried their tiny skiffs to the coastline and set out into the early tide. Once out there amid the rocking ocean they would feel the cold again.
The man, the ronin, turned to right and began to walk in the direction of the distant cliffs. He would not get that far, not today, but their mere existence brought back a flash of memory.
Running on a rocky path up the mountainside, shifting stones beneath his feet, he did not give a single thought to the long drop or the jagged rocks below. They were coming and he had to run.
The ronin realized he had begun to pick up the pace, almost started running. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath forcing his pace to slacken.
The old thoughts run away with you.
"Funny," he whispered to himself.
Long minutes of walking and the ronin stood at the edge of a tidal pool. The collection of water filled in between the deep and dangerous rocks. He looked up at the high cliffs. The view was blocked, in part, by his mask. He shifted it so the broken eye-hole granted greater vision.
There was movement on a hidden path, a way down few knew about and fewer still used for its dangers. The individual picked their way down carefully and the ronin knew it would be a while before they got to the bottom.
To him.
He also knew they could not yet see, not in this dark. He took a small prepared scroll, kanji scrawled on the back of an old discarded prayer token. He stabbed it into the earth at a predetermined point, in a predetermined way. On it was the symbol of a rat in a crown.
King Rat.
Kozo the ronin slipped into the shadows of a crevice between the rocks to wait for his informant. The servant who picked his way down now was one of the remaining loyalists to the old regime. He was old, but spry, and had a certain hatred of the new daimyo. Kozo wasn't sure what information he would carry with him, but he never failed to amaze.
Kozo stared into the distant tidal pool, blinked once and was once again lost in memory.
"We used to eat the oysters in that bed cooked in an old kabuto helm," he whispered to himself. "Something about the oil from the metal gives them a flavor you can't find in the market."
"Father says you are brave if you do that now."
Kozo whirled in the dark of the crevice to see a second man sitting amidst the rocks. He had thought he was alone. Certain of it, in fact.
"You." Not a statement. An accusation. This was the strange ronin who gave Kozo - no, not Kozo then - the advice that had led him to his current state.
"Father says this pool hasn't held an oyster bed in generations. They were farmed to extinction generations ago. The fishermen dump old fish heads in there now."
Kozo simply stared back, uncomprehending. He remembered eating those oysters. Weeks ago. No, perhaps months. Or was it years?
"Father says you shouldn't let yourself confuse you so easily. Also, your man is coming."
Kozo pressed himself back against the rocks. He heard the footsteps of the old servant in the tidal pool. The man was quick, moved with a purpose. The old note was taken to be replaced by another. The servant would not be caught with a weapon.
And just like that, he was gone.
The other ronin stood up and began to walk out into the light of the rising sun.
"Father wants to know if he's right. Let's go look."
Home 
