Doctor Who_ The Room With No Doors - Kate Orman [2]
Chris took his cocoa for a walk while it cooled. The TARDIS would get him back to his bed when he was ready.
He found himself in the archery range. The straw targets were piled in a corner, the bows and arrows safely stored away in an old trunk. It had been a while since the last lesson.
The Doctor had been teaching him Zen archery for. . . gosh, a couple of years now. Trying to teach him, anyway. Chris hadn’t got any better at it, missing the target as often as he hit it. But the Doctor said it wasn’t a matter of hitting the target so much as becoming the target. . . or something. The Doctor knew what he was doing.
Chris sat on the trunk, taking warm mouthfuls of cocoa, looking at the painting that hung on one wall of the long hall. It was a copy of The Death of Arthur. The Doctor had done it himself, obviously while he was in a silly mood. James Archer would probably not have been amused by the little Dalek coming out of the lake, or the smiley badge that Merlin was wearing.
This morning the Doctor had been buzzing around the console, in a serious and frowning frame of mind. ‘A minor temporal trace,’ he had said, ‘but one which certainly shouldn’t be present in that segment of Earth’s history.’ His fingers had moved over the controls, urgent, never resting. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
Chris sloshed the grainy stuff at the bottom of his cup around. Another adventure.
He kind of wished they didn’t have to go.
The Doctor realized he had been staring at the sheet of paper for fifteen minutes.
‘Dear Chris. . . ’
He tore the sheet out of the typewriter with a whizzing sound, scrunched it up, and hurled it at the overflowing wastepaper basket.
5
1
How to win
Aoi was still shaking. Thankfully, his father was too interested in the foreigners to notice.
They were kneeling on the grass, their wrists tied behind their backs and their arms tied to their sides. Father’s oldest friend Kiiro stood behind them, arms folded. The foreigners’ horses were tethered to a nearby pine, beside the three samurai’s steeds.
The yellow-headed giant kept his eyes down, but the smaller one was watching the moonrise. As though he wasn’t interested, as though he wasn’t even here. Perhaps the little man was mad. Who knew how foreigners thought?
Aoi’s father stood over them, arms folded. ‘You were sent to find the god that fell out of the sky,’ said Father.
‘Yes,’ said the smaller one.
‘Tell us everything you know about the matter, and we will let you live.’
‘Is that all you want?’ The little man laughed. Was he drunk! For a moment, Aoi thought his father would cut the prisoner down then and there.
The giant was watching intently, looking back and forth between Father and the little man, as if he wasn’t sure whether to speak. His pale face was splashed with blood. He looked frightened, but the little one just went on watching the moon, unafraid.
Aoi wished he knew how to be unafraid.
That morning the three warriors had ridden over the plains like thunder. Father and Kiiro side by side, Aoi following behind the two older bushi, the wind snatching the laughter out of his mouth.
The daimyo’s summons had come the night before. Aoi had never met Gufuu Kocho, warlord of the three districts. His father had spent an hour drilling Aoi in protocol before their departure.
Aoi wore his new armour. Two swords hung by his side. The front of his head had been shaved, the rest of his hair gathered up into a warrior’s topknot.
7
As of yesterday, when he had come of age, he was a bushi in the service of the Gufuu family. Aoi, the fearless and bold samurai, ready to lay down his life in an instant for his master.
After an hour’s hard ride they reached the daimyo’s castle.
The great
wooden gate towered above them, guards peering down. ‘ Kaimon! ’ his father shouted. ‘Open the gate!’ The trio rode into the courtyard, their banners fluttering hard.
Aoi