The Ring of Water - Chris Bradford [67]
‘Ronin! I never thought I’d see you again,’ said the man, opening his arms in a friendly gesture.
Ronin stared at him, bemused and wary. His hand went to his sword.
‘I feel hurt that you don’t remember me.’
Ronin squinted and studied the man’s features more intently. ‘My memory’s hazy. Remind me.’
‘You were quite drunk at the time. In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t climbed all the way into that bottle by now.’
‘Who are you?’ demanded Ronin.
‘Botan, of course.’
Jack and Ronin simultaneously drew their swords, stunned their quarry had found them.
‘Why would you want to attack an old friend?’ said Botan, showing no concern at their hostility.
‘I’m no friend of yours,’ Ronin replied. ‘Where’s the rutter you stole?’
Botan laughed. ‘I was about to ask you that very same question!’
‘What do you mean?’ said Ronin, frowning.
‘Come now, you must remember. Kanesuke was most insistent that I find this book called a rutter. Now, my friend, please tell me where it is.’
Jack was as perplexed as Ronin by this line of questioning. ‘We were seeking you because you had it.’
‘I wasn’t speaking to you, gaijin,’ snarled Botan. ‘You’re supposed to be dead.’
He turned back to Ronin, all smiles and pleasantry. ‘I must admit I was surprised to discover you were accompanying the gaijin. Especially as you helped rob him in the first place!’
Both Ronin and Jack’s look of acute shock sent Botan into convulsions of deep booming laughter.
‘You liar!’ said Ronin, but a shadow of doubt passed across his face nonetheless.
Jack caught it and stared at his friend in disbelief. Had Ronin really attacked him before they met at the tea house in Yamashiro? Was their whole friendship based on a deception?
He looked first to Ronin, then to Botan, searching for the truth.
‘I can’t believe neither of you remember,’ exclaimed Botan, shaking his head in amusement.
Suddenly the man’s laughter was all too recognizable. The scar. The broken nose. And the odour of excess saké originating from Ronin became disturbingly familiar too.
Like the clearing of a sea mist, a memory emerged from the recesses of Jack’s mind …
42
DRUGGED
‘Allow me to buy you a drink,’ slurred the drunken samurai, sitting down uninvited at Jack’s table in front of the village inn, set beside the mountain road.
‘That’s kind of you, but my vows don’t allow it.’ Jack was disguised in the blue robes of a komusō, a Monk of Emptiness, and wore their trademark wicker basket over his head so as to be unrecognizable as a foreigner. And he wished to keep it that way by avoiding company, especially any samurai.
‘I insist.’ The drunk waved the innkeeper over. ‘A saké for me and for my friend a …’
‘Sencha,’ said Jack, realizing a refusal might draw an angry reaction from the samurai and he didn’t wish to attract any more attention. There was a group of three samurai on another table, chatting and joking. One in particular – a muscular man with a scar on his chin and a deep booming laugh – had been glancing over at him since his arrival and Jack didn’t fancy his chances if he was forced to fight his way out.
The innkeeper scurried off with their order.
‘I’m Ronin by the way … and you are?’
‘Takeshi,’ replied Jack, using his guardian Masamoto’s first name.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Ronin, his head lolling in an attempt at a formal bow. He reached out and prodded Jack’s hat. ‘Why do you wear these funny baskets?’
‘It’s a sign of our detachment from the world,’ Jack explained, steadying the basket with his hand.
‘Strange to hide your face like that.’
Their drinks arrived and, much to Jack’s relief, Ronin was distracted from further enquiry.
‘I’ll pour,’ Ronin offered, fumbling with the teapot. With an unsteady hand, he decanted a cup and pushed it across the table to Jack.
‘Kampai!’ said Ronin, knocking back his saké in one.
Jack took a sip. The tea was extremely bitter and of poor quality. Ronin, smacking his lips appreciatively at the rice wine, spotted Jack’s shakuhachi