"Master, here is your clothing. I apologize if it is too simple; I asked the shopkeeper to give me the best he had, but as you understand, nothing good can be found in this area," Igisaka carefully handed Ordyntsev a new kimono.
The earthling calmly removed his previous garment, soaked with dried blood, and dressed in the new one. Igisaka's purchase was a little tight on the shoulders, but overall, it made a good impression.
The money for the purchase came from the trophies taken from the renegade warmasters. As it turned out, their pockets jingled with a bit of silver.
In the process, Stas also managed to admire a huge bruise on his side. The man was even afraid to imagine how it would start to hurt soon.
"Relax, craftsman," Kensei mused, moving his jaw with his hand, trying to figure out if it was in a normal state. "Can't you see that our healer quite liked your choice?"
After Stas casually mentioned Igisaka's role in the recent skirmish, Uramasa began to look upon him much more favorably.
The ronin himself, though initially barely crawling, which made Stas seriously worry about his continued presence in their company, gradually recovered and now walked almost as if nothing had happened.
The only explanation could be that the replenishing of the depleted prana core accelerated the recovery of normal physical strength.
Or, as an alternative, the ronin somehow stimulated his body with small portions of prana.
Igisaka's pleading gaze fixed on Stas.
"Your choice really suited me. Take life easier, Igisaka-kun, or else in the games you play, you'll simply crack from fear," Stas offered some friendly advice. Lately, he himself was trying to live by this principle.
Although he tried to account for various circumstances in his plans, there was always a risk that something could go wrong. Roku, who knew about Stas's surveillance of the servants, could have had time to report his observations to the leadership, and Akiro could have ignored rational arguments and simply killed them, after which he would try to catch Roku's people among the servants.
Yes, he would most likely attract unwanted attention and perish, but that wouldn't bring any relief for Ordyntsev already.
That's why Stanislav, having executed one plan or another, emotionally detached himself, not tormenting himself with pointless speculations about what would happen if something went wrong.
"I tried," Igisaka admitted, genuinely downcast. "Benefactor Roku has so much hope in me, and I can't help myself. As soon as something terrible happens, my legs give out, and I can't even move."
"How did you come to work for Roku?" Stas asked casually, scanning the surrounding signs, not forgetting for a second the purpose of their search.
"Roku-sama chose me to work in the palace," the lad shared proudly. "There were a couple of doors to be replaced on the lower floors. Plus, I'm the son of his cousin aunt. Then, I urgently needed money, and there was no one else to turn to. I was facing a debt prison and being sold into state slavery. Roku-sama was the only one who gave money to my family. He saved my life and rightly demanded service in return. I am fortunate to work for such a great person as he."
Although Igisaka tried to sound cheerful, Ordyntsev easily felt sorrow in the lad's words. It was clear that the life of a spy, or an assistant to such, did not suit the craftsman.
"And you, Kensei-san?" Stas looked interestedly at the ronin listening to their conversation. "I don't want to pry too much into your life, but may I ask what prompted you to work with the yoriki?"
Ordyntsev remembered the words of the bandits and, having analyzed them a bit, concluded that there was close cooperation between the ronin and the local police.
The thing was that police were not highly respected by samurai. The relationship was somewhat similar to the attitude of the military officers of the Russian Empire to the secret state police, which dealt with the search for political criminals.[1]
The attitude was expressed in a demonstrative unwillingness to shake hands or, for example, to invite to certain events.
Here, samurai considered the work of yoriki contemptible because of the frequent need to interact with criminals. And even though tortures were usually performed by the outcast, a portion of the "dirty work" also involved yoriki themselves.
"You're a curious one, healer," the ronin clicked his tongue; however, just when Stas thought he might not get an answer, he spoke. "A ronin is a samurai who has lost his master and honor. How much did I know about them when I was a samurai?" there was an undisguised bitterness in the man's voice. "I despised them and considered them cowards. How foolish I was."
He snickered mockingly.
"My master perished, and I lost an eye and nearly died. And for that, I, wounded, was thrown out of the master's house by his own relatives. My money was just enough to rent some kind of dwelling and heal my wounds. After that, I had to think about what to do next, and as it turned out, it was not so simple."
Stas and Igisaka listened attentively to the bitter words of the former samurai. Stas didn't know what prompted this stern warrior to share so much. Perhaps, in this indirect way, he was thanking Stas for saving his life.
Or maybe, something Ordyntsev did not quite believe, he needed something from the earthling.
"Ronin is a mark of defeat. You become unwanted by anyone. An empty place. You won't be let into the house of a noble or a respected samurai. If you don't want to steal or rob for food, you will inevitably break your pride, like a bamboo stick, and bow down to the filthy merchants. I don't know how I didn't kill that fat man when he started bargaining with me for my own sword!"
Kensei forced himself to calm down.
"If it were just about me, I would have ended my life honorably, but my deceased wife blessed me with a daughter. Unfortunately, I'm the only one who can take care of her. That's why I asked Master Akiro, the only one who could still help me, to give me a job."
"And that's why you started working for the yoriki," Stas nodded understandingly, seeing the man walking beside him in a different light.
"Yes. Master Akiro arranged for me to work with them as a hired fighter."
This world constantly tested its inhabitants for strength, squeezing out all the best in them. If the master orders to kill your entire family, a good samurai only asks when and how.
A man who compromised his honor and life principles to work with those he once despised for the sake of his daughter deserved the utmost attention.
Of course, he would still harbor strong local prejudices and other oddities, but he already had what most locals would never have.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
"Is there nothing that can be done? Is it possible to regain the status of a samurai?" Stas inquired cautiously. "Sorry if I've touched on a sore subject."
"Not much chance," Kensei shook his head negatively. "No one needs a ronin who failed to save his master's life. And even if they did need one, I don't have the necessary qualities. Some great warrior might still manage to earn forgiveness, but not me."
The conversation fizzled out at that point, but Stas allowed his mind to thoroughly consider Kensei as a potential... Who? How could the warrior be useful to him? Ordyntsev had not yet decided, but he intended to contemplate it very seriously.
The sign they were looking for was found by Igisaka, once again proving his worth.
"Master, master! Look." The lad pointed to an inconspicuous building with an old, slightly askew sign. "Yan's Fabrics. The cheapest fabrics that won't leave you indifferent. There, down below, is that very sign."
At that moment, Stas felt a slight pang of nostalgia. Of all things, he did not expect to encounter such a familiar thing as an advertisement.
"Quiet you," Kensei grumbled, jabbing the craftsman in the side with his finger. Judging by how the latter jumped back, it was painful. "Stop yelling down the street, drawing attention. Healer, are you ready?"
"Yes," Stas gathered his thoughts. "Let's go."
Upon receiving the command, the company moved inside the establishment.
Passing through the doors, they found themselves in a stifling, dusty room that reeked of an elderly scent. The shop owner, emerging from the storeroom, immediately explained the reasons for the smell.
Glancing over the visitors with low-set eyes, the old man coughed loudly into his hand.
"What do the high masters require from old Yan? Old Yan sells cheap fabric, all used and full of holes. Yan does not want to offend such masters as you," the old man's gaze unmistakably fixed on Kensei's odachi, then jumped to the katana and tanto.
The bodyguard inserted the broken pieces into the scabbard and hung it back on his belt. If not drawn, it seemed that the blades were just fine.
The bodyguard and assistant's gazes drilled into Ordyntsev, prompting him to step forward. The suspicious gaze of the old man now fixed on the earthling.
"Sakura flowers soothe heart and calm mind. But without good soil, they are doomed not to bloom," Ordyntsev stated the code phrase clearly into the frozen mask that the old man's face had become.
"Little grows on the rocks, except for the hardiest of plants," the junkman drawled, smacking his remaining teeth.
"But they turn out to be the most resilient," Ordyntsev finished the check.
"What do the respected masters want from old Yan?" the old man stopped pretending, clasping his hands before him.
"The masters want to meet with the head of the Shadow Stone cell of this city."
"You're not even warmasters, how can you demand a meeting with the head himself?!" the old man's eyes bulged. "You know the password, but..."
"You forget yourself, old man," Ordyntsev's voice lost the few crumbs of warmth that had accidentally remained earlier. Now, it reminded of the chilling northern wind that kills careless travelers who fail to reach warm settlements. "This is a matter of urgent importance. The honor and power of the main family are at stake."
Ordyntsev involuntarily remembered how he learned about this phrase.
"I hope you know what you're doing," Sumada looked piercingly into Stas's eyes, squinting slightly. "If you involve the honor of the main family in your affairs, failure is not an option. We're staking everything, my friend. Don't let me down."
"I won't let you down," Stas simply replied.
Now, looking into the wide-open eyes of the liaison, it was clear how much influence this dreadful phrase held.
"Please forgive me, master!" the old man groaned as he fell to his knees and thudded his head on the floor. "I didn't know you represented the main family! Forgive my foolishness!"
Ordyntsev took no pleasure in watching how the elderly man humiliated himself, but he had to let him do it. Otherwise, it would raise unnecessary suspicions.
One might wonder why the old man immediately believed a complete stranger. The answer is simple: he didn't believe, but decided not to take the risk and shove the problem onto his superiors.
If Stas lied, the superiors would deal with him. If he told the truth, then the old man's apologies were indeed appropriate.
"Get up and don't waste our time. Immediately inform the Shadow Stone about us. Tell them I want to meet with them as soon as possible. And 'as soon as possible' means immediately."
"I understand, master," Yan managed to get up and hobbled to the exit. "Old Yan will immediately inform them about you, and you wait for him here. It's not worth attracting the neighbors' attention. These nosy rats always sniff something out," the old man's muttering faded as he closed the door behind him.
Kensei, without being shy, calmly settled right on the counter, placing his odachi on his knees. Stas noted that he kept his right hand on the hilt and his left on the scabbard, ready to tear it off at once.
Igisaka modestly stood in a corner, trying not to attract attention.
Time dragged unpleasantly slow. Nonetheless, Stas had plenty to think about and outline the main points of his future speech and arguments for the dispute.
Moreover, Ordyntsev fully understood why the warmasters had not yet shown themselves. Right now, their people likely were hastily inspecting every house, alley, and street nearby, looking for a possible ambush.
And only when they find nothing will they finally appear.
About half an hour later, the door finally opened, letting in a young man of about twenty. After carefully looking over the trio gazing at him, he gestured for them to follow him.
Ordyntsev inhaled the fresh air with pleasure, after the stench he had to endure in the junkman's shop.
Old Yan, standing near the entrance, quickly slipped back into his den, not even looking back. He was visibly frightened.
Their escort said nothing, immediately leading them into a narrow alley. He was dressed in a cloak that hid his figure, making it impossible to tell if he was armed.
Houses, fences, and dirty streets changed, but the warmaster kept going.
Eventually, the path led them to a closed house encircled by a high, solid fence. The surrounding environment did not look wealthy, but the wall itself was surprisingly strong.
The door in the fence considerately opened as soon as they approached.
Kensei stepped forward and stood close to Stas, casting a gloomy glance at the silent figures frozen in the yard. There were few of them, and they seemed not to be looking at the trio, but the feeling of being watched pursued the guests all the way across the yard.
It was also worth noting that they were all dressed in the same noticeable cloaks, completely hiding their bodies. In this world, such clothing was not unusual. However, such a concentration of cloak enthusiasts was unsettling.
Once again, a door opened in front of them, but this time, it led into a house. When it closed, Ordyntsev involuntarily compared it to the snapping shut of a mousetrap.
Inside, the guests were presented with an ascetic dwelling, where nothing suggested that someone lived there.
Bare walls, clean but absolutely empty floors. Even the smell was absent. Remove the people from here, and no one would say that someone had been there.
And, of course, there were silent and intimidating people near each door.
"Which of you wanted to speak with the head?" a man in his mid-thirties with an expressionless gaze approached. Short hair, an ordinary face. He could work as a salesman in a store where you shop every day, and you would never be able to describe his appearance.
"I did," Stas stepped forward.
"You will come with me," the man concluded. "Just you." This phrase was addressed to Uramasa, who had moved up, unambiguously placing his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"It's alright," Stas hurried to defuse the situation. "Wait for me here." The earthling understood perfectly that if the warmasters didn't want to let them go, even five Kenseis wouldn't help them escape.
Nodding in satisfaction, the new escort moved ahead, starting to climb the stairs.
The floorboards desperately creaked under the earthling's steps but didn't make even a pitiful squeak under the man who seemed like a ghost.
Pushing aside the sliding doors, he nodded to Stas inside. As soon as the earthling stepped a little further into the room, the nondescript man followed, standing right behind him and blocking the door.
The dimly lit room was illuminated only by the light falling through a little window. A narrow beam fell on a small empty table, behind which, on his knees, sat the one who Ordyntsev most likely needed.
The light was insufficient to illuminate his face. However, for the moment, the earthling did not need to.
"You wanted to see me, healer with an unusual appearance. What does the son who disappointed the clan head and dared to be captured without dying an honorable warrior's death want from me?" The voice of the person sitting in front of him belonged to a man in his forties or even older. It was calm, but it conveyed inner strength.
The head was clearly used to giving orders and expected unconditional and meticulous compliance. This man had seen death in many of its manifestations, which made it a truly difficult task to scare him.
Assessing the situation, Stas realized two things at once – first, the Sumada clan's secret service was not eating their bread for nothing. They had accurate information not only about the captured prince but also about those who surrounded him.
Second, the negotiations would be anything but easy.
[1] Translator's note: if I remember correctly, the officers deemed it below their dignity to cooperate with such people. In general, the secret police often employed pretty underhanded methods, while officers cared about their honor the most.