The first principle a shinobi should learn is how to get close to the enemy.

—Gunpo Jiyoshu

Sai

Stay awake, Sai…

“Everyone gather around me,” Emiko-sensei said from behind her desk.

We put our brushes in their holders and stood or knelt near her. I stood with a group of boys behind Emiko-sensei and paced around in hopes of waking myself up.

The boys whispered behind me. I wondered what perverted characters they were showing around now.

“These are the characters for Confucius.” Emiko-sensei demonstrated the brush strokes. “Remember to hold the brush straight up and down. The first stroke goes to the right and then down—”

“…he was murdered…” came a murmured comment behind me.

Lesson forgotten, I whirled around. “Murdered?” I whispered. “Who?”

“Maeda-sensei,” the boy told me.

I stared at him. Maeda-sensei was certainly healthy enough shortly before he died, but I had heard rumors of suicide. “What makes you think that?”

“I heard the teachers talking when I was cleaning the office. That is what they said,” the boy insisted. “The secret police killed him.” He frowned. “At least I think that’s what they said.”

“…can see, the second character looks very similar to the first part of the first character…” Emiko-sensei droned on.

“You’re stupid. The secret police wouldn’t kill him,” another boy hissed.

“No, you’re the one who’s stupid,” retorted a third boy. “The shinobi got him.”

I ground my teeth in frustration. Children are like flies—they’re irritating little nuisances that are everywhere and get into everything. They are harmless until they touch things they aren’t meant to touch—or hear things they aren’t meant to hear. Adults always underestimate children’s knack for picking out the worst parts of conversations to overhear and remember. That makes children good sources of information … and completely useless at understanding the meaning of what they heard.

“Are you sure they said that?” I asked the first boy.

“Well, they said something about the secret police,” the boy mumbled.

“Maybe they said the secret police were after you for listening in on the teachers,” another boy said. There were giggles all around.

Emiko-sensei slammed her inkstone down and glared at the boys. “If something is funny, why don’t you share it with the rest of the class?”

They fell silent. After a few moments, Emiko-sensei resumed the lesson.

I waited impatiently as she demonstrated the last character. It was not like we didn’t know the characters. They were on the sign outside the building, and there was nothing unusual about the stroke order or direction. Teachers just love to state the obvious.

“Now sit down and practice. I want to see each of you write the characters at least fifteen times. And I had better be able to recognize them.”

As we walked back to our desks, I grabbed the first boy by the arm. “Exactly what did you hear?” I demanded.

“Let go!” The boy tried to pull away. When that failed, he answered, “They definitely said he was murdered. And there was something about secret police, but I didn’t catch exactly what they said.”

A heavy hand fell on my shoulder, and I was forcibly turned around. Emiko-sensei stood there, her eyebrows knit together and her lips pressed firmly into a thin line. “Young man, are going to sit down and do your lesson? Or perhaps you would like to leave?”

I scurried to kneel before my desk. I could just imagine Akiyo-sensei’s reaction if I got thrown out of school. I would be washing every kimono in the shop by myself for a year.

I needed to find something to report, and soon, and it wasn’t going to be Hitoshi. I had been at the Academy over a month and had found very little to report other than the death of Maeda-sensei. But this tale made no sense. Maeda-sensei had been keeping the hotheads under control. He told them if they concentrated on improving themselves they would find ways to improve their lot in life. Up until a few days previously, everything had seemed perfectly normal. Then, he had disappeared while I was following him. It was embarrassing.

Then he had been found dead. Now, with the rumors that he was murdered, tensions were rising among the older students.

I struggled to copy the characters, my mind racing. Why would anyone want Maeda-sensei dead? He hadn’t been a danger to the government—in fact, he helped keep the chonin from causing trouble. Had I missed something going on here at the Academy? It took me far too long to catch on to Hitoshi and his activities. There could be more. If the secret police had something to do with his death, my contact would already know about it, so was the information about these rumors of any use to him?

Well, even rumors could be important.

The floorboards behind me creaked. I glanced at the door. Hitoshi was peeking in. I ducked back down quickly, but there wasn’t any need. He waved at Emiko-sensei.

She stood and walked to the back of the classroom. In a low voice, she hissed, “Hitoshi, what do you want? I’m teaching.”

What was this?

I watched them out of the corner of my eye as I pretended to work on my characters.

“I heard you needed more ink, so I brought you some,” he said, flashing a smile that showed off a pair of dimples just like mine. I had to admit—he was quite charming when he wanted to be.

“Oh, Hitoshi. You didn’t have to do that. We would have managed for today.”

“I don’t mind. I am always happy to help you … I mean, aid the children.”

I rolled my eyes.

Could you be any more obvious, Hitoshi?

“Well.” Emiko smiled shyly. “The children thank you.”

She started to turn.

Keep writing “Confucius.” Keep writing “Confucius.” Keep writing “Confucius.”

“Emiko. Will you be going to the Hachiman festival tomorrow? With your family, I mean. It’s Shinto, I know, so I wasn’t sure that you…”

“Of course, everyone goes to the festivals,” she responded. I thought she put a bit too much emphasis on everyone. “My mother is visiting her sister in Okayama with the children, but I will be there with my father.”

“Ummm … yes, of course. Maybe I will see you there?”

Emiko blushed and stared at the floor. After a few moments, she looked back up at Hitoshi and smiled. “Yes, I suppose you might. My father will want to watch the sumo wrestling.”

“Oh, yes, I love sumo wrestling and will be watching it, too. Maybe I will see you there.”

Keep writing “Confucius.” Keep writing “Confucius.”

Several of the boys snickered as Emiko-sensei walked back to the front of the room. I fought the urge to join them.

So, Hitoshi liked Emiko-sensei. She was a very nice girl—he could do much worse.

Smiling, I got back to my calligraphy.

The floorboards creaked again. I glanced over my shoulder as a man entered the room, moving like a prowling tiger. He was tall and lean, but powerfully built. He wore the twin swords that marked him as a samurai. He stood near me at the back of the room, watching the students practice their writing.

Emiko-sensei looked up from helping one of the younger students, and her eyes widened when she saw him. “Students, your attention, please!” she announced.

We put our brushes on our holders and sat up straight.

Emiko-sensei indicated the samurai. “I would like to introduce our new headmaster, Matsura-sensei. He is a well-known Confucian scholar. He will be running the school and taking over the classes that Maeda-sensei taught.”

He stalked up to the front of the class.

I’d seen scholars in threadbare kimono before, but the damage to this man’s apparel was the result of fighting, not sitting and reading. I’d swear there was a bloodstain on one sleeve, and several of his scars were definitely the results of violence. On the other hand, I saw no ink-stains, and his garb showed little wear in the rear or sleeves. So, he didn’t do much sitting and writing. Unlike the kimono, the hilts and scabbards of his swords were carefully maintained. His skin had a rough texture from long exposure to sun and wind. He would have been attractive in a rugged sort of way if he weren’t so old. But he had to be at least thirty.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

If he’s a Confucian scholar, then I’m the empress.

He stood next to Emiko-sensei and looked over the classroom, holding himself with the unconscious arrogance of a samurai. His eyes kept moving, keeping track of everything. Whatever he was alert for, it was not us. He barely even noticed the other pupils or me. But then, he wouldn’t be teaching us—we were too young. Or perhaps, children were not what he was keeping watch for.

The class bowed to him, and he nodded in return. Without another word, he walked out of the room.

I wondered what all that had been about. I was sure my contact would be interested to hear about this Matsura-sensei.

I hadn't finished my calligraphy, but if I wanted to catch my contact, I had to get going. I cleaned my brushes, and was almost ready to go when the lunch gong sounded. Hastily grabbing the wet brushes and sliding them into their bamboo holder, I rose and started out the door just as someone walked by outside.

Shimatta! It was Hitoshi.

I stopped abruptly and stepped into a corner out of his line of sight. Unfortunately, the boy behind walked right into me.

“Watch where you’re going, Dimples,” he shouted and shoved me into the wall.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said while bowing apologetically.

Did Hitoshi recognize me? If he realized I was at the Confucius Academy, he would want to know why his sister, the kunoichi, was attending class disguised as a boy. Or, more probably, he would guess immediately I was spying on them.

I was so worried about being discovered I almost didn’t see the blow coming from the boy who bumped into me. I blocked his swing and automatically countered with a crippling stroke. Then I remembered I was supposed to be a schoolboy, not a shinobi. At the very last moment, I pulled my punch, but he still grabbed his elbow and yelled in pain.

“Wow, are you a shinobi or something?” another boy asked.

Che!

The boy I hit was scowling and holding his arm, murder in his eyes. A bunch of others crowded around us, hoping for more action.

Was I going to have to let myself get beat up to divert suspicion?

Inspiration hit me. I fell into a bad imitation of a defensive stance copied from a kabuki play.

“Yeah, I’m a shinobi and if you try anything with me, I’ll kill you,” I shouted. “And then I’ll kill your family too,” I added as the boy backed away.

“Seiji!” a sharp voice sounded behind me. “We need to talk.”

Wincing, I turned around and faced Emiko-sensei. “Sensei!” I exclaimed, bowing.

“Follow me.” She turned and stalked out the door. The boys snickered behind me as I followed her, head down. Hitoshi never even glanced in my direction as we went into the Workers Association headquarters. The teachers shared a common room that had a firepit in one corner and some desks separated by movable partitions along the opposite wall.

I dropped to my knees on the mat near her desk. I couldn’t help but notice a switch leaning against the wall. “I am sorry, Sensei.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I accidentally bumped into him. I apologized, but he tried to hit me.”

“So, you threatened him and his family?”

Oh no, she had heard that? I was in so much trouble.

“I am tired of the other boys beating me up because I am small and thin. What was I supposed to do?” I complained.

“Turn the other cheek,” she replied.

I stared at her in confusion. “Is that some kind of a defensive kata? I don’t see how turning your head can protect you.”

“It won’t protect your body—it protects your soul. It denies your enemy any power over you.” She stared at the floor for a moment. “The Buddha tells us any act of violence does harm to our soul. If you allow your enemy to prod you into attacking, you allow him to harm not only your body but your soul.”

I considered her statement. There was a weird sense to it, but I didn’t like it. “But they just hit you again! Wouldn’t it be better to make them stop?”

She looked at me gravely, “What is more precious to you, your body or your soul?”

That was easy. Buddhism taught the impermanent nature of life. As a kunoichi, I was especially aware of just how quickly one’s life could end. The body couldn’t be the most important thing.

“The soul,” I whispered.

“That’s correct. You are a very bright boy. And you use your mind, something most people never bother to do. Keep thinking and stay out of fights. I don’t want to hear any more threats from you. What is the point when you have no intention of carrying them out anyway?”

Who says I wouldn’t carry it out? Well, maybe I wouldn’t kill his family.

“None, Sensei.”

“Now, let me see your writing.” She held her hand out.

With a sigh, I took out my practice paper.

She studied it. “Very neat calligraphy, but you only copied the characters seven times. I assigned fifteen. Perhaps if you spent less time chatting, you would have more for writing.” She pointed to the firepit. “Sit over there and finish your assignment.”

If I could do it neatly seven times, what was the point of doing it fifteen? I had to get to the tea house before my contact left if I wanted to report anything today.

“But Sensei, I have to get to work. I will be late,” I wailed.

“Then you had better work quickly.”

I scurried over to the corner and, using the bench near the firepit, started writing the characters as rapidly as I could. There was a heavy step behind me. Matsura-sensei entered the room, glanced at me, then sat across from Emiko-sensei.

Suddenly, I was in no hurry to leave at all.

He sighed. “I have spoken to the faculty and a number of the older students. I have gotten a lot of theories and complaints about the government and the famine, but no clear answers.”

I wondered what he was talking about.

“There is one thing I want to ask you about, though…”

There was a pause in the conversation. I could feel his eyes on my back. I kept my head down and concentrated on writing the characters. People assume if you aren’t looking at them, you aren’t listening.

“It seems Maeda-sensei had an appointment with the machi-bugyō. Do you know why?” he continued.

“No.” She considered for a moment. “Well, maybe I do. It might have something to do with the price of rice. People can’t afford to buy it. The poorest people are starving. Normally, the government steps in before there are riots, but they haven’t yet. He thought he might be able to do something about it. I know he was investigating something involving the rice merchants.”

“So, he planned to talk to the machi-bugyō about it? Well, I suppose I am going to have to visit the machi-bugyō’s office myself, then.”

He stood with the sound of rustling silk. “Thank you for your help.” He left the room.

My mind raced as the sound of his footsteps receded. So, the new head of the Academy was investigating the death of the previous head? This was the first substantial piece of information I had come up with in a week.

The moment I finished my last set of characters, I sprang to my feet, presented my practice paper to Emiko-sensei, and with a quick bow, ran out of the Workers Association as fast as I could.

I raced through the streets to the teahouse. Naturally, that afternoon, every slow moving cart in Edo was out and blocking my way. Further, all the bridges were jammed.

Emiko-sensei’s words stayed with me and jumbled thoughts of lives and souls crowded my brain like the lunch crowd fighting for places in the restaurants near the theater district. When I finally found myself standing in front of the teahouse where I met my contact, I stopped.

It was unwise to do business with a confused mind, especially when you are dealing with the secret police. I closed my eyes and centered myself. Inspector Asano might be an unimaginative bureaucrat, but he wasn’t remotely stupid. Taking a deep breath, I entered the teahouse and slipped into the back room where we usually met.

Inspector Asano took a midday meal every day at the teahouse. If I had something to report, I would meet him there. When I arrived, he was already seated in the small room. It was bare save the tatami mats on the floor, a decorative scroll on the wall, and a small table by his side. The table held a cup of tea and a plate of gyoza.

Asano was rather young to have achieved his position, no older than his mid-twenties. His spotlessly clean, but rather cheaply made kimono had a very conservative brown and gray striped pattern. His katana lay beside him, the hilt showing traces of dust.

He glanced at me. “Back again so soon? Things must be heating up since the death of the samurai.”

I took a seat to his right against the wall. “They are saying he was murdered,” I answered, watching him closely.

His arm froze as he was lifting his tea cup. Slowly, he put it back on the table without drinking from it. “Murdered?” He looked unhappy at the news, but not surprised.

He began eating his gyoza with his chopsticks.

I decided to do a bit of fishing. “They said the secret police might have had something to do with it.”

His head snapped around and he looked at me intently. “That is ridiculous. Who said that?”

That had been an interesting reaction.

“My information might have been garbled. One of the younger students claimed the teachers mentioned the secret police when they were talking about how Maeda-sensei was murdered.”

He put his chopsticks down, straightened, and went back to contemplating the scroll on the far wall. When he spoke again, his voice was harsh and under his complete control.

“I am not interested in the prattling of children. If that is all you have, you can tell your sensei there will be no payment for this report.”

“I didn’t think that could be right. I heard he was the grandson of the Tiger in the Shadows. The secret police wouldn’t touch him while his grandfather was still alive would they?”

The Inspector remained impassive.

“Is he still alive?” I asked. “He would be ancient.”

Inspector Asano muttered, “That old bastard is going to live forever. The demons of the ninety-nine hells fear to claim his soul.” He glanced at me in irritation. In a normal voice, he said, “You came with nothing more than that?”

“A new instructor came. They said he was a Confucian scholar, but he is a rōnin and not the type that sits in saké houses all day getting drunk. He has the look of a killer about him.”

The Inspector frowned. “A rōnin?”

I nodded. “Yes, he is taking Maeda-sensei’s place as headmaster, but he is asking around as to how Maeda-sensei died. He said something about talking to the machi-bugyō. He thinks there might be some information there.”

Inspector Asano rubbed his temple and sighed. “Here, have some gyoza. I seem to have lost my appetite.”

He usually offered some of what he was eating. He seemed to think I didn’t get enough food.

“Asano-sama. I couldn’t eat your food. You are too generous.” Since I had no time to get lunch today, I was even hungrier than usual. But it would be rude to accept the offer too easily.

“No, Sai. I insist…” He seemed to lose track of what he was saying.

I eyed the food and waited.

He shook his head and pushed the tray over to where I could reach it. “Here, just take it.”

I bowed and took the plate. “Itadakimasu!” I wolfed down the food.

Inspector Asano barely noticed. He stared morosely at the floor in front of him. “This rōnin. What is his name?”

“They said his name was Matsura-sensei.”

“I don’t know that name,” he mused. Looking at me sharply, he said, “Watch him very closely. I want to know everything about him.”