ability to simply vanish as entirely and as suddenly as he had emerged.
That boded poorly. He doubted he would see Miyamoto again. Akiyama knew he could not use the same bait to try to draw him close a second time, and if the wretch had half the wits he seemed to
possess Miyamoto would abandon his other wild assaults and keep his head down and his mouth shut in whatever nest he conspired to find. The chance to claim his head had almost certainly escaped
Akiyama, and here he sat staring at the fire, contemplating the dilemma of whether to persevere in blind hope in his hunt or to admit defeat and return to the capital and the school.
That night, such was his mood that he rued the utter pointlessness of either.
It was always ever thus. For all the malicious rumour that delighted in telling of his cuckolding by a barbarian, Akiyama’s father had remained a man of wealth and influence. He paid for
his son to be enrolled in the school of Yoshioka at the age of thirteen. Surely the colour of tea upon his shoulders would override the colour of his skin.
Akiyama was admitted, and soon found himself last in line, on the edge of the crowd, his work never praised or scorned regardless of how much or how little effort he put in. Patronized or
tolerated or endured, never trusted or confided in. That very particular shade of courteous detestation that defined his life from then to now.
Young and hopeful, he had taken this as a challenge. Surely he could make them respect him, to make them want him. Nothing worthwhile was ever given freely, and what did samurai respect more
than the ways of the sword? He threw himself into his studies of the blade and of the countenance of the warrior, staying in the dojo long after others had left, practising the strokes and
hardening his body.
Nights he spent in solitude listening to the distant merriment of others, wanting to join them but never quite having the courage to invite himself. Busying himself instead with duty or
pastiches of it, scaling and gutting fish for tomorrow’s breakfast or polishing the lacquer upon his scabbard, which was already so pure he could all but use it as a mirror, so that if others
should stumble upon him he could offer this as an excuse for his absence. A lie that was easier for both parties to accept.
The sword came to him naturally, his forearms strong and his balance uncanny. The Yoshioka had their rigid method, their style, and this he took in quickly. Yet he hungered for more, and so he
took to reading tracts of rival philosophies, hoping that maybe if he incorporated fresh techniques it might earn him recognition. That he might better their cause. In a dojo hall filled with a
dozen men mimicking the master’s moves down to the smallest muscles of the hands and feet, thus Akiyama began assuming different stances, balancing his body in new manners, holding his sword
at the opposite angles to others as they all prepared to strike the same blow. This was a taboo, and why he did this at first he did not know. Indeed, he even expected retribution, but received
none.
The master didn’t comment on his aberration. Neither did the other novices. Of course the Foreigner would have a hybrid style. It was only to be expected.
When he realized this his attitude changed. He became more obnoxiously errant, deliberately so, part of him even wanting to be chastised or punished; at least if they had to forbid him
something, they would have to recognize him as an individual. But he was permitted to stray over the course of years and so his method of the sword became a mongrel version of his own devising, and
yet, despite its oddity and their determination to render him a nonentity, his raw ability was impossible not to notice.
So, what to do with him? The school found a solution. Whilst those around him were rewarded with emissary status or embedded in fiefdoms to serve honourably under Lords the length of the nation,
Akiyama was sent to eradicate the
That boded poorly. He doubted he would see Miyamoto again. Akiyama knew he could not use the same bait to try to draw him close a second time, and if the wretch had half the wits he seemed to
possess Miyamoto would abandon his other wild assaults and keep his head down and his mouth shut in whatever nest he conspired to find. The chance to claim his head had almost certainly escaped
Akiyama, and here he sat staring at the fire, contemplating the dilemma of whether to persevere in blind hope in his hunt or to admit defeat and return to the capital and the school.
That night, such was his mood that he rued the utter pointlessness of either.
It was always ever thus. For all the malicious rumour that delighted in telling of his cuckolding by a barbarian, Akiyama’s father had remained a man of wealth and influence. He paid for
his son to be enrolled in the school of Yoshioka at the age of thirteen. Surely the colour of tea upon his shoulders would override the colour of his skin.
Akiyama was admitted, and soon found himself last in line, on the edge of the crowd, his work never praised or scorned regardless of how much or how little effort he put in. Patronized or
tolerated or endured, never trusted or confided in. That very particular shade of courteous detestation that defined his life from then to now.
Young and hopeful, he had taken this as a challenge. Surely he could make them respect him, to make them want him. Nothing worthwhile was ever given freely, and what did samurai respect more
than the ways of the sword? He threw himself into his studies of the blade and of the countenance of the warrior, staying in the dojo long after others had left, practising the strokes and
hardening his body.
Nights he spent in solitude listening to the distant merriment of others, wanting to join them but never quite having the courage to invite himself. Busying himself instead with duty or
pastiches of it, scaling and gutting fish for tomorrow’s breakfast or polishing the lacquer upon his scabbard, which was already so pure he could all but use it as a mirror, so that if others
should stumble upon him he could offer this as an excuse for his absence. A lie that was easier for both parties to accept.
The sword came to him naturally, his forearms strong and his balance uncanny. The Yoshioka had their rigid method, their style, and this he took in quickly. Yet he hungered for more, and so he
took to reading tracts of rival philosophies, hoping that maybe if he incorporated fresh techniques it might earn him recognition. That he might better their cause. In a dojo hall filled with a
dozen men mimicking the master’s moves down to the smallest muscles of the hands and feet, thus Akiyama began assuming different stances, balancing his body in new manners, holding his sword
at the opposite angles to others as they all prepared to strike the same blow. This was a taboo, and why he did this at first he did not know. Indeed, he even expected retribution, but received
none.
The master didn’t comment on his aberration. Neither did the other novices. Of course the Foreigner would have a hybrid style. It was only to be expected.
When he realized this his attitude changed. He became more obnoxiously errant, deliberately so, part of him even wanting to be chastised or punished; at least if they had to forbid him
something, they would have to recognize him as an individual. But he was permitted to stray over the course of years and so his method of the sword became a mongrel version of his own devising, and
yet, despite its oddity and their determination to render him a nonentity, his raw ability was impossible not to notice.
So, what to do with him? The school found a solution. Whilst those around him were rewarded with emissary status or embedded in fiefdoms to serve honourably under Lords the length of the nation,
Akiyama was sent to eradicate the
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