Chapter Text
年暮ぬ another year is gone
笠きて草鞋 a traveler's shade on my head,
はきながら straw sandals at my feet
Matsuo Bashō, 1685
London is a miserable place, covered in fog and soot and shit, the sky constantly overcast.
Taigen has been here for a week, and not seen the sun a single day. Most of the time, it has been raining too, turning the smaller roads into rivers of mud and sewage. The main streets are decked out in uneven cobblestone that become dangerously slippery in the damp. He has already had to exchange his wooden geta for softer zōri sandals, to avoid making an ass of himself.
It’s bad enough that people are staring at him wherever he goes; he doesn’t need them to take him for a fool as well as a foreigner.
Is this how Mizu feels, he wonders, each prodding gaze like pinpricks on his skin. He hears people whispering to each other, laughing sometimes, but he knows only a handful of words in their confounding language. Are they insulting him, ridiculing him, or do his paranoid ears just misinterpret the gibberish?
Round eyes, wherever he looks, always already staring back at him, so he keeps his back straight and his gait steady, and silently dares anyone to openly challenge him.
What would he do if they did, he wonders, with his hands on the heft of his broken sword. He may be a master of the blade, but what good will it do him here, where men carry revolvers concealed in their jackets. He has seen what a bullet can do to even the sharpest of katana, and he does not wish to experience what it would feel like to have one ripping into his flesh.
It’s a small mercy that, unlike Japan, the island of England has not closed its borders. In fact, they have done the very opposite, sending their ships and their guns into the rest of the world. After all, the greed of the white man knows no bounds.
As such, while Kyoto has always had something of a butterfly to it - beautiful and delicate and each part lovingly crafted - London is more of a centipede: a squirming, restless mass of feet, dark and disgusting and poorly fitting together.
But it also means that, while Taigen sticks out like a sore thumb in his uwagi and hakama, he is by far not the only foreigner to walk these streets. The port in particular had been swarming with people of all sorts, some of whom Taigen would have mistaken for old wives’ tales not so long ago.
He has seen tall strong men with faces as dark as coal and hair as coarse as wire brushes. He had watched a small group of people disembark a ship, whose skin was smooth like brass and who clad themselves in garments of leather, with feathers woven into their long braids. Once or twice, Taigen had caught the eye of such a stranger and felt a peculiar sense of kinship with them.
I, too, am far from home, he wanted to say. I, too, feel like a mute child on these unfamiliar shores.
But even the white men, who had originally all looked the same to him, were beginning to seem more like individuals. Taigen saw brown eyes, like his, and blue ones, like Mizu’s, but also green and gray and any combination thereof, and one boy performing in a street show even had red eyes and hair as white as snow.
There were girls with curls a bright as liquid gold, and so many redheads that Taigen quickly realized that not all of them could have a connection to Fowler.
But Fowler was likely still alive, that much he knew. Mizu had let the bastard live and found a ship to smuggle them out of the country and across the ocean. Or else Taigen had paid a lot of money for unreliable information and was only chasing a ghost.
But no. Mizu was here. He had to be. And it seemed that he believed Fowler would make for a trustworthy guide.
Damn you, Mizu, Taigen thinks for the thousandth time since he first set foot upon a bark that would carry him all the way to the continent of Europe.
Dusk is falling, stealing away what little light there was to begin with. It’s supposed to be summer here, but the weather has been terrible since Taigen arrived. At least the rain has let up, making his trip easier than it otherwise might have been.
He has a piece of paper in his hands as he makes his way through the street. Scribbled on it is an address in the strange letters of the white man that he cannot read, alongside a rudimentary map of where he needs to go. He has already had to ask for directions once, communicating with gestures and grunts until he was pointed toward what he hopes is the right way.
Fortunately, the walk itself is not too long. Taigen had been staying at an inn in the district of Southwark, a seedy establishment, but cheap. He had already burned through most of his funds, and even parting with a penny to pay the ferry across the Thames had smarted.
If Mizu had never reappeared in his life, Taigen would be married to Akemi and living like a prince; instead, he finds himself a pauper once more, with the stench of fish forever stuck in his nose.
Still, he counts his luck. The fact that he had come across this clue at all, had been a mere coincidence. In London, it seemed, inn-keepers were required to report any lodgers that stayed longer than three days to the authorities and, somehow, word must have gotten around that a samurai was staying in Southwark.
Two days ago, Taigen had been approached by an elderly man who turned out to be of Japanese descent himself: Janssen Hito, a mixed breed like Mizu, whose mother had once left the island as the mistress of a Dutch trader. Here, he worked as a translator and interpreter in the service of one Richard Welford.
Welford was a wealthy English merchant with a particular interest in East Asia. He collected whatever items he could get his hands on and, allegedly, was a friend to any traveler with connections to the area.
It’s the only clue Taigen has regarding Mizu’s potential whereabouts. If he had passed through London at any point, it was likely that this Welford would have heard of it.
He’s close now, and Taigen has to take deep, even breaths to keep his nerves at bay. He has no alternative plan should this one fail. If he does not find Mizu, he will have to keep searching. If his money runs out, he will be stuck in England indefinitely. If he somehow gets on someone’s bad side, he will have no supporters in his corner.
Damn Mizu, he thinks again. And damn my impulsiveness.
Around him, the buildings lining the streets grow larger. In Southwark, most dwellings were built of wood and straw, but here, along the Strand, the houses are tall and sturdy, made of stone and brick where the Japanese would use paper.
How quickly would this city go up in flames, he wonders, thinking back to the inferno that had eaten up much of Edo. How many lives would be lost, if Mizu once more decided that his vengeance was more important than the lives of butchers and bakers, children and courtesans? Who else would have to burn?
But, he reminds himself, he cannot purely lay the blame of that disaster at Mizu’s feet. None of it ever would have happened, if Abijah Fowler and Shindo Heiji had not decided to march on Edo. If anything, Taigen can only hold himself responsible for not acting quick enough, for failing to save the shogun ’s life.
But those matters are outside his control now. It is Akemi who now has the ear of her husband and, through him, that of his older brother. Akemi who will make a change. She had found her purpose, while Taigen was doggedly running after his.
When he finally reaches his destination, Taigen stops outside of the building and just takes it in for a moment. It’s a large house, clearly belonging to someone wealthy. It has three stories, whitewashed walls supported by wooden beams, and the roof is made of red shingles. Warm lights illuminate several of the large sash windows.
Perhaps it’s foolish to trust strangers like this, to let himself be invited to someone’s home with no clear idea of their true intent. But he has been taking risks like this ever since he left Kyoto to ride after Mizu. He could have been skewered by arrows, or tortured to death by Shindo. He could have been shot in the head by Fowler, or gone overboard somewhere between here and Yokohama. There’s no point in playing it safe now.
Quickly, Taigen takes stock of his appearance. There are some specks of mud clinging to the hem of his hakama, but nothing too bad, and his face is freshly washed and shaved. He has combed his hair back and tied it into a high ponytail, to disguise where Mizu had essentially gelded him. Over the past month, the bald patch had grown back in, but it was nowhere near as long as the rest.
He could, perhaps, pull his remaining hair into a measly top knot, yet he would only do so once his honor was restored. And for that he would have to fight Mizu.
Giving himself a push, he walks up to the door and uses the brazen knocker to announce himself. He only has to wait a moment, before the door opens.
It’s a servant girl, judging by her simple garments, who looks up at him with wide eyes. She says something in English that Taigen does not understand, but it sounds like a question.
“Uh,” Taigen flounders, but then just touches his hand to his chest. “I am Taigen. The samurai. “Richard Welford? Hito Janssen?”
He knows he must be mangling the pronunciation but, to his relief, the girl seems to understand anyway. She nods quickly, the bonnet on her head moving with it, and then gestures him to step inside. He does, angles his left side away when he notices her nervously eyeing his scabbard.
She says something again, the words rushing out of her, or perhaps it just sounds so fast because he doesn’t understand. He does catch her mentioning Janssen’s name, though, so when she leaves him standing in the small atrium, he assumes it’s to go get him.
He takes the opportunity to glance around, familiarize himself with the layout of the building, in case he needs to make a hasty escape.
The foyer itself is outfitted with wooden panels that have some ornamental leaves and flowers carved into them, just like the railing of the stairway that leads to the upper levels. There are several doors on the lower floor, with no indication where they might lead, though Taigen suspects the kitchen and the servants’ quarters, perhaps a coal room underground.
At least, Welford doesn’t seem to employ any sort of household guard, or at least none that Taigen has spotted so far. If a fight ensued here, Taigen would not be able to just fight his way out and disappear into the night; the city was too densely populated for that, and he too conspicuous.
The creak of the stairs alerts him to the return of the servant girl, who is indeed being followed by Janssen.
“Taigen,” Janssen Hito - or rather, Hito Janssen, according to Western conventions - greets him with a polite bow and an eager smile, coming to stand at the foot of the stairs, while the girl disappears again.
“I hope you found your way here alright,” he says. His Japanese is flawless, but there is a strange accent to it, probably caused by his Dutch upbringing.
“Thank you, I have,” Taigen returns. He feels some tension bleed from his shoulders at being able to communicate without any barriers. He had underestimated how much his inability to understand the people around him would gnaw at his nerves.
Beside Mizu, Janssen is the first half-Japanese person Taigen has ever come across. However, unlike Mizu, his heritage is not readily apparent. He is a short man, plain in face and build. His dark hair has largely faded to gray, and his wrinkles make it hard to determine whether his brown eyes had once been round or slanted. In Japan, people likely wouldn’t have noticed anything off about him, at least not at first glance.
When they first met, Taigen himself hadn’t necessarily seen the Asian blood in him either. Janssen had been wearing plain Western clothes then, though; now he is clad in a simple yukata and matching sandals. Perhaps it’s a trick of the mind, but it does seem to enhance his Japanese features.
“Mr Welford is very excited to meet you,” he explains, as he bids Taigen to follow him up the stairs. “And so are his guests! None of them have ever met a real samurai before. I will function as an interpreter as needed, but you will be pleased to hear that we have some of your countrymen in attendance tonight.”
“You do?” Taigen asks, rather wrong-footed by that revelation.
He knows it’s easier to leave Japan than it is to enter it, but he hadn’t really anticipated that he might meet other Japanese people tonight. Janssen was one thing, as he had never actually been to his mother’s home country before, and Taigen had reasonable faith that he would be able to get away with telling a couple of white lies. If there are actual Japanese nationals, though…
“Yes,” Janssen says brightly, unaware of Taigen’s concerns. “Mr Welford has been hosting a real Japanese princess, and he means to surprise her with your visit today.”
Taigen opens his mouth.
“A princess?” he repeats, stunned, and Janssen nods, coming to stand in front of a large door on the first floor.
“She is the granddaughter of a British captain who fell in love with the daughter of a lord. But half-breeds are not welcome in Japan, so the princess has fled into exile. It’s a tragic tale.”
Taigen frowns. It’s a fanciful story, for sure; if it were real, he imagines he would have heard of it before. If some white man had gotten a lord’s daughter with child, neither the man, the princess nor the baby would have lived to see another day.
“Please wait here,” Janssen tells him as he opens the door. “I will announce your arrival.”
He ducks into the room, and Taigen is given a moment of privacy, during which he tries to wrangle his features back into a mask that doesn’t give anything away.
He listens to Janssen loudly say something in English, catching only the word samurai, followed by delighted gasps and a smattering of applause. Taking it as his cue to enter, he takes a deep breath and follows Janssen inside.
It’s a large room, decked out with thick rugs and heavy curtains beside the windows. A luster is hanging from the ceiling, which is outfitted with ornamental stucco. Welford really must be wealthy to afford all of this.
Taigen bows to the crowd, less out of politeness and more because he suspects it will please his host. He has been invited here to act as an attraction, and so Taigen will play the part for the time being.
When he straightens up again, he quickly takes stock of the crowd, assessing potential risks.
There are around two dozen people gathered here, a handful of them servants, judging by their clothes. Several of the guests, Taigen notes, seem to be white, but are wearing Asian garments.
There’s a woman in hanfu -style silks, and a man in an embroidered outfit that Taigen believes may be of Indian origin, based on paintings he has seen. He spots lots of painted fans in women’s hands, a turban on a man’s head and a scimitar at his belt. Children playing dress-up, he realizes. Everything make-belief.
He does not, however, see anyone who would fit the definition of a princess.
“Please come to meet Mr Welford,” Janssen says, having reappeared by Taigen’s side, giving another small bow and directing Taigen toward the center of the room. “I will be acting as an interpreter.”
Richard Welford turns out to be a stout fellow, with a proud belly, a ruddy face, and impressive whiskers. He’s dressed in a dark blue uwagi and gray hakama that look like they were shortened at the hems to fit his short legs. His feet, however, look too large to comfortably fit into his tabi and geta.
He welcomes Taigen with wide-spread arms and then bows as well.
“Welcome to my home,” he says in passable Japanese. “My name is Welford Richard.”
“... Thank you,” Taigen says, still baffled. “For your invitation.”
Beside them, Janssen leans toward Welford, translating in a quick whisper.
When Welford speaks again, it is in English, and his tone sounds much more booming and assertive. The English, Taigen has already learned, are a loud people.
“I am happy to finally meet a real samurai,” Janssen translates into Japanese, in that same quick whisper as before. “It has always been my dream to go to Japan but, with the borders closed, my only option is to bring a little bit of Japan here instead.”
“Your interest in my country and culture humbles me,” Taigen says diplomatically. Truth be told, he still finds it rather odd, but he knows better than to insult his host. If anything, he can use this Westerner’s childish delight in his favor.
“How long have you been in England?” Welford asks through Janssen.
“A week,” Taigen answers, figuring there is no harm in the truth. “I came directly from Japan.”
Welford’s gray eyes positively sparkle as he replies.
“You must have an exciting journey at your back,” Janssen translates. “Smugglers’ ships are not known for their safety. You must have good reason to have come all this way.”
Taigen forces his mien to remain neutral. He figured they would prod him with questions about his intentions, and he isn’t wholly comfortably with that. However, he also knows that he must indulge them at least a little, especially if he hopes to get any information on Mizu from them.
“I came here on a quest of honor,” he replies, which is vague enough to protect him but will hopefully also titillate Welford’s curiosity. “I follow on the heels of a great swordsman who I believe must have passed through this city in the past weeks.”
“A swordsman?” Welford asks, clearly intrigued. “A samurai like you?”
“A rival,” Taigen says and, after a beat of his soft heart, amends, “And a friend. He’s a bit of a foo, you see, and I consider it my duty to keep him out of trouble.”
“How exciting!” Welford presses a palm to his chest. “What is the name of this fellow? I have not heard of any swordsman, but perhaps I can help anyway.”
“He is called Mizu, though I am not sure whether he would freely reveal as much here,” Taigen says. “But there is something about him that he cannot easily disguise: his father was a white man and, as such, his eyes are blue.”
At that, Janssen looks surprised, but quickly translates once more. When he is done, Welford gasps.
“Well, I know not of a swordsman who fits that description,” he admits, to Taigen’s disappointment. “But it sounds a little bit like our Princess Akemi?”
“Akemi?” Taigen echoes in disbelief, looking between Janssen and Welford.
What are the odds, he thinks. Slim to none. Too many coincidences converging in this city. Either the gods were trying to make up for some of the ill he had experienced in the past months, or they were setting him up for some grand joke.
“She will be pleased to meet you!” Welford enthuses. “She has been gone from home for so long. Now, let me go and find her.”
Welford looks about the room and finally seems to spot whomever he is looking for.
“Princess Akemi!” he calls out across the heads of the other guests, and Taigen follows his line of sight, but Taigen is shorter than most British men (especially those wearing turbans) and thus is view is obstructed.
“Oh, she is always so shy around guests,” Janssen translates Welford’s muttered aside. “I will go get her.”
Taigen stays rooted to the spot, Janssen beside him, as Welford traipses across the room on curiously light feet, sidestepping his chatting guests.
“Is this… a real princess?” Taigen asks Janssen, watching the man who keeps a carefully unaffected face.
“It is the story we were told,” he explains. “And after she found herself without any friends… Well. Mr Welford was only too happy to take her in.”
“I see,” Taigen says, slowly putting the pieces together.
Of all the things he had expected when he first set foot on shore - to see all of London burned to the ground, to find Fowler’s body floating in the Thames, to see Mizu publicly executed at the gallows of Tyburn Tree - this possibility had never even cross his mind.
Yet there Welford is, once more weaving his way through the crowd, this time more slowly, as he parts a path for a slighter figure to follow him.
It’s a woman, dark-haired, tallish, moving with dainty little steps as she hitches the hem of her dark kimono. She is holding her head proudly lifted, like someone who is used to commanding the attention of everyone in the room. Like a princess. Or like a man.
When they get closer, Taigen finally gets a good look at her face. It’s been painted white, and there is red lip stain on her mouth.
Those eyes, however, are unmistakable. Especially with the way they are glaring at him.
Damn you, Mizu, Taigen thinks, and grins.
刀