The Space Between Friend and Foe

Warnings for adult themes and profanity. Parts 2 and 3 of this chapter are still forthcoming! Keep an eye out for them. ;)



As stated previously, I borrowed the name Bogan from NarcissisticRiceBall on fanfiction.net.



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Annoyed



Sitting seiza on the marble floor for nearly half an hour while Ayamaro finished eating gave Kyuuzou a good look at his possible employer. All the while as he knelt there, one question came to mind again and again: How had Hyogo, with his urbane upbringing, tolerated years of service to a person as uncouth as this?



A rotund little man for whom make-up and fine clothing did nothing to improve his appearance, Ayamaro chewed each bite of food with exceeding deliberation, a slowness of movement in the jaw that reminded Kyuuzou of a cow. As he masticated, the man grunted and murmured in pleasure, a constant stream of noise that was both vulgar and annoying. Kyuuzou wrestled with the want to shake his head, and not just at Ayamaro’s table manners. The surreal paintings on the fusuma doors, the glitz of gold leaf everywhere the eye landed, even the garish platinum blonde of Ayamaro’s hair--in spite of Kyuuzou's limited experience with wealth, he knew the signs of nouveau riche when he saw them.



He stifled a sigh, and turned his mind to the koi pond behind him. The sound of the water gently lapping the sides of the pool, the scent of clean, moist air filling his nostrils, throat, and lungs--he focused on these calming effects, using them to center himself and maintain his patience.



Though the others in the room remained on the periphery of his vision, he was aware of them at all times: two servants sitting in silence behind a screen, four palace guards standing at attention along the side walls, and a single robust yojimbo hovering in the doorway off to the left, leaning against the doorjamb and chewing a pipe in a casual fashion. Ayamaro had instructed Hyogo to sit out of the meeting--a prudent choice, in Kyuuzou’s opinion--so Tessai, the bodyguard of the magistrate’s son, had been tapped to stand in Hyogo’s place. They had not been introduced nor exchanged any words, but there were several things Kyuuzou could tell about the older man just from looking at him: that he was a samurai, based on the short sword tucked into his obi; that he was a seasoned fighter, lending to the cool, undaunted demeanor; and that if push came to shove, the yojimbo would move much faster than his stocky build implied. The eyes told him that, the hard, strategizing gaze like a hawk, locked onto him and the two swords on his back.



"You are a quiet one," the magistrate mused, not yet bothering to look at him. "Very serious. You served in the Great War?"



"Yes."



Ayamaro didn't ask on whose side he fought, though Kyuuzou hadn't expected him to. Most of the time, the only people who cared anymore were other samurai. For the merchants, only one side existed--theirs--and nothing matter beyond that.



"Where are you from originally?"



"Far to the north."



"And does your family still reside there?"



"No."



Ayamaro glanced up at the stony utterance, but pressed no further, which was good because Kyuuzou was done talking about himself.



Ayamaro disengaged from the conversation to stuff his mouth again. He ate from a large, round plate that was now almost empty, but initially had been spilling over with wide noodles and chunks of meat (horsemeat--Kyuuzou knew well that smell). Ayamaro looked up and made eye contact for the first time since the samurai had been called before him. After taking his time to finish chewing, he said, "Perhaps you are wondering why I am not using chopsticks with my meal?"



"That dish is supposed to be eaten with the hands."



Ayamaro's eyebrows shot upward. "You recognize this food? You know its name?"



"The name depends on who’s cooking it."



“My son and I both have a fondness for foreign cuisine." Ayamaro gathered the last of the food into his fingers, depositing it into his mouth as he tilted his head back. “I take it, then," he said, smacking his lips, "that you have friends who hail from those regions of the world? People who cook this kind of food for you?"



Kyuuzou shook his head. "I have eaten it where it is made."



"Hmpf. A worldly samurai," Ayamaro said with surprise. "Who would've thought."



Kyuuzou blinked once at that. He wanted to ask the rude magistrate why he had foregone the tradition of the horse’s head on the table with the meal, given that it would’ve been suitably gaudy in its shock value and lack of context. He wanted to point out that the man's primary bodyguard--a samurai--had more culture and breeding in his pinky finger than he--a merchant--could ever dream of achieving throughout his lifetime. But Kyuuzou suppressed those thoughts, saw no reason to end the interview just yet, or in such a way.



Finally, after a belch and several satisfied hums, Ayamaro wiped his mouth and hands clean, and pushed aside his serving table, which was promptly whisked away by one of the servants. "Let us speak frankly," he said, and his manner switched from nonchalant to direct in the space of a breath. "I don't need two bodyguards. Hyogo is more than capable of ensuring my protection on his own, as he has proven over these last six months. What’s more, my palace is defended by a fleet of guards, all subjected to a rigorous selection process. Not to mention the crew of assassins I keep for...” Ayamaro waved his hand, “...odd jobs. So you see, I simply haven’t been in a hurry to replace my other yojimbo who was killed. I am well looked after.”



Ayamaro paused to wipe his brow and take a wheezy breath, probably hindered by his overfull belly. "However, I also don’t need Hyogo to tell me that you are a skilled and dangerous man--that much is clear. I am impressed by your appearance, as I know others will be, and that appeals to me greatly. Two swordsmen are more intimidating than one, and I admit, I haven’t felt the same, shall we say, influence in some situations as when I had Hyogo and Shouya together at my side."



Ayamaro's expression hardened. "Know now that I have many enemies who threaten from all directions. In spite of my excellent standing with the Amanushi, there are numerous merchants, both in Kougakyo and elsewhere, who would depose me if faced with the opportunity. In addition to that, my forces regularly have to fend off gangs and other criminals from taking control of the city's lower levels. And the samurai--oh, the damnable samurai. They are a constant threat to order, especially as more and more of them settle here in the streets." Ayamaro groaned and touched his temple. “Everyone wants to take a swing at Ayamaro. Everyone wants a piece of Kougakyo. If we are to hold this city and keep it for ourselves, then we have no choice but to be equally as determined."



Ruthless, more like, Kyuuzou said to himself.



"In your role as yojimbo, your priority will be first and foremost to me,” Ayamaro explained, just as another serving tray was brought before him, this time bearing a bright and colorful selection of fruits and candies. “Oh, would you look at that! How lovely, thank you,” he said to the servant, his eyes lighting up in wonder.



He looked back at Kyuuzou, as if he forgot the samurai was there. “What was I saying?”



“Priorities."



“Yes, yes. On occasion, I give my son Ukyo permission to borrow my bodyguards, especially when he oversees the samurai raids--he loves the raids, you know--so you should be prepared to be called for that duty. Otherwise, your schedule will revolve around mine. I will dictate those events for which I require one, both, or neither of you. In the meantime, you and Hyogo will work out a rotation amongst yourselves, and you will not bother me with those details. As long as you are effective in your role, remain loyal at all times, and do nothing to embarrass me, I couldn't care less what you get up to."



Kyuuzou understood all of this perfectly well, and had no comments or questions. If anything, he appreciated Ayamaro’s straightforward approach to business, his tactless honesty, even the overt disdain of the samurai--at least Kyuuzou would always know where he stood with the magistrate. And regarding the aforementioned list of threats, the merchant couldn’t possibly comprehend that, to a samurai, especially one so out of shape, so lost in life as he, the prospect of armed conflict was not a drawback but a perk, a deciding factor, worth more in some ways than money. All things considered, he could see himself working there. For a while, anyway.



“All right. I’m tired, and I want to eat my dessert.” Ayamaro spread his hands, looked down the bridge of his nose at him. “Do you want this job or not?"



After a final moment’s reflection, Kyuuzou said, “I would like a job.”



“A samurai answer," Ayamaro sneered. Whether it was out of amusement or affront, Kyuuzou couldn’t tell.



And just like that, the magistrate was done with the meeting, all his attention focused on the plate of sweets, leaving his decision pending. Tessai, sensing the change in his master, quietly stepped in to escort Kyuuzou out of the room, though the samurai was already standing at the first sign of movement from the yojimbo.



Kyuuzou walked out with Tessai at his back, with Ayamaro paying him no mind whatsoever, and he was unsure of what to tell Hyogo when asked how the meeting went. But just before Kyuuzou reached the doorway, the magistrate called to him in a clear, authoritative tone.



"Get settled into your quarters tonight. You start first thing in the morning."



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The next morning, with Ayamaro tucked safely away in his monthly spa treatment, Hyogo led Kyuuzou into the palace's training courtyard for the first time. Kyuuzou matched paces with the dark-haired samurai, though in secret he fought a tired drag on his limbs. Ayamaro snored, he discovered, a mighty rumbling that defied brick and plaster, and woke him every time he managed to drift off. And though his new quarters were spacious and included such luxuries as his own sink, flush toilet, and a futon big enough to fit three, the space was completely interior, and offered neither the scent nor the sound of fresh air. The oppressive, obsidian hours of the night paired with Ayamaro's ceaseless pig noises put him on edge, made for a crappy night's sleep.



A cool breeze swept over Kyuuzou's face, snaking through the hidden spaces of his long coat. The desert sky, a brilliant blue topaz, stretched clear and bright overhead as they entered the welcoming space of the white-walled courtyard. Several groups of men were milling about within, taking advantage of the post-breakfast lull to enjoy cigarettes and chatter before going about the day's business.



At a glance, Ayamaro’s men made for a strange, motley crew. Some were samurai, some not, though all of them were armed, and more than half of them altered. It was common during and following the war that veterans with lost limbs chose to augment themselves with biomechanical parts and weaponry, though Kyuuzou hadn't encountered many until now. One short warrior in the crowd was more metal than flesh, with both arms replaced by mechanized components and only his mouth visible beneath a wide helmet bearing a single camera-like eye. Kyuuzou wondered why the man simply didn't make the jump to full-body mecha, but quickly let go of the thought as he considered that the matter might go beyond the practical into the philosophical.



After numerous introductions and a wash of names that Kyuuzou knew he would never remember, Hyogo turned to someone across the courtyard. "Bogan-san, come meet my friend Kyuuzou-dono."



The man who sauntered over at the call had a wild magenta mane and fuchsia-colored contacts, both features especially vivid and unnatural in the daylight. A band of linen ran across his forehead and the bridge of his nose--a "noseband," as Kyuuzou had heard it called when they were in Mutsuto's shop, where several men and women at the time had been wearing or shopping for them. Interesting how appearance is used as a first line of defense, Kyuuzou thought to himself. During the war, it had been helmets and military-issued uniforms; now, it was black lipstick and nosebands, making a shield out of urban fashion, breeding intimidation through mystique.



As soon as introductory bows were made, Hyogo's attention was caught by another man in the courtyard, and he excused himself, leaving Kyuuzou alone with Bogan. Shoulders squared to the samurai, Bogan eyed him with a curious, unabashed gaze. It was hard not to stare back at him, as he had a smoldering sex appeal that he exploited, his eyes shadowed and plucked, his lips glossy and parted. But Kyuuzou's instinct told him that this was the kind of man who would just as soon kill you as look at you, that little mattered to him beyond getting paid or getting off. An assassin, this one--a shameless little beast, all business and all bedroom, rolled into one harsh, handsome package.



"Two swords," Bogan noted, though not without a smug raise of his eyebrow. "That's impressive."



Kyuuzou said nothing in response. Instead, he turned his attention to the sword holstered on Bogan's hip. It was an ornate, deeply curved blade, the serration on its back edge punctuated by a crescent-shaped spike for catching an opponent's weapon. Foreign in both design and forging--Kyuuzou knew he’d seen something like it before, but couldn't place where.



"I'm good with that, it's true," Bogan said, following Kyuuzou's gaze, "but I assure you, it's not my signature weapon."



Kyuuzou made eye contact, asking the question without words, and Bogan did something he was not expecting: he made a downward gesture with his left arm, and from his forearm opened a hidden sheath, the housing for a sleek, iron-grey bowgun. Kyuuzou blinked, the only clue he gave that he was taken aback. It had been a long time since someone had startled him so; once the urge had passed to behead the assassin on the spot, he found himself grateful for the disclosure--especially in his new position, it was important to be aware of the fact that these weapons were commonplace in Kougakyo. He would not be caught off guard like that again.



"Impressive," he conceded, and Bogan grinned with great satisfaction.



"Did you lose that arm during the war?" Kyuuzou asked.



Bogan closed the sheath, the engineered flesh creating a seal so thin that it was hardly visible. "I didn't fight in the war," he said lightly, his eyes darting to the side.



Kyuuzou didn't like that answer, had a growing suspicion he wasn't going to like this man when all was said and done. “Yet you have training. You are a warrior,” the samurai pressed.



Bogan expelled a breathy laugh and nodded, accepting that he was cornered on the subject. “Yes. I learned a great many things while riding the seas."



Kyuuzou snorted and turned away. A filthy pirate, probably one of the wako.



That thought suddenly jogged his memory, and he finally remembered where he'd seen a blade like Bogan's. Over a year ago, just before he decided to take to the trains, he caught what he thought to be an ordinary cold but rapidly developed into a terrible, debilitating flu, and a monk found him wandering in a market, feverish and unable to communicate. Unafraid of the swords on Kyuuzou's back, the monk sheltered him in his monastery for nearly a week while the samurai recovered. Once his color returned and he was able to stand again, Kyuuzou spent a few mornings watching the monks practice their own style of combat. He had been fascinated by the pole weapons they used; the skill required to wield them was certainly to be admired, but he also had an aesthetic appreciation of the weapons' blades, adored the terror and beauty of their profiles. He had heard that you could find swords similar to the blades of those pole weapons as you traveled closer to the coast, but he had not seen them for himself.



Returning to thoughts of the wako, their activity was waning in the wake of the Great War's end and the merchants' subsequent rise to power, but they had been regular marauders of the villages and towns of their own people as well as settlements along the eastern coast of the continent for decades. For all Kyuuzou knew, Bogan's arm was cut off by the very sword he now carried. The samurai didn't want to think about it too long, didn't want to have anything to do with men like that. He glanced around the courtyard at the others, contemplating the possible collection of dirty histories, and sighed quietly, wondering how the hell he managed to step in such a pile of dog shit.



"So, Hyogo didn't say--what brings you to Kougakyo, friend?" Bogan asked.



"My legs."



Bogan chuckled, spurred on rather than put off by the curt response. "And have you seen much of our beloved city?"



Kyuuzou pursed his lips, not wanting to continue the conversation, but saw no better option, since he and Hyogo had to head back to Ayamaro’s quarters soon. “Going to Mutsuto’s shop last night with Hyogo-dono was the most ground I’ve covered so far."



"Last night? With Hyogo-dono?” Bogan echoed with wide eyes. He looked over at Hyogo, who stood smoking with several other men, and the assassin burst into inexplicable laughter. He quieted after a moment, and looked Kyuuzou up and down with a lascivious smile. “I see.”



Kyuuzou bit down, flexing his jaw muscle. He didn't know what that smile was all about, but he sure as hell didn't like it. Maybe he should have sliced off the assassin's head when the thought first crossed his mind, and just been done with it. Something told him he was going to have that impulse a lot in Bogan's presence.



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