Table of Contents

- Title Page

- Copyright Page

- Dedication

- THE FURUBE SUTRA (the 'Shrugging Off')

- THREE LEVELS of THE EYE OF THE BEAST

- Chapter ONE The slaying of No-Name

- Chapter TWO The teacup and the well

- Chapter THREE New faces on Peach Mountain

- Chapter FOUR Warnings on the Great Road

- Chapter FIVE The barrier

- Chapter SIX Brigands of the forest

- Chapter SEVEN Enemy territory

- Chapter EIGHT Unwanted admirer

- Chapter NINE To cross the moat

- Chapter TEN Eye of the beast

- Chapter ELEVEN Unexpected friend

- Chapter TWELVE The prize

- Chapter THIRTEEN Detected

- Chapter FOURTEEN Encircled

- Chapter FIFTEEN Blame game

- Chapter SIXTEEN The hunted

- Chapter SEVENTEEN To rob a thief

- Chapter EIGHTEEN Mud and smoke

- Chapter NINETEEN Moonshadow

- Chapter TWENTY The greatest challenge

- Chapter TWENTY-ONE Oath of loyalty

- Glossary

- Author's note and acknowledgements

- About the Author

MOONSHADOW

Eye of the Beast

Simon Higgins

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Moonshadow 1: Eye of the Beast

ePub ISBN 9781864714883

Kindle ISBN 9781864717488

A Random House book

Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd

Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060

www.randomhouse.com.au

First published by Random House Australia in 2008

Copyright © Simon Higgins 2008

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.

Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/offices.

National Library of Australia

Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

Higgins, Simon, 1958–.

Moonshadow: Eye of the beast.

For primary school age.

978 1 74166 283 2 (pbk.).

Spies – Juvenile fiction.

Secret societies – Juvenile fiction

A823.4

Cover and internal illustration by Ari Gibson of The People's Republic of

Animation, except stamp logo by Astred Hicks, Wide Open Media

Cover design by Wide Open Media

Typeset in Goudy by Midland Typesetters, Australia

Printed and bound by Griffin Press, South Australia

Random House Australia uses papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Alison Goodman

whose stories are so cool

THE FURUBE SUTRA

(the 'Shrugging Off')

Preparation Verse

Gather, tidy and align your doings and their karma

Facing Self Verse

Cleanse any lies made this day, scatter not one grain of life

Verse of One Resolved

To end this path in happiness, make still your mind

THREE LEVELS of THE

EYE OF THE BEAST

1. Beast Sight

To link your mind to a creature and use its senses

2. Dual Sight

To see with your own eyes and those of a linked animal

3. Sight-Control

To both see through and command a beast, making it your spy or weapon

ONE

The slaying of

No-Name

Dawn was around two hours away and the moon had finally set.

At the end of the dark corridor, Nanashi sank to one knee. He adjusted the sword on his back, head turning left and right while he steadied his breath. Stretching, he listened. The cool night had silenced the last crickets outside. Now there was not a sound.

The great mansion was silent too and he dared not break its hush before reaching his target. A cold breeze snatched sweat from his forehead and the hollows around his eyes. With it, a smell of stale bean soup from the kitchen found his nose.

He shuffled noiselessly up to the twin sliding screens.

Nanashi drew a small bamboo beaker from a hidden pocket in his black jacket. Easing the cork stopper from the tube, he hunched over one end of the floor slot which held the screens. Nanashi carefully poured water into its runner. As the liquid spread, he silently counted to five.

Tentatively he moved the nearest screen about a hand's width. It glided with a mere whisper. The water had stopped the screen grating noisily against the runners, just as he'd hoped. The time had come. He would not think about the consequences of failure. For clarity, for strength, he would try not to think at all. He set his jaw and tightened the dark head-wrap that hid his smooth face. If he was forced to fight his way out, the guards would live to tell only of his eyes. If he let them live.

Nanashi sighed. But of course. On this mission, the orders were rigid. Retrieve the documents. Take no life. No doubt Mantis had a hand in framing these rules. Him and his views! He'd get them all killed one day with that stuff. Nanashi pictured Mantis's gaunt face, his deep eyes that changed faster than storm clouds crossing the summer sky: one moment they were hard with fierce resolve, the next glowing with a pride that bordered on tenderness. And, in almost every glance, just a hint of the sorrow that drove his strong beliefs. The boy momentarily hung his head. The beliefs that made everything twice as hard!

Nanashi stilled his mind and drew in the chilled pre-dawn air. Though veiled by cloth, his nostrils flared sharply.

Inside a nearby room, perhaps just two walls away, someone was sweating hard. The scent was of either an older man with a bad cold or a young, very fit man filled with tension. Both smelled the same to dogs, wolves and foxes. And to Nanashi.

Training had not given him the heightened sense. It was what Groundspider called 'residue'. Peculiar abilities sometimes lingered in Nanashi after sight-joinings, when he focused his mind on a nearby beast or bird and saw through the creature's eyes. Most of these abilities quickly faded, and he knew that those that stayed could vanish at any time.

He gently opened both sliding doors. With the night-sight his special diet had given him, Nanashi scanned the unfurnished room ahead.

It was rectangular. Plain side walls. Tatami floor . . . all reed matting. A single paper-covered sliding screen door broke the far wall. Still no sign of guards, but the scent of sweat was stronger now. It came from beyond that single door.

He studied the floor of the room ahead. Strange little shadows.

The floor was covered with neat, even rows of iron tetsubishi: sharp triple-spiked foot jacks, caltrops whose tips were probably flecked with poison. They were painted a straw-colour to make them blend in with the tatami. Nanashi slid the soft backpack from under the sword on his back and eased a bolt of rough black cloth from it.

Lining up the long axis of the roll carefully with the distant screen door, he leaned into the room and flicked his wrists. The bolt quickly unwound in a straight line down the centre of the tatami. Thinning as it turned, the spool crossed the floor with a faint hiss. Nanashi watched it, breath held. It ran out roughly three long strides short of the door. A complex potion smell, with hints of both persimmons and seaweed, escaped from the cloth. Though pungent, Nanashi was glad of its presence. Any spike penetrating the cloth shield would be coated with its dried potion, an antidote for tetsubishi poison.

This was the final door, if old Badger's archives were accurate and unspoiled. One could never be sure. The librarian's monkey had been known to deface his maps and charts in a variety of unseemly ways, and Badger, though he could speak and read in most known languages, was often unwilling to interpret his own charts for others. 'You work it out, boy,' he'd told Nanashi a hundred times, 'or your lazy brain will dry out like kelp flung on the rocks!'

Nanashi shook his head. Thanks, Badger! Well, last room or not, he couldn't leap quite that far, from cloth to door frame – not at that angle, anyway.

Moving on all fours, Nanashi padded slowly along the strip of cloth, spreading his weight evenly, testing each spot first with light, probing cat steps. As he put more weight on the thick, dense weave of the fabric, it caught and held the points of the surrounding tetsubishi.

He reached the end of the cloth and smoothly drew the sword from its scabbard on his back. Balancing on the edge of the tough weave, Nanashi stretched forward. Using the flat of his sword he gently swept left, then right. With a soft tinkling, tetsubishi were flicked aside. He stood slowly then took a wary step onto the new strip of floor he had cleared, sword held out before him, its tip hovering at throat height. Nanashi squinted at the path ahead, took three quick steps and launched himself for the door.

He cleared the last tetsubishi, landing without sound in a crouch before the paper-covered screen. Nanashi glanced around, sheathed his sword and once again carefully poured water into the floor slot to silence the screen runners. Then he rose to his feet, counting slowly as he redrew his blade. With its tip, he gently slid the door open. His nostrils flared again.

This room, also a rectangle, was not empty like the last. A squat Chinese-style writing desk stood at the far end under a shuttered, bolted window: a desk of stained cedar, a pressed gold hexagram on one side. Just as the plans had promised – the documents must be here.

As always, he studied as much of the room as he could see before entering. No sign of any traps. The sweat smell was so strong here, there had to be a guard, coiled and ready to attack, tucked into one of the closest corners. But which one? And was there only one guard? Faint gnawing sounds came from behind the writing desk. Nanashi smiled as he smelled rodent. How helpful! Some scribe had eaten here recently, and a mouse was seeing to the crumbs the maid had failed to notice.

He sank to his knees and rested the sword across his thighs. Staring into the darkness, Nanashi aimed his mind at the source of the noises. His hands trembled momentarily. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. The gnawing stopped. There was a soft scraping sound. Nanashi grimaced and pinched his nose: the odours in the room were suddenly overpowering.

The mouse crept out from under the desk, whiskered nose twitching fast, tiny twinkling eyes flicking up at the doorway.

As if now seeing through a thin, quivering layer of water, Nanashi saw, as the mouse saw, his waiting nemesis, crouching to one side of the doorway. This was no ordinary guard. The fellow wore a dark cloak and hood. Black unmarked armour showed beneath it. His head turned sharply as if he heard or sensed the mouse's movement. Nanashi's heart began pounding. Inside the enemy's hood glittered a mesh veil. A straight sword hung on his back, assassin-style, but he also carried a hardwood bo staff. He was a big man, too.

Nanashi reclaimed his sight from the rodent, forcing his own eyes to open. The usual fleeting moment of confusion jarred him, then he focused on the writing desk ahead. Just as his sharpening vision located the mouse, it looked up then twisted and fled under the desk. An instant later he saw a blur of movement through the doorway, heard the swish of a whirling bo.

With blinding speed the strange guard sprung into view, swinging one end of his staff at Nanashi's head.

Nanashi ducked then tumbled, brushing past the guard's leg and into the last room. He twisted his spine and swung a cut at the fellow's legs as he passed, but the bo dropped hard and fast out of nowhere to block the blade, which bit deeply into its wood. Wrenching his sword free, Nanashi bounded to his feet near the writing desk, whirling to face his enemy. The attacker dashed across the room, spinning his staff and moving quickly for one so large. Nanashi shuddered.

His opponent bore down on him. The hardwood staff sang through the air, closing horizontally with his neck. Nanashi parried upwards with the flat of his sword, darted in closer and aimed a powerful angular cut at the staff itself.

There was a dense splitting-tearing sound, then the bo clunked to the floor as two midget staffs. The large guard spun in a circle as he drew the sword from his back with startling fluidity. Raising it in a two-handed grip, he started closing the distance between himself and his target at alarming speed, sword whistling as it arced in the air above him, tip poised to fly like lightning at Nanashi's forehead.

Without thought, Nanashi prepared for the response he knew best of all. A crafty set of moves, practised a thousand times until they had become part of him.

Turning one shoulder to the oncoming threat, Nanashi took up a low stance and faced an empty spot off to his opponent's side, daring the foe to take advantage of his awkward position. Only his eyes remained on course, locked straight ahead, judging the scant moments left before the attacker was close enough to strike.

Suddenly he was.

Nanashi rose fast, turning to face him head-on and pouncing forward. The sudden turn and the change in both height and distance all combined to ruin the guard's timing. Before the man could slice downwards, Nanashi's sword glided up into a fast, hard cut aimed at his raised forearms.

The blade bit home, folded steel grinding against concealed gauntlets. Focusing his balance and energy, Nanashi pushed with a muted grunt, forcing his opponent one step back. One step would be enough. Keeping pressure on the enemy's gauntlets until the last second, Nanashi whipped his blade back, then drove a powerful vertical cut at the man's cloaked shoulder. A riskier target than his head, but the orders were take no life.

The guard hoisted his sword into a strong block, but was a shade too slow to meet the incoming slice. There was a muffled clang, a sound of tearing cloth. Nanashi's blade glanced off the man's shoulder, slicing open his cloak to reveal armour before flailing off to one side. Seizing his scant chance, the guard turned his sword and lunged, blade leading the stretch of his long arms.

Suddenly the cold flat of its steel pressed at Nanashi's sweaty neck. He froze, lowering his sword.

'Next time you will die, in such a place, such a moment.'

The guard's voice was muffled, but his baiting tone was clear enough. The armoured giant sheathed his weapon then peeled off his cloak and plain black helmet. 'Yes, it is me. Did you understand, Nanashi? You should have been slain. Right here. Just now.'

From somewhere outside the mansion, a cock crowed.

Nanashi sheathed his sword and untied his black head-wrap. It was soaked with sweat and as it fell away the cold night air stung his skin.

Groundspider, alias the guard, eyed Nanashi with his ironic smile. His clean-shaven, aloof mouth twisted. 'Cheer up! You're really fast now with that move, you know that?'

'Fast,' Nanashi slapped his own neck, 'but dead. So what use is that speed?'

'Look, it's not my place to explain . . .' Groundspider shoved him affectionately, '. . . but relax, kid!' He broke into a grin. 'Always so serious! When are you going to become more like me? About to live or about to die, I still don't let anything worry me.' Nanashi heard a familiar ring of mockery in Groundspider's voice. It was partly aimed at Nanashi, but partly at himself.

Despite his nervous sense of anticipation, the boy cracked a reluctant smile in return. Though Groundspider's official role was to be Nanashi's sparring partner and to teach him the use of exotic, compact weapons such as throwing knives and smoke bombs, the big fellow often assumed the role of his entertainer, too. It came to him naturally. Hence he excelled at playing extroverted roles in the field, disguising himself as the cocky, gregarious silk merchant or the loud, buffoonish labourer. He was always the first to find the humour in things, to make light of disasters, even to poke fun at his own limitations.

They had much in common. Though older, Groundspider too had been abandoned as a baby on the steps of the Grey Light Order's orphanage in Edo. He'd also been raised and trained by the Order. But unlike Nanashi – or anyone else Nanashi knew – Groundspider was unusually tall and big-boned, like the offspring of a wrestler. With a bull-neck and ox-strength shoulders, he had grown up displaying great physical power, but it had taken him most of his life to develop agility and stealth. Nanashi knew he would have found that discouraging, yet somehow Groundspider's long struggle to develop a light step amused the big man.

In fact, it inspired him to tell ludicrous stories about the consequences of his build: how much he weighed, how much he needed to eat. 'When Heron found me, in a rice-sack on the street before our gates,' he had once boasted, 'I was already so huge that she hurt her back lifting me, and needed the doctor's hot needles for a month.' More recently, after surviving a tough rural mission in an isolated valley, Groundspider had bragged that while in hiding, his enormous appetite had forced him to consume – in one meal – three salamanders and an entire wild goose. Raw.

'But not the beak,' he'd added solemnly, a wicked gleam in his eyes. Nanashi had called him a liar, and Groundspider had gripped his sword, face instantly fierce as if mortally insulted. Nanashi had flinched, then the big fellow had laughed, clapping him on the back with the words, 'Still skinny and gullible!'

But today Groundspider was at least trying to be serious. He hastily composed himself as a lantern's light cut the dark of the next room. Nanashi peered back through the doorway. As the room grew brighter, he heard the sound of a swishing robe. Brother Eagle approached, a shine on his balding head, his long single plait of hair draped on his shoulder as usual. He carried a poleheld paper lantern in one hand, a broom in the other. Eagle stepped carefully, sweeping tetsubishi aside with the broom as he went.

In perfect time with each other, Groundspider and Nanashi bowed. As they straightened up, Groundspider snuck Nanashi a glance that said 'be brave'.

Brother Eagle nodded to the pair with his typical secretive composure. He raised an eyebrow at Groundspider. 'Report.'

'The boy held back detectably,' Groundspider said, showing only his serious, respectful side. 'Heeding our orders, no doubt, to take no life. His technique itself is now virtually flawless. It is definitely ready.'

'But not him?' Eagle stroked his short, greying beard. 'Say now, might he possibly have killed you, had no such orders fettered him? Had he been a touch bolder, his strike more confident?'

Groundspider looked thoughtful, then gave a single nod.

'Very well.' Eagle grew solemn. 'Then the true final – and first – test should take place in the field.' He saw Nanashi break into a smile. 'Nnng . . .' The long nasal sound told Nanashi that Eagle was thinking hard. 'Your first real assignment. You may not be ready. But the world can wait no more. So it is time. You will shine, or you will fall. The fire must come from within. We've done all we can.'

Nanashi dropped to one knee, lowering his head. 'I thank you, Great Teacher, but . . . have I not failed the test?'

'Enough, rise.' Eagle gestured impatiently. 'Failed, no. In fact, you passed. We ordered restraint, tied your hands, as it were. So you concluded that this was a test of skill, didn't you? A skill challenge with a difficult handicap attached. Could you prove adept enough to steal the documents, defend and leave, with half your tricks forbidden by a no killing order? You reasoned it thus, neh?'

The boy stood up slowly and nodded, his eyes on the floor. 'And I was not adept enough. I lacked the required skill.'

'As everyone does,' Groundspider grinned. 'As a skill test, it's impossible. Nobody passes it. Any real mission so difficult would allow the use of equal force against the guards. Lethal force, just as they would use.'

'I don't understand.' Nanashi blinked, his eyes moving between his mentors.

'It is a test,' Eagle nudged his arm with the broomstick, 'of obedience, not of martial skill. How will this Nanashi react to missions he knows will end in bad wounds or worse? That's why it's always the last test before field trials. A test of character. You restrained yourself, as required. Your "death" is the natural consequence of your obedience. You passed, my boy. The traditional reward, your graduation gift one might say, is something you have never owned. A real name.' The two warrior monks exchanged knowing glances. Groundspider laughed behind his large, gloved hand.

'But I have a name,' Nanashi shrugged. 'Don't I?'

'Think back to that great, difficult day,' Groundspider said, 'the day you were moved from our orphanage beside the safe house to your life inside these walls. The day your training began. When we settled you in your little room, we renamed you then too, remember?'

Nanashi nodded slowly. 'Brother Eagle said I could no longer be Go, for that was a child's name, and since I had been selected, I'd need a better one.'

Eagle shook his head. 'You were so excited to be chosen, yet sad to leave your friends behind. You knew our decision made you special, but also that the special are forbidden to revisit the ranks from which they came.' He gave a faint sigh. 'The special must walk alone.'

Trying to recall the faces of the other children, Nanashi swallowed.

Eagle went on. 'Hard it may be, but that separation is an old, trusted rule, part of our Veiled Way, and it works for the protection of all. Yet it cuts the heart, so it's no wonder you do not recall my words that day. I never said a better name. I spoke of a more appropriate one. Go, of course, is a name, but it also means number five. From the day Heron found your basket on our doorstep to the day you were selected for training, you were simply orphan number five. Once you were chosen, that name had to be tossed aside.'

'And now,' Groundspider added, 'the time has come for a third and final change, where you take on the name you will keep until you die.'

'We've never told you this,' Eagle allowed himself an open chuckle, 'but Nanashi means no name. From childhood to adolescence, throughout their training, each student we prepare, boy or girl, is called Nanashi. Our Order is small, our training intensive, so we develop only one high-quality candidate at a time, making their nameless name an easy secret to keep!'

Nanashi glanced at his teachers. 'I wondered, you know, during certain errands outside the monastery . . . why some people pulled curious faces when I gave my name. Now I understand.'

'A good thing their manners stayed their tongues,' Eagle smiled. 'We would have had to tell you much earlier, and we do like to maintain our little traditions when we can. But it's true: everyone's a Nanashi until this very moment. When their final-test supervisor gives them a truly apt name, a title, really.' He turned and gestured at Groundspider. 'Traditionally, one names a successful pupil after a technique, strategy, or Old Country science they have mastered.'

'Well, he almost had me with his signature sword move,' Groundspider said. 'The tempting angle, that sudden turn and the body's snappy rise, blade flying into a pinning cut across the forearms, then the push, before –'

'Ah yes.' Brother Eagle pointed at Nanashi. The older man's eyes lit up. 'Your trademark sword defence . . . Tsukikage. As I write the characters of that word, they also mean moonshadow.'

Groundspider placed one gauntleted hand on the youth's shoulder. 'So let it be. Nanashi has been slain. Moonshadow rises in his place.' He stepped back, and, along with Brother Eagle, bowed to the new spy.

'Thank you.' The boy returned their bows. 'So it is, then . . . I am Moonshadow.'

'Moonshadow of the Grey Light,' Eagle spoke softly, 'Mantis, with his zeal for Buddha, tried to teach you compassion as well as the art of duelling. Groundspider here, true follower of Hachiman, laboured hard to school you in the war god's fury. Heed what each has taught you, along with all you've learned from Heron and Badger. But most of all, heed what I say to you now: young or old, it is our hearts that rule our fate.' His face hardened. 'For glory or destruction.'

Moonshadow nodded eagerly. 'I am ready, Great Teacher.'

'Indeed?' Brother Eagle looked thoughtful for a moment, then gave Groundspider a slight nod. 'Leave us.' Groundspider bowed and withdrew.

'Well, Moonshadow . . .' Eagle smiled as his student beamed at hearing the new name. 'How you've developed! Your skills bring us all great pride.'

At his teacher's praise, the boy felt his eyes grow hot. Eagle paused as if searching for the right words, then went on slowly.

'Soon you face the dangerous world as our outstretched arm; serving our master, the Shogun, among his very enemies. So, as the head of our Order, I will need your reassurance about something.'

'Anything, Master.' Moonshadow began sinking to one knee.

Eagle motioned for him to stand tall. 'Tell me this: when everything turns smoky, and your choices are veiled in dust, which voice will guide you? As I said, each of your teachers has influenced you according to his or her own view of the world. But whose voice will order your steps when chaos reigns?' Eagle watched him carefully. 'Think on this, while I tell you a personal secret.'

Moonshadow listened intently. Not only was he immediately curious – Brother Eagle never spoke about himself – but he was glad to be given time to think. Was this odd question a last, sneaky part of the final test? Perhaps; so he dared not get it wrong!

'I was not born knowing how to see through an animal's eyes,' Eagle said. 'I was born and raised samurai, with little awareness of the ancient shadow arts.'

Moon asked no questions, sensing the looming weight of Eagle's secret.

'As a young warrior I was chosen to serve as a yojimbo, a bodyguard, in an escort protecting the somewhat reckless – and unpopular – Lord Yabu as he travelled. He was a cruel man, who treated his peasants shockingly. He'd also made well-born enemies. High on a lonely stretch of mountain road, our rather gaudy procession was attacked by hired assassins from the Iga shadow clan. As was our duty, we fought hard, but Lord Yabu and his entire retinue perished that day . . . save for one youngster, taken prisoner by the Iga.'

'You, Master.' Moonshadow gaped at him.

Eagle nodded. 'They held me in a forest stockade, hoping to learn all about Yabu's allies, but – despite their unkindest efforts – I told them nothing. In time, I even began to sense their admiration. Of course, regardless of Yabu's nature, I had failed to protect my liege Lord, so I yearned to die. Then one night, the Iga themselves were attacked, by forces of the oldest shadow clan, the Fuma. In the chaos, I snatched a sword. My samurai upbringing told me to slay my Iga captors.

Instead, I chose to save their lives. It placed them in debt to me. So unforeseen! But it was destiny.'

The boy saw Eagle's stare drift far into the past. 'Then they let you go?'

His teacher smiled sadly. 'There was nowhere to go. I learned that during my captivity, my entire home clan had perished in battle, betrayed by Yabu's allies, the very men I'd endured torture to protect. My life as samurai was over. So I lived on among the Iga, became one of them, and even learned their most ancient skill, which I've now passed to you. In time, a fateful mission brought me before the Abbot of the Grey Light Order. He was dying, and to my astonishment and disbelief, he bade the Shogun have me take his place. Again, most unforeseen, but in hindsight, clearly meant to be.'

'So it all worked out, both times,' Moonshadow looked up at him, 'because no matter what befell you, you listened to yourself. Followed your own instincts.'

'A fine answer,' Eagle patted his shoulder. 'Remember it when you get out there.' He gestured with his shiny head to the world beyond their walls.

In the distance, a lone dog howled.

TWO

The teacup and

the well

Moonshadow woke an hour after sunset. He sat on his heels, legs folded beneath him on his bedroll, rubbing one eye and staring at the drab walls of his tiny room. His pre-dawn test had left him exhausted, though perhaps, he thought, it was really the sleepless nights leading up to it that had worn him out.

Three nights he had lain on his back from the midnight temple bell to dawn, staring at the ceiling, wondering what form his test would take, and if he could pass it. With it finally behind him now, he had obeyed Brother Eagle's last orders with great pleasure. Return to your room. Rest a full day and night. Then prepare your tools and clothes for your first real mission.

In the distance, through thin wooden walls and sliding paper screens, he heard Brother Eagle's voice once more, though the words were muffled. They drifted from the monastery's little kitchen, along with the sizzle of a cooking plate and the smell of spring onions lightly frying on it. Then he heard Heron speak. Her tone was unusually sharp. Moon stood up and stretched, a rumble in his stomach telling him that the evening meal was being prepared just in time.

He glanced up at the narrow window high on one wall of his room. It was already dark outside, so he had missed the chance to intone his second furube for the day. Moon sighed. The shrugging off sutra was supposed to be uttered, its stillness entered into, each dawn and each sunset, as well as just before going into action.

He broke into a sly grin. He'd been warned never to skip it, lest that become a bad habit. But if he skipped it now, just this once, dispensed with reciting it late, who would know? Beating Groundspider and his huge appetite to the kitchen was surely more important. Groundspider could out-eat a sumo wrestler, maybe two.

Moon slid open his door, slipped out into the darkened corridor and followed the alluring smells. Now, ginger, pine nuts and sliced radish were hitting the hot plate and the first at that long, low table would surely get the freshest, biggest serve. He was only two strides from the kitchen's sliding door when he heard Heron speak his name. Moonshadow froze, listening, hoping that she and Eagle were too engrossed in their conversation to hear – or sense – him loitering in the corridor.

'You've always been too protective of him,' he heard Eagle say softly. 'Maybe because it was you who found him that morning, thrown on our mercies.'

Moonshadow sank into a crouch, controlling his breath lest their sharp ears pick it up. He turned his head to one side and parted his teeth to increase the range of his own hearing. Heron's reply was calm, but passion put an edge on her words.

'Come now, Eagle, have we not all grown fonder of him than perhaps we should? Besides, my concern is not some . . . motherly urge, it is professional.'

'You heard Groundspider's report on Moonshadow's final test. Has he also grown confused? True, he treats the boy as a younger brother, but his opinion on such matters has always been sound. Moonshadow's raw talent is exceptional, and now, his skills are honed. Young or not, he'd vex any handful of good samurai and, in single combat, most shinobi for that matter. Don't forget how much extra work we've all put into him. You are wrong. He's our masterpiece, and he is ready.'

'I don't doubt that his skills are ready,' Heron said quietly. 'But he is not. This may be the one flaw in our training process: he's tasted so little of life, of the world. Known so few people. His prowess is indeed remarkable, I agree, but the inexperienced make awful blunders. That is his weakness, and that may –'

'Cause him to fail?' Moon heard Eagle scrape something from the cooking plate into a dish. 'I say he will not fail. He will succeed and return to us alive. For two reasons. First, have you forgotten all the White Nun predicted when she pointed him out among the other orphans, while he was yet small and sickly?'

'No, of course not,' Heron muttered. 'And she's certainly been proved right about his rapport with animals. What's the other reason?'

Moon edged closer to the door, fascinated. The White Nun! Groundspider had spoken of this unusual Buddhist seer, saying that she visited the Order once every few years, and was said to wield that Old Country science called Insight. Those skilled in Insight could discern a stranger's true nature, or glimpse things fate had in store for them. Was she the real reason he had been chosen?

Beyond the door, Eagle gave an irritable huff. 'My second reason? I say he will not fail because he must not fail. So many dire missions await our agents now. This one, as you know, was never intended for him. It called for a face that our enemies wouldn't recognise, yes, but one more seasoned should be undertaking it. Moon should tackle an easier task first time out. But as you also know, our original choice now lies badly wounded and, at last report, may not live to see next week. Our need is desperate, and if all the White Nun said about him proves true . . .'

'You are master of our Order and dear to my heart,' Heron said slowly. 'But please heed my warning. To send him on this mission, so inexperienced in all but the shadow crafts themselves, is to set a teacup on the edge of a well.'

Eagle sniffed. 'Then all we can do is hope that –'he stopped abruptly. Moonshadow heard the swish of robes and he turned and scuttled silently back to his room. As he slid his door shut, the kitchen door opened.

'Was that him?' Moon heard Heron whisper. 'How did we not hear him? Were we that distracted by our little tussle?'

'I told you he was good,' Eagle mumbled. 'How many could spy on us? You see? He is ready.'

THREE

New faces on Peach

Mountain

Silver Wolf paced up and down his empty audience chamber. His hands clasped behind his back, the warlord hung his head as he muttered, scheming aloud.

His new team would be here any moment. A good variety of experts. But would they be able to work together? It was a blend of odd personalities. Would some end up fighting each other before they even met his enemies? The operation was turning out expensive, too. One rather special hireling looked set to cost him more than all the others put together . . .

Silver Wolf stopped and turned at the chamber's set of double sliding doors.

Light streamed in from the wide window at the opposite end of the long room, along with the sharp clicks of bokken, wooden practice swords, from the castle's inner courtyard below.

Near the window, Silver Wolf's battle armour hung on a T-shaped wooden stand. A low horizontal rack beside the armour held his two favourite swords.

Three paces left of the armour, a thick plank of white wood stood propped between the reed-mat floor and the windowsill.

He stared at his armour's leather war mask, its frightening face drawn in a permanent snarl. One section of his chest armour was sculpted to resemble exposed ribs, using dyed leather stretched over copper inlays. Detailed, strong and flexible, these days his armour was just a work of art for visitors to admire. Silver Wolf snorted bitterly.

In the final months of the long civil war, when the strongest lords had vied for mastery of Japan, he had proved a credit to his noble ancestors, showing himself fearless in battle. Leading his men under the Tokugawa banner, Silver Wolf had helped crush the aspiring Shogun's enemies, handing him power over all the land. And what had been his reward? It had hardly matched the promise he had received, the one that had induced him to fight so daringly.

The would-be Shogun had pledged that once the land was united under his rule, Silver Wolf would lead an invasion of the Korean Peninsula. As the Shogun's favourite captain, he would expand the empire, carving his clan's name into the great stones of foreign castles, where he'd forever be remembered as a conqueror. What a lie! Instead, he'd been given a small chest of gold. With it had come an announcement that had turned his veins to fire. That infernal edict.

For soon after tasting victory, the new Shogun had embraced what he called a fresh vision. A dream of a new, peaceful Japan, a realm of art and flourishing culture . . . like a garden of flowers, the edict had read. A land of supposed balance that would neither invade its neighbours nor let newcomers, like those strange barbarians from the far end of the world, gain influence. Silver Wolf and his boldest allies had been ordered to forget the past. Outrageous! Forget their pride? Forget what this very armour stood for?

Their new leader's change of heart had cut them more deeply than any foe's blade. They had put him in power and once there, he had insulted their warrior blood.

The Emperor, of course, would never intervene to set things right. Though held to be a living god, he was in fact a tiger without teeth, a figurehead only, who would never challenge anyone with an army at their back.

No, it was up to Silver Wolf. His eyes refocused on his armour. A work of art! Not for much longer. Not if all went well.

He started pacing again. He didn't feel like a traitor, like a turncoat plotting rebellion. No. He was a rescuer! It was their so-called greatest military leader who had betrayed every nobleman, every samurai in the country. What deserving Shogun wanted an end to the birthright of battle?

Serenity. Peace! Such things were not for warriors! Silver Wolf gritted his teeth in contempt. The Shogun's very title meant 'chief general who subdues barbarians'. Yet it was barbarians who would help Silver Wolf subdue this foolish Shogun. It was his duty to remove the traitor. To replace him. To restore the pride.

He pictured his new foreign allies. Their round faces, eerie blue eyes, strange clothes. So few of his countrymen had encountered these men of the far West, who called themselves Europeans. He smiled grimly. So few would want to, seeing as they didn't bathe daily as all Japanese did. Worse still, they ate their meals, not with chopsticks like the civilised, but with a knife – a weapon – and their bare hands.

Those barbarian traders, who cared only about money and opportunity, had already played their greedy part. But before he could make use of what they had sold him to topple the Shogun, an obstacle had to be overcome. The Shogun was no mere fellow warlord, to be easily crushed with a surprise border attack or well-timed treachery. His secret service men were no amateurs either; they were possibly the best warrior-wizards alive.

Silver Wolf's rugged face tightened, stretching the long scar on his left cheek. The Grey Light Order. For generations, the secret defenders of each Shogun's life and office. Only a handful of lords had even heard of them. It was whispered that their name itself was a warning that they belonged to no normal world, phantoms existing between darkness and daylight. Shadows of the twilight and the grey of early dawn, their skills and ways were veiled in myth and superstition. But their agents were real enough, and they would certainly come after his new weapon, even before it was built. He nodded with relief. At least they were not the only spies in the land, and most others, the warriors of the shadow clans, would serve anyone who could afford their hefty fees.

His gaze moved to his sword rack. Once his swordsmith turned those plans into a reality, no amount of armour would save the Shogun or his men. After all, slow loading, single-shot firearms were everywhere these days. They were dangerous enough. But no one had even heard of a gun that could fire multiple lead balls, one after the other, and with improved accuracy.

He imagined the Shogun's armoured cavalry and lines of spearmen charging his own ranks boldly, expecting his gunners to fall back and reload, as theirs had to, after each volley. Their mouths would fall open beneath their leather war masks when his men simply went on firing, round after round, his new, unique firepower mowing down man and horse like a sickle passing through weeds.

If his project could only reach completion, he, Lord of Momoyama Castle, would be invincible. Silver Wolf tapped his cheek with one finger. He was ready to intercept their agents, destroy them, and all without getting his own hands dirty. Art and culture! He shook his head.

'We're a race of warriors. The destiny of warriors is war.' Silver Wolf grumbled. 'The rule of the strong, not artists and thinkers!'

In the courtyard below his keep, the shouts and clicks of samurai practising swordplay abruptly stopped. The voice of his chief guard broke the pause, ushering someone towards the tower. They were here. It was time to gauge if, so far, his money had been well spent.

Silver Wolf strode to a small padded platform near his swords and suit of armour. He sank to his knees on it and rocked back on his heels, tidying his lush robes, straightening his pointy cap.

The double doors slid open. The chief guard, a stocky samurai with a wrinkled, scarred forehead, stood between them. He bowed low to his seated master then gestured over his shoulder. 'Your . . . guests, Lord.'

Silver Wolf motioned for the arrivals to be sent in. The chief guard stepped back, waving five men into the keep's audience chamber.

The warlord looked the group over with a slow nod. Two of them he knew well: burly samurai, each wearing two swords, hand-picked from his own household guard troop. One of these locals was very tall, the other short but exceptionally muscular.

The other three visitors were quite something else again.

'Since you new faces don't know each other,' Silver Wolf said slowly, 'let us begin with introductions from all three of you.'

Silver Wolf pointed to the scruffiest of the new men.

The youngest of the trio, he was a wily-looking fellow with a thick, messy beard and drooping moustache. His long, untied hair was tangled and he wore a bright, patterned jacket of the kind popular among town gamblers. His neck and forearms were covered in detailed red and green tattoos of carps and dragons.

'I am Jiro, Lord,' the man said, bowing quickly. His beady eyes darted from side to side. 'Throwing knife specialist and slayer. No job too small, no target too unusual.'

The pair of household samurai glanced at each other. It was clear from their expressions that they weren't happy working with a gangster. The warlord smiled. He understood their feelings and truly, Jiro was the worst kind of scum, but he was useful scum. His obsession with money meant he would act without question and, if anything went wrong, he could quickly be blamed for the whole plot and sacrificed to the Shogun's head-chopper. It wouldn't be right to waste a loyal samurai in such a way.

'My men don't seem to like you,' Silver Wolf grinned. 'It's nothing personal. It's just that they are proud samurai, and you, after all, are a lowly criminal. They don't realise yet what a useful fellow you can be . . . if what I've heard is true.' He gestured at the white wood plank leaning against the windowsill. 'Show me. A straight line. Top to bottom.'

Without hesitation, Jiro the gangster fished in his jacket. He took a step forward and his right arm flashed three times in a whip-cracking motion. Fast swishes cut the air as black blurs flew from his outstretched fingers and three sharp thwacks made everyone's eyes dart to the plank.

Silver Wolf smiled. Three black shuriken, star-shaped throwing knives, stuck from the white wood. They formed a perfect vertical line. Jiro grinned, wagging his head from side to side proudly. As he turned to the men beside him, he raised one eyebrow.

'Impressive,' nodded his nearest companion. Older than Jiro, this newcomer was balding, wiry, and clean-shaven. He had hard eyes and wore a plain black robe. 'But are you as good with a target that fires back?' the fellow asked, giving a little sneer. He turned to the warlord, gripping the sword on his hip as he bowed elegantly.

'Great Lord Silver Wolf,' he announced, 'I am Akira, a professional of two schools. I gather information. I silence enemies.'

Again the two household samurai exchanged glances, but this time their faces spoke of recognition and respect.

'An ageing professional,' Jiro mumbled.

'What's that you say?' Akira gave the gangster a menacing snake-like smile then glanced at their employer. 'I'd be happy to demonstrate that second skill, right now, if my Lord wishes, on this gambling peacock . . .'

'Your swordplay comes highly recommended by my allies,' Silver Wolf held up a hand, 'so, in your case, no demonstration is necessary. But I will require a show of patience, and proof of your ability to work in a team. From all of you!'

Akira bowed sharply. 'Of course, Lord.' His eyes flicked sideways to the only hireling in the room who had not yet introduced himself. 'But I don't know all who grace my Lord's new team.'

The tall, well-built stranger he spoke of turned and slowly looked Akira over before bowing to Silver Wolf. All eyes locked on the fellow. He was the only man present who was openly wearing the dark night garb of a spy or assassin.

Silver Wolf studied his most expensive hireling. A straight sword hung from the man's back and his face was covered by an unusual hood. It was fashioned from one long strip of indigo blue cloth, wound many times around his head, and secured with two small knots, one just above each temple. Though the knots looked like small, bristling ears, nothing about the stranger struck anyone as funny. His unblinking black eyes, smooth movements and lurking aura of physical power made him an unnerving figure.

'This, gentlemen,' Silver Wolf said with pride, 'is The Deathless.'

'I thought The Deathless was a myth,' Akira frowned. 'A story to frighten children.' He gave the hooded agent a quick, polite bow. 'No offence.'

'A folk-tale, that's right,' Jiro blurted, 'nobody could live up to that reputation! I've heard it said The Deathless is immune to sword cuts! Impossible!'

A deep, confident voice came from inside the cloth hood. 'Not just sword cuts, Little Man.' The fixed stare of The Deathless swept over Jiro before the killer bowed low to Silver Wolf. 'My Lord, may I still these foolish tongues with a demonstration?'

'Why not?' Silver Wolf gave a low chuckle, trying to disguise the fact that even he was unsettled by this man. 'But don't kill anyone . . . this operation is expensive enough already!'

'My Lord.' The Deathless strode, head held high, to the centre of the audience chamber. He smoothly unsheathed his sword then pointed its tip at Jiro.

'Gangster!' He grunted. 'Come, kill me! Show our Lord how you will take down his foes!' He cocked his hooded head to one side. 'You have actually killed someone before, haven't you?'

With an angry snort, Jiro quickly drew three more shuriken from his jacket. He hurled the first at The Deathless's head. The tall assassin bent his knees and bobbed under its flight path. The whirling black star streaked into the wood panelling directly behind him, embedding itself with a loud thwack.

'Concentrate, dice-roller!' The Deathless sniggered, 'you just wasted your best chance!'

Jiro cursed and threw the next shuriken at his target's chest, but The Deathless raised his blade at the last possible second and blocked it. A spark flew from the sword. The black throwing knife buzzed skywards to wedge in a ceiling beam.

The two household samurai were openmouthed with awe. The shorter one nudged his partner.

'They say that under that hood,' he whispered, 'he has the head of an otter, but with huge fangs.'

Akira glanced up at the shuriken in the beam and nodded slowly to himself.

'I'll show you!' Jiro growled. He flung the third shuriken, this time at his enemy's stomach, then drew a small dagger from his jacket and rushed The Deathless.

Silver Wolf blinked as the gambler charged. His third shuriken had simply vanished. What magic was this?

The tall assassin let his sword droop as Jiro whistled past, slashing hard into his chest.

Silver Wolf leaned forward, breath held.

The Deathless made no move. Jiro slowed, regained his balance and spun around, raising the dagger and pointing back at The Deathless with it. 'How did you like that then, huh? Does it hurt?'

A low, superior chuckle came from beneath the knotted hood. Silver Wolf studied The Deathless carefully from head to foot, then he too began to laugh.

Jiro's eyes widened as The Deathless held up the third shuriken. He had snatched it from the air itself with his free hand. The tall assassin sheathed his sword on his back, tossed the shuriken at Jiro's feet, then with both hands, stretched the cloth of his jacket tightly over his torso.

'What?' Jiro's head snapped forward. His lips twisted in amazement.

A distinct cut now marred The Deathless's jacket. But beneath it and the slashed white undershirt, his skin could be clearly seen.

There was no blood. There was no cut.

Jiro inspected his dagger. It was dry. He shook his head, stumbling over his words. 'How? How did – I know I cut you! For sure! I felt it! Nobody can –'

'It is rumoured,' Akira put in solemnly, 'that The Deathless was trained by the shadow master, Koga Danjo himself!'

'Koga Danjo is said to be three hundred years old,' the short samurai whispered.

'Take note,' Silver Wolf warned the group, 'our invulnerable friend here charges by the kill, not by the day, so I will be holding him in reserve until something worthy of his talent crops up.' He nodded to Akira and Jiro. 'Meanwhile, you pair, supported by my best two swordsmen here, should be able to deal with any lesser visitors.'

'Does my Lord expect more than one intruder, then?' Akira folded his arms.

Silver Wolf nodded grimly, patting the floor at his side. 'Momoyama Castle . . . Peach Mountain Castle.' He sighed, his stare gliding to the ceiling. 'It is a strong fortress, yes, but built to withstand a different kind of attack to the one now coming. Have no doubt, our land is full of spies and counterspies these days. And there will be other hopeful takers out there, keen to snatch my new prize.'

'Other warlords may vie for the plans?' Akira rubbed his smooth chin.

'Yes. Though sitting atop this keep, secure in my archive room, ringed with loyal steel, the agents of other ambitious men will try for them.' He waved his hand along the line of mercenaries. 'But with my guards and you gentlemen ready to intercept them, what should we fear?'

'Exactly,' Jiro stuck out his chest. 'We won't fail.'

'Good.' Silver Wolf smiled, then caught the eye of The Deathless. 'If you do . . .'

The Deathless slowly looked Jiro up and down, then turned back to his master and bowed. The gangster forced a nervous grin.

'Dismissed!' Silver Wolf grunted.

Unseen servants pulled the sliding doors open. As one, the hirelings bowed and turned to go. The two household samurai darted forward and collected the shurikens, using their short swords to prise them from the ceiling beam and wooden wall panelling.

The warlord of Momoyama waited until his audience chamber had been cleared, then hung his head and whispered, 'Who can stop us?'

FOUR

Warnings on the

Great Road

Moonshadow grinned as he trudged along the road. The fine spring weather itself was enough to make anyone smile, but a heady feeling of freedom doubled his joy. There was so much to see, smell and hear, all of it totally new. Over the course of his life, he had left the Grey Light Order's base, the monastery in Edo, many times. At first, he had just run shopping errands, designed to help him practise basic good manners and to teach him to handle money responsibly.

Then he'd been made to play games like 'errands in disguise', delivering or collecting coded messages, and later, there had been simple spying missions. Along the way he had seen different kinds of people. But never a variety like this, for never had he travelled so far west along this highway, the Tokaido. Around him now were folk from town and country alike, walking, running or limping. Men, women and children of all classes. Just as new and even more interesting, there were girls. Everywhere.

Not long out of Edo, he suddenly found a distant set of large eyes meeting his idle gaze. They belonged to a peasant girl of about his age. She was walking alone with a pack on her back and a staff in one hand. She was beautiful, willowy. Without warning she smiled at him. He felt his cheeks flush. Moonshadow stopped walking and made himself study a tall tree beside the road. A strange, uncomfortable feeling gripped him. No girl so lovely had ever looked directly at him before, let alone smiled that way. He stared at the tree, hoping that by now, she had moved on.

After a while he turned warily and scanned the road ahead. The girl was far away, moving at quite a pace into the distance, obviously trying to catch up with a small group of farmers about to disappear over the rise.

She reached them, and his discomfort eased. Then they were all gone.

Moon chided himself to stop wasting time and to get moving. He glanced back in the direction of Edo, and a pang of emptiness went through him. He abruptly realised that he missed the daily sight of Eagle, Heron, the grumpy Badger, Groundspider, and even Mantis, despite his hard training and endless platitudes. Yes, the Grey Light Order was the closest thing he had to a family. And exciting and new as everything was, out here in the world, part of him already longed for . . . home. The world is a lonely place, he thought, for those who are alone.

Moon recalled the time that he and Heron had talked of loneliness.

Though Groundspider had instructed him in the use of smoke bombs, it was Heron who had schooled the young Nanashi in how to make them. She'd also taught him how to fight with the short naginata, a pole weapon with a single curved blade, and had coached him in the use of disguises, poisons and sleeping drugs.

He remembered an autumn day of warm sun and golden leaves underfoot. Heron had been tutoring him in the monastery's garden, testing his recognition of herbs and flowers whose essences could be extracted to create potions. His repeated failure to identify one common flower ingredient had gradually turned her silken eyes hard and made her deliberate, graceful walk stiffen. Finally she had hissed with irritation. Gesturing for them both to sit on a stone bench, Heron had stared closely into his face.

'Nanashi-Kun,' she had demanded, 'why are you here, yet not here? Where is your mind today?'

'I had a dream,' he had confessed. 'I keep thinking of it. I saw two people. I think they were farmers.' He'd looked up at her with moist eyes. 'And they were my parents.'

Heron's strong, dignified face had softened at once. She had run her long fingers through his hair. 'Poor child. I know something of loneliness too,' she had muttered. With her eyes locked on his, Heron had told Nanashi her own story.

'I think you already knew that I was a warlord's wife,' she'd begun. 'High born, privileged. But few know how I came to serve the Shogun in the Grey Light Order.'

She told of a grand but lonely life in a mighty fortress, of an honourable but distant husband, who lived for training, glory in battle, and little else. Her only companion, who slowly became her trusted friend, was her ageing maid named Toki.

'One summer,' Heron had explained, her face becoming taut, 'my husband led his army out to face our strongest foe. He fell, and his men were routed. Our castle was attacked and during the siege, set ablaze. I took up my naginata, ready to fight to the death, but Toki stopped me, saying there was another choice. She told me that she was not who I thought she was, that I didn't really know her, but that she loved me as one loves a daughter, and could spirit us both away from the fire and the enemy.'

'How?' Nanashi had whispered, 'Was Toki-San a sorceress?'

'No.' Heron had raised a finger. 'But she was no mere maid, either. Toki-San was a shadow clan agent.'

Heron had elaborated. Her old, dear, only friend had turned out to be a long-term infiltrator, planted in the castle during Heron's youth by Clan Koga to spy on behalf of her husband's enemies. Yet Toki had not betrayed them to their foes. Having come to love the young noblewoman, she had chosen not to report to her masters for years. Toki believed Clan Koga thought her dead. It was not Toki, but rashness on the part of Heron's husband, and his thirst for glory, that had brought about the destruction of their fiefdom.

'With smoke bombs, disguises, and using the melee of the siege itself, Toki helped me escape,' Heron had said. 'We fled to Miyajima, the island of the deer, where she taught me her secret arts so that this pampered former Lady would not be helpless out in the wide, hard world. We shared many peaceful years. Then I was alone. Terribly alone.'

Heron had swallowed hard before concluding the story. 'As she lay dying of old age, Toki begged me to go to Edo and seek a certain moody, brilliant scholar whom she'd long admired. I honoured her last wishes, and when I finally found him, the scholar had just been accepted into the Shogun's service. You know him as Badger. On hearing my tale, he quickly realised that my training at Toki's hands gave me something to offer the Grey Light Order. Through his kind endorsement, my new life began. I took a new name, and I was never lonely again.'

Back in that sunlit garden, surrounded by flitting sparrows, Nanashi had wiped his cheeks, saying, 'I don't feel so lonely now.'

Smiling, Heron had embraced him, cradling his head and stroking his hair.

Today, on this highway, Nanashi too had a new name but, away from Heron and the others, he again felt loneliness clutching at him.

He sighed, then slowly broke into an awkward smile. Homesick or not, that girl's eyes had brought on an interesting sensation. Moon caught himself wondering if he would run into her and the farmers again.

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. What was wrong with him? What did a strange peasant girl matter when such an important task awaited? Moon hurried on. A long road and its dangers still lay ahead.

Many called the busy Tokaido 'The Great Road'. It ran from the eastern capital of Edo, the Shogun's home, twisting west and southwest through mountains, along the sea and over many rivers to finally reach Kyoto, where the Emperor lived.

Moon repeatedly checked the lush forest on both sides of the road as he walked. It was well known that many parts of the highway were unsafe, plagued with bandits, cut-purses and tricksters.

These menaces used all kinds of force, lies or clever schemes to relieve travellers of their money and weapons, and sometimes even their clothes.

An old man with one arm stepped into Moon's path. He smelled of plum incense and waved a paper charm above his head shouting, 'For sale! Luckiest luck ever! Only three copper coins!' Moon quickly skirted him, head down, pacing twice as fast until the luck salesman gave up.

He had noticed that almost all traffic on the Tokaido moved on foot. Apart from the warrior class, few owned horses and much of the road was too thin, steep or rough for carts. The wealthy and noble were carried in litters or palanquins, fancy boxes suspended between poles that were shouldered by two or four strong bearers. Around each settlement, inns, food and gift shops lined the highway. Moon watched in fascination at one town as a rich merchant was carried in a gold-painted litter up to the porch of a tavern. Leading his litter bearers, the merchant's samurai bodyguard shoved aside a straggly outcast who sat begging for food scraps near the porch.

The Hakone Barrier awaited him ahead and Moon hoped he would pass it without incident. The highway went through over fifty towns or villages between Edo and Kyoto. Where it crossed from one warlord's fiefdom into another, checkpoints were set up. They were guarded by spearmen and samurai. Only those with identification papers could pass. Any caught trying to sneak over or who presented forged papers were executed on the spot.

Moonshadow knew his travel documents were real, approved by the Shogun himself, but he had been warned that arrogant, overbearing samurai had made mistakes at checkpoints before. Cocky barrier guards had been known to take an instant disliking to some travellers. Legitimate messengers and even holy men had been mistakenly executed.

Before leaving Edo, Moon had memorised the monastery's chart of the Tokaido. There was, at least, no danger of becoming lost. He could see the route clearly when he closed his eyes. Well past the forested mountains of Hakone which now rose in his path, he'd turn off the highway to head south, then east, to the town of Fushimi. The lair of Silver Wolf, the lord of Peach Mountain Castle.

He recalled how Badger had described this warlord. A ferocious, battle-tested veteran, outwardly loyal to the Shogun, yet – according to Grey Light Order intelligence – plotting dire rebellion. A ruthless, cunning man, Badger had said.

Moon passed through a village where a new wave of travellers flooded onto the road of packed earth and fine gravel around him. Each person's clothing identified their profession or place in society. Moon studied the unfamiliar uniforms discreetly as he drifted among them, gathering fresh disguise ideas.

There were peasant farmers with baskets or frames on their backs. In these they carried vegetables, sacks of soya beans, drums of rice and grains. He saw teams of porters, burly, sweaty men in matching jackets who were paid to carry other people's luggage. Clerks in 'company' robes, each with an abacus tucked under his arm. Some were only boys, working as record keepers and storemen for wealthy merchants.

Moon followed the rising, winding road into the forest near Hakone. The trees became taller, the scrub denser. The road itself grew shadier. Massive, swaying groves of giant bamboo appeared on both sides of the highway. Close, convenient hiding places for bandits!

The flavour of the travellers around him changed again. He noticed fewer townsfolk on the road now. There were many more farmers, all moving in groups for safety. Moon spotted a few unemployed samurai too, those known as ronin or wave men, warriors without a master. Swords for hire!

The highway was also dotted with priests, monks, and most importantly for Moon, pilgrims of all ages. Their presence would help make him invisible on the road, for today, he was just one of them. Most pilgrims, he knew, would be heading for the famous and popular shrine at Ise, where prayers and wishes were said to come true.

To any barrier guards inspecting him, Moonshadow was a typical boy pilgrim off to Ise. On his back hung a reed-matting bedroll, so that like most pilgrims, he could sleep in the grounds of shrines or temples as he travelled. Unlike most pilgrims though, this bedroll hid a sword and a kit full of unusual tools.

Below his holy travelling cloak, which was made from layers of oil-soaked paper, hung two cloth prayer-scroll bags. They held his shuriken. Under the crown of his wide, conical straw sun hat, brightly painted with spiritual slogans, lurked a small percussion-triggered smoke bomb.

He carried more silver and copper coins than a regular pilgrim, too. Money to rent lodgings, buy food and new weapons, or to bribe informers. The coins were buried deep in his belly-binding cloth, which, apart from serving as a money belt, had two other purposes – to hold in the wearer's core warmth during cold nights on the road and, as the writing on it said, to bring him good fortune.

For a moment he caught himself daydreaming, lost in the perfumes of unfamiliar roadside flowers, in the strange accents of passers-by. Then a squirrel caught his eye, scampering between oak trees at the side of the road. Moon stopped and grinned at the flitting smudge of grey fur.

His eyes lit up. These new sights and sounds made him feel bold, the world looked full of wonder and possibilities. It was time to try an experiment.

It had been Brother Eagle who had trained him to 'capture the eye of the beast', to enter an animal's mind and harness its eyes and other senses for a brief time. Eagle had told him that beyond the basic beast sight, there were two higher stages of the ancient science. The second level was dual sight, where one could see through a creature but still use one's own eyes at the same time.

And then there was the third and final level: sight-control. It was the ultimate stage of the craft and could only be employed on complex animals. As the name implied, it went further than the use of their senses. For during sight-control, one could make a beast obey one's wishes, turning them into a deftly controlled weapon. The swooping hawk, the prowling bear.

He stared down at the squirrel, reaching out to it with his mind. It stopped its skittish ambling and blinked back at him, nose twitching. He would use it to try for the second level: seeing through its eyes and his own. Moon had managed this a few times before, though only during supervised practice sessions with Eagle, and only ever in tiny, unstable bursts that fell apart without warning.

Moon hesitated. He was out in the open, and this was perhaps a slightly reckless thing to do, but who would know? What could really go wrong? He closed his eyes and his hands trembled. Immediately, the squirrel's view of the road's edge appeared, distorted through what looked like a quivering layer of water. Then the squirrel-vision shifted to the road ahead. The animal's gaze locked onto the last tea-house before the climb to the great ridge, and Moon smelled tofu cooking in soya sauce. Linking with an animal sometimes caused a heightening of his human senses. Today that side-effect was strong. Moon's nose twitched and his stomach tingled. He smiled. Good, so far it was all working well. Now to try for level two.

The sound of straw sandals crunching grit underfoot came from somewhere off to his left. Moon's instincts warned him to break the link with the squirrel and check the source of this sound with his own eyes. He severed his tie to the animal and started forward for the tea-house, scanning left and right with peripheral vision. His mind felt a little cloudy after the joining and Moon realised that in such a public place, surrounded by so many strangers, his daring experiment had been a bad idea.

A stocky ronin samurai was loping towards him. Did this mean trouble?

Pretending to watch the road ahead, Moon studied the one approaching. The stranger wore a single sword, belted and tied as if he knew how to use it. He was not very tall, but his steps were long, so he was flexible, and there was energy in each stride he took. His hands dangled at his sides, but his fingers were still, as if controlled. The samurai appeared relaxed, yet his eyes were locked on Moonshadow and he moved as if with purpose. A concealed purpose. There were no scars on his face, so either he didn't fight much, or when he did, he won. Was he an enemy agent?

If so, it hadn't taken Grey Light's foes long to make a move!

Wait. Moon set his jaw. What if the fellow was actually harmless? This was a public place and he must not draw attention to himself unless there was no choice.

The samurai quickened his pace towards Moon, then raised one hand and pointed at him. Moon felt his stomach muscles tighten, his body readying itself for attack. At any moment the fellow would be close enough for a sword strike.

Should he snatch out a shuriken and be ready? Moon knew he could not ignore the man for much longer. He would either have to run or stop, find out what he wanted. Or wanted to do.

Duellists and assassins used the element of surprise. Was this the stranger's plan? Get close, launch a sudden fast draw? Then it would be too late to react, wisely or not.

How would his chief mentor have interpreted this man's moves?

Eagle, both tutor and head of the Grey Light Order, had spent hours teaching Moon how to read the actions of others, in what he called his 'awareness class'. As an expert in tactics and himself a former samurai, Eagle had drummed two things into Moonshadow: be observant, be cautious. Brother Eagle's most frequent words came back to him now.

Don't react too fast. Think before you pounce.

It had been easy to repeat such pearls of wisdom while crouching safely on the floor of Eagle's candlelit study, surrounded by books on strategy from foreign lands, each one skilfully translated by Badger. But now he was out here in the real world. An unknown samurai was almost upon him.

Moon stopped walking, carefully taking in the potential threat with sideways glances. The stranger's left hand rose from his side, brushing the scabbard of his sword. Moon felt an urge to bound to the right and draw a shuriken. Eagle's voice rang in his mind, stopping him. Moon's eyes flicked to the samurai. If caution was the wrong response, this man would speed-draw any second now and cut him . . . or kill him. The stranger's left hand scratched his belly hard through his jacket.

'Oi!' he grunted. 'You! Kid!'

Moonshadow held his breath. He now lay within reach of the man's sword. He wanted to spring clear, but instead turned to face the samurai and bowed, hiding his wariness of the fellow's next move.

'Yes, sir?' Moon forced a smile. 'May I help you?'

'Yes! Hire me!' The warrior gestured uphill with one hand, gripping his scabbard with the other. 'Otherwise, they'll kill you! They're waiting just ahead you know!' Moon gasped and looked quickly in all directions. Who was this samurai? Who were these enemies he spoke of?

How had his cover been ruined so quickly?

FIVE

The barrier

Was the man an agent or not? And was he friend or foe? Moonshadow stuck to more of Eagle's training: when uncertain, never admit anything, never assume anything.

'Who would want to kill me?' Moon asked with wide eyes. 'A worthless traveller yearning only to pray for his sick mother at Ise?'

The samurai pointed uphill. 'To get to Ise, first you must get through Hakone. Just over the top of this ridge is the barrier. Past that, the thickest, darkest bit of the forest. That's where pilgrims, young ones especially, go missing all the time. Bandits take them!' He scowled, elbowing Moon. 'But not the ones who hire themselves a yojimbo!'

The man had used the formal word for bodyguard. Moon had last heard it spoken during Brother Eagle's account of his ill-fated service to Lord Yabu. So that was it. The ronin was an out-of-work security officer. His tale about bandits was probably a lie, but this fellow was no servant of Grey Light's enemies. He was all about money!

'Well, I don't know about other pilgrims,' Moon said, 'but I can't afford a bodyguard. Very sorry. I'll have to take my chances.' He bowed and turned to walk on.

'Wait!' The man scuttled into his path. 'Just for you, I'll make an exception. Forget cash if you're hard up! Your bedroll would cover my fees nicely.' His face darkened. 'I insist you accept my generosity!' One hand moved to his sword. He took a half-step forward.

Moon sighed. Here indeed was a neat trick: this slimy fellow's game was to rob people with a kind of polite bullying, using the threat of imaginary robbers lurking over the next hill. A hard first test out in the world! How to get rid of this man without drawing unwanted attention? Moon's eyes darted across the road to the tea-house. Above the little wooden hut flew a banner, reading: Refreshments! Last Chance Before Big Climb.

'I can see you're right, I do need protection,' Moon said carefully. 'And the truth is, I was given some coppers, begging at a shrine a few towns back. But that hill –' He groaned at the steep path rising ahead.

The samurai followed his gaze then frowned. 'What? So it's steep! It's also the only way you'll get to Ise.'

'Yes, of course.' Moon pointed to the tea-house. 'Let's get a chilled tea though, before we tackle the hard part. I'll use those coppers, buy us both one.'

'Now you're talking!' The stranger paused and wagged a finger in his face. 'But it doesn't change our deal about the bedroll.'

'No, no, of course not.' Moonshadow led him to some empty stools on the tiny porch outside the tea-house. As he walked, he carefully fished in his belly-binding for some copper coins, then for a tiny object wedged next to them: a bamboo phial sealed with a cork plug. He smiled secretively.

Over the course of a few years, Heron's lessons had given him a variety of specialised skills. He had always been enthusiastic about naginata fighting sessions with her, and even her course in the art of disguises, which had sometimes turned into lengthy lectures about good grooming. The science of potions, and particularly flower and herb identification, had been somewhat less inspiring. But today, above all else, he felt grateful for Heron's knowledge of chemistry, for the beautiful, dignified woman was now surely the land's greatest expert in poisons of every kind. And she had taught him well.

Moon urged the samurai to sit and relax while he bought their tea. The serving lady filled two clay cups then stooped to clean her wooden ladle in a stone basin. Before turning back to face his unwanted companion, Moon deftly flicked three drops of black liquid into one teacup and returned the phial to its hiding place.

'There, sir.' He put the drugged cold tea down before the samurai then cheerily held up his own cup. 'To our success. And . . . to the ruin of all thieves!'

'Nnng!' agreed the stranger, draining his cup in two fast gulps. Moon smiled. This one's gluttony would work against him. He sat down, listening to the birdsong of the forest, watching the passers-by, while he counted silently.

When he had reached sixty, he glanced at his would-be bodyguard. The man's eyes were already half-closed and his head was lolling forward. Moonshadow sprung to his feet. 'I must be going now, sir. I can see you're not yet rested, so, farewell!' He bounded from the porch and started pacing away uphill. His sharp ears told him that the samurai had struggled to his feet and was swaying on the spot, leaning on creaking furniture.

'Oi!' the man called, his speech slurred. 'You can't go. You need me. My sword is . . . I am . . . I can't be . . . defeated!' He gave a sharp belch.

Moonshadow glanced back over his shoulder. The samurai raised one hand, pointing, then his head sagged onto his chest. The hand flailed, dropped. He swayed a full circle then tumbled headlong from the porch to land face down in the road. A small dust cloud rose around him.

The serving lady hurried from her shop and leaned over him, tilting her head to one side. Her face creased with surprise. The samurai was already snoring loudly. She returned to the porch, snatched up his teacup and peered warily into it.

'You won't be drinking here again.' Moon shook his head and quickened his pace uphill. Nor, he hoped, trying to scam innocent passers-by.

Within an hour he crossed the ridge and the road descended, snaking into a shady gully where it met the Hakone Barrier. There a wall of sharpened bamboo stakes ran right across the gully. Behind the wall was a little guardhouse. A heavily protected single gate loomed in the wall's centre. To one side of the narrow opening, a warning flag read:

Produce Papers, Turn Back or Be Arrested.

Opposite it, a long banner proudly declared:

Suspected spies beheaded so far this month: Eleven

Eleven executions in two weeks! They couldn't all have been real spies. Moon forced himself to stay calm, though his thoughts quickly sped up. In recent times, the Shogun had encouraged the regional warlords to staff these checkpoints with their own samurai. It saved the Shogun money and helped keep his own loyal warriors around him in Edo, but it also created problems. Some local samurai were overzealous at their job or just plain bullies. This particular crew was made up of Silver Wolf's men, and they seemed eager to be as ruthless and feared as their master.

Moon eyed the warriors ahead as he drew closer to the barrier. From the way they lurched and strutted, all show and no real balance, his duelling instructor, Mantis, could have fought them all and won. He almost smiled. Of course, Mantis's advice right now would be to avoid trouble: adopt a soft tone and show patience.

'Offer humility and respect, even when it's not deserved,' Mantis had told him many times. 'For it turns away rage, even among hot-blooded youths . . . like you!' He pictured his sword teacher's sharp but melancholic eyes and nodded.

He glanced at the road behind him. No sign of his unwanted bodyguard, who would still be sleeping off his special tea for some time to come. Moonshadow vowed to be more careful of strangers from now on, to protect his mission from all delays and distractions. His orders, after all, were straightforward and urgent. Enter Silver Wolf's lair. Find and steal the plans he had just purchased, plans for a new type of weapon, and so neutralise their threat to the Shogun. He paced up to the barrier, one hand dipping in his jacket for his papers.

'Halt!' A gruff voice roared. Moon heard the snick of a sword leaving its scabbard and he froze, closing his eyes the way a frightened pilgrim boy should. A blade whistled in the air to his right and he felt its tip pass close to his neck. He sensed the guard on the other end of the sword, another warrior stepping up behind him, and a third swordsman to his left, half-drawing a blade slowly and noisily.

'We tell you when and how to reach for your papers! Understand, boy?' The samurai behind him demanded.

'Yes, sir,' Moon nodded quickly. He opened one eye.

The guard to his right slowly withdrew his sword and sheathed it. 'Let's see them, now!' he grunted. 'Left hand only.' Moonshadow followed his orders, slowly pulling his identification papers from his jacket. Each barrier guard carefully studied the document, reading the description of the young pilgrim then inspecting him to ensure that he matched it.

'Hmm. I think it's him. All appears in order,' one guard said casually. He glared at Moon. 'But I hate religious beggars. Let's kill him anyway.' The others nodded.

Moonshadow thought quickly as he stared back at the man's stony face. These guards were mad dogs! If they made a move, he would have no choice but to take down the closest ones, then run. Maybe they would spare him if he pleaded? He tried to look vulnerable. 'But . . . sirs, please. I didn't do anything!'

'Oh yeah,' the stone-faced guard suddenly grinned. 'That's right, you didn't!' He looked around, sniggering. 'What are the rules again? Oh, that's it, we should only kill the guilty ones! I guess we'll have to let him live after all.' He slapped his thigh and gave a high-pitched giggle.

The other guards laughed too, one clapping Moon on the back. 'Did you see his face? Why are pilgrims all so gullible?' He snorted then guffawed.

His laugh had an annoying nasal quality that made Moon want to duel him. 'It's 'cos he's just a kid,' the third samurai yawned, obviously tired of their game now. He thrust the papers into Moonshadow's hand and waved him through the gate. 'Go on, holy boy, get out of here! May the gods help you make it down to the lake. Bandits have been bad this month.'

Moon strode away downhill, muttering angrily. He hated being called gullible, perhaps because it was one of Groundspider's favourite taunts. Nice sense of humour, those guards! If it wasn't for the wisdom of Eagle and Mantis, he might have overreacted twice on this, his first day on the road, throwing away the whole mission. Why did everyone keep on about bandits though? Like the ronin he had been forced to drug, surely those barrier guards had been lying, just teasing him again.

Then his eyes flicked ahead, taking in the look of the highway. Overhead, the tree canopies were starting to meet, forming a long natural arch. The forest below was the darkest stretch yet. A white stone marker beside the road caught his eye. He stopped as he reached it, kneeling down to read the inscription below its cap of thick green moss.

It was a list of names, apparently several members of the same family. Down one side of the little monument, a line of text said they had been slain.

By bandits. In this forest.

He stood up, staring at the marker. The inscription was just weeks old. Moonshadow began to walk on downhill, then stopped and looked up into the thick canopy. He turned his head left and right, mouth open, listening.

It was true. Every bird in the forest had abruptly stopped singing.

SIX

Brigands of

the forest

A hundred paces downhill at a sharp switchback in the road, a large group of farmers huddled together.

Moonshadow studied them. There were around two dozen men and women, in roughly equal numbers. Perhaps from the same village or at least the same region, they ranged from an old, stooped couple to a handful of youths.

Pressing into each other, back to back and shoulder to shoulder, the farmers peered into the tops of the trees just as Moon had. The forest's ominous silence continued. An older woman, in a series of frightened whispers, urged the group to stay still and quiet.

Moon tightened the chin sash holding his sun hat in place. He hurried to catch up to the huddle of fellow travellers but as he trotted under the forest's darkest archways yet, he questioned himself.

What exactly did he plan to do when he reached these people? He was supposed to make Fushimi unnoticed, undetected by any of the Shogun's enemies. Now he found himself considering what spies called Overt Combat – using one's skills publicly – and this was strictly forbidden unless he had no choice.

So what use could he be to these poor farmers? He wasn't obliged to protect them. In fact, if they were attacked, he wasn't allowed to protect them. He was supposed to take the easy option: escape. What happened to these defenceless people was simply not his problem. In fact, they would be helping him by tying up the brigands' attention while he stole away. During the chaos that would surround the bandits robbing their victims or carrying them off as slaves, he could vanish through the forest, go about his mission. Why was he even considering helping out? Had Mantis and his endless maxims about Buddha's compassion scrambled his mind?

He said it aloud, struggling to convince himself. 'Not my problem.'

As he closed with the group, Moon glanced up and saw a familiar face.

It was her.

The peasant girl smiled with recognition. He blinked as he took in her loveliness all over again. Once more his cheeks burned.

Moonshadow was ten paces from the girl when the first horseman burst between the trees. The farmers went into a tight, gasping crush. The ground rumbled. Branches snapped, twigs crackled and flicked into the air as three more riders charged from their hiding places. Moon turned a smooth circle, looking the attackers over. Two were archers, the other two spearmen. All four brigands wore armour, but not one of them had a matching set. Most likely they had pilfered these mixed fragments from the dead of some great battlefield. Each rider was a patchwork of randomly coloured plates as they galloped in circles around the screaming, praying farmers.

While the others squeezed together the girl alone stood tall, gripping her staff like a sword, eyeing the riders with cool contempt. Moon shook his head, motioning for her to join the protection of the group. She ignored him. Without a thought he started making for her. At the same time, one of the horsemen slowed, stopped circling and trotted his mount straight at the girl.

Moon hesitated, mind racing. His mission . . . guard its secrecy . . . not his problem . . .

Her eyes met his and she smiled again. Moonshadow steeled himself. He was unsure how or why, but some part of him had already reached a decision: a quiet escape was now out of the question. But he also had to conceal the nature of his skills as much as possible. There'd be no going for his sword. He put his head down, grunted, then ran hard and fast at the mounted spearman closing on the girl.

As he dashed up to the bandit's horse, Moon pulled a shuriken from the pouch inside his jacket, hiding it in his hand so that only a few dark, sharp spikes peeped between his fingers. He twisted his body, right arm lashing out in a horizontal arc. A split second later, when the rider noticed him and raised his spear, Moon cartwheeled out of range.

Ignoring the girl now and glaring at Moonshadow instead, the brigand pulled hard on his reins, turning to chase his new target. His mount took another stride or two, then the wide leather strap holding its saddle in place came apart, a neat cut-line suddenly opening across the strap's entire width. The saddle lurched, slid to the right, then tipped forward, breaking away from the horse. Dropping the spear, the brigand toppled from his mount, turning in the air with a frightened squeak. He landed on his back beside the scrambling huddle of farmers. The strongest men quickly expanded their circle to surround him.

Moon was already running for his next target when the bandit sat up, dazed, only to find himself ringed by the very people he had been about to harm. The farming men glanced at one another, nodded, then pounced on the fallen spearman. He went for his sword, but two men trapped his arm before he could draw it. Behind the melee, a mounted bandit archer hoisted his bow. He took aim at one of the farmers pinning the downed brigand's sword arm.

Unnoticed by all but the girl, Moon sprang into view beside the archer. His arm briefly becoming a blur, he hacked in the air like a cat cuffing a dangling thread, then dropped to the ground, landing in a low crouch. With a loud fff-twang the rider's long bow bucked on the end of his arm. Its wooden curve straightened out, dipping sharply as its arrow launched and string snapped at the same time.

The mounted archer howled with pain and began snatching for the arrow that had just pierced his foot. Moon scrambled out of sight behind the bandit's horse. With gritted teeth and an angry sob, the archer slid from his saddle. He hit the ground hard then curled up, muttering painfully, trying to loosen the arrow which pinned his sandal to his foot.

Moonshadow stood up. The two remaining brigands were riding straight for him, one from each side. The first brandished a bow, the second a spear.

He waved frantically to the girl, catching her eye. 'Get them ready to run,' he shouted. 'When I signal you, go, and don't look back!'

'Who are you?' She called, her eyes wide. 'What are you?'

'A . . .' his mouth hung open for a second, 'a . . . warrior monk!'

Moon slapped the rump of the wounded bandit's horse and it started turning in panicked circles. He darted, low to the ground, towards the looming mounted spearman.

The rider changed the grip on his spear and thrust at Moon impulsively.

Moon evaded the stab and grabbed the spear's shaft in his free hand, leaning back as he secured his hold. With a twist and a grunt, he tugged it from the man's grip and spinning around, Moon tossed the spear, point-up, to one of the feistier farmers.

The disarmed brigand roared at Moon and fumbled for the sword hanging in a sheath below his saddle. Moon sprang up to the horse, deftly cut the spearman's saddle strap with the shuriken in his hand, ducked into a fast roll under the animal and came up running on the other side. As he streaked off, the saddle strap gave way and the bandit, with sword half-drawn, crashed from the horse in a fast, uncontrolled somersault.

Now only one of the robbers, an archer, remained mounted. He turned sharply to see Moon accelerating at him. Cursing, he quickly raised his bow and nocked an arrow.

Tucking the shuriken into his jacket as he ran, Moon charged in a zigzag for the final enemy. The archer let fly. His shaft whizzed into a blur that passed within two fists of Moon's neck.

Leading with his hip and shoulder, Moon deliberately crashed into the side of the archer's horse, startling the animal. As it shied sideways whinnying, he grabbed the rider's stirrup and foot with both hands, twisted, then pulled hard. The archer gave an agonised cry and let himself slide from the horse to stop his hip from dislocating.

Springing clear as the archer fell, Moon turned a circle, hands raised defensively like knives, eyes darting about. He checked each opponent before giving a single, crisp nod. It was done, he had unhorsed them all, and without resorting to his sword.

'Go!' he yelled to the girl. She nodded, beaming at him, then threw him her staff. Moon caught it and held it up in salute. The girl urged her companions to run.

As the farmers rushed off downhill, matching their pace to the limits of the oldest among them, Moon took the staff between his hands and set himself to block the road should any of the brigands remount. He glanced over his shoulder at the fleeing group.

He saw what he had hoped to see. There she was, at the edge of the throng, shepherding the others, looking back every few seconds, watching as long as she could. Watching for more danger, or just watching him?

Moonshadow smiled and nodded, then turned back to guard the brigands. He sighed. Any moment now she, along with the farmers, would vanish from sight around the bend, off to the safety of the lake district at the bottom of the great Hakone ridge.

Should these robbers try for a come-back, at least now he was freer to act. While it mattered what farmers might witness and go on to describe at a festival or in some crowded tavern, it was of no concern what a bandit saw. No one would believe anything they said, so Moon could now do whatever was called for. Were they still dangerous? He cautiously inspected his foes. In the forest canopy above, the first birds resumed singing.

The original brigand Moon unhorsed had been knocked out by some farmer's solid punch and although heavily bruised, he just looked asleep. His comrade with the arrow in his foot was still curled in a ball, whimpering as he gingerly tried to pull the shaft free. The third bandit Moon brought down had cut his arm with his half-drawn sword while falling. Having lost a lot of blood quickly, he was pale and weak. He struggled to tie a tourniquet around his arm with a trembling hand and his teeth. The fourth unsaddled robber was trying to get to his feet using his undrawn sword as a crutch. Judging by his twitchy movements and constant wincing, the man's leg had barely stayed in its hip socket. He would be useless for combat for weeks.

A sudden feeling of guilt gripped Moonshadow. Back in the monastery, he had passed his final test on the grounds of obedience. Had his intervention with these bandits not been just the opposite: a reckless act of defiance, in which he'd risked his entire mission for a bunch of farmers? His mouth tightened. Or was it actually worse than that? Hadn't he really taken this huge gamble over a girl?

If Brother Eagle was standing here now, there'd no doubt be sharp rebukes for bending the No Overt Combat rule. He frowned thoughtfully. Mantis, however, might actually praise him for showing kindness to strangers, chivalry in defending the weak and helpless. Groundspider, of course, would just revel in the thrill of the fight! Badger – as always – would agree with Eagle, while no doubt ponderously quoting some ancient Chinese sage, and Heron, well, she could go either way. It was all so confusing! He looked the bandits over again, thought of the girl and then filled his chest with air. No. His inner voice had bade him act. Like Eagle himself, who had spared his Iga interrogators so long ago, Moon had made a fast decision based on his own instincts. Whatever he had just done, he didn't regret it. He would live or die with its karma, its reward or its punishment.

Moon checked downhill again. No sight or sound of the farmers now, nor hints of dust rising from the highway. He grinned with satisfaction. They had made good their escape. Which meant she had.

He looked back to the stricken bandits, feeling a little cheated. Moon thought about frightening them with a smoke bomb vanishing illusion. Such a feat would leave the rogues convinced that a tengu, a long-nosed, tree-dwelling mountain devil, had attacked them disguised as a pilgrim boy.

Moonshadow grumbled to himself. Why waste the smoke bomb? Even if the trick worked splendidly, so what if he scared them? That too would be a waste. None of them could run anywhere. He sighed. He would end up having to just stand around and listen to them scream. Watch them thrash about on the ground or stumble hopelessly as they tried to flee the tengu smoke.

'Some other time,' he mumbled. Moon turned and scurried downhill.

SEVEN

Enemy territory

The drizzle had finally stopped, though the sky remained overcast. Heavy grey clouds, along with the towers and roofs of Momoyama Castle, loomed over Fushimi.

Moon squeezed through the inn's small, crowded eatery, the box containing his new writing kit under his arm. Before closing the sliding door between the noisy diners' lounge and the corridor to his tiny room, he scanned the seated, feasting lunch patrons. Three married couples, two travelling hawkers, an old lady pilgrim, a middle-aged samurai and five townsmen whose jackets said they worked for the local sake brewery. Near the door, a family with three noisy toddlers.

No. The goddess of the forest was not among them.

After defending her and the farmers, his remaining days on the road had passed without incident, perhaps mostly because heavy spring rains had settled in, forcing everyone on the highway to seek shelter or move along faster.

Just before dawn that morning he had crept into Fushimi, inspecting the town from the vantage point of the highest roof he could find. He had scanned its layout until confident the depths of his mind would retain the details of what he had seen. Then, after stealing a new disguise from a back courtyard's drying pole, he had checked into this, the cheapest looking inn.

Moonshadow was now dressed as a long-distance mail boy, complete with a small wooden post-box-backpack and a faded running jacket marked Messenger in large script. He frowned as he paced down the corridor, smoothing wrinkles from his jacket. Some believed it bad luck, taboo, to ever kill a messenger. Probably not his enemies, who were most likely both close and numerous. But he would not concern himself with them yet.

It was time to prepare, to draw up a sound operations chart, not worry about who might be on his tail. Let them show themselves first, as foes with less training always did. In the meantime, he had to ensure the silver coins he had just spent weren't wasted. Moon closed his room's sliding door, sank to the reed matting, and opened the writing kit.

He took out and unfolded a large sheet of hand-made paper. Then a brush, a stick of black ink, a small, grooved ink stone and a clay water beaker. After pouring some water into the stone's groove and dissolving part of the ink stick into it, he dipped his brush and started drawing a map of Fushimi.

Moon had learned a technique named passive recall, and now it served him well. The trick was to stare at a diagram or scene – in this case, the layout of a small town, as he had – until the information sank deep into the mind. Heron, who coached him in the art, had called the knowledge the fly, his will the spider, and his deepest memory the web. To later recall the information and capture it on paper, she had told him, he should choose to remember it, set a brush in motion, then simply let his conscious mind wander. She'd then developed his skills with guided meditation. At first, this notion of daydreaming to produce an accurate chart had sounded somewhat ridiculous. But under her skilful tutelage he had discovered that passive recall enabled more accurate map and plan drawing than everyday methods. 'Only we shinobi, we spies, use this way,' Heron had once told him, her gentle eyes watching his eager face as he handed her a copy of a diagram she had told him to memorise. 'It's another example of our greatest strength: our power comes from knowledge that ordinary men have lost. Scraps and shards of Old Country sciences, from an age when people were wiser and closer to the land.' His brush moved slowly, in time with his breathing. He glanced up. The cramped, rented room was not a lonely place. At least two mosquitoes circled overhead at all times, and his first glance at the floor had warned him of the presence of other, equally tenacious invaders. Hence his second purchase this morning – a carved bamboo tube full of white flea powder – was as crucial to his survival here as his sword. Moonshadow cursed his accommodation but then, despite himself, smiled. This horrid little room reminded him of the map-drying booth behind the Grey Light Order's library. Smelly, musty and confining as that other tiny chamber was, remembering it always made him grin.

One particular incident there repeatedly came back to him. A day on which Brother Badger, GLO archivist, tutor on military history and battlefield theory, had – yet again – lost his beloved monkey Saru-San. Moon shook his head. Though Badger, in his life before the Order, had been a scholar, it was not a very clever name, since it meant Mister Monkey. Not a very nice monkey, either.

Moonshadow, or Nanashi as he had been back then, was ordered to check the map-drying room and other nooks and crannies for Saru and several missing brushes. The creature was mindlessly destructive, but it also stole things for futile hoarding. Food, tools, even children's toys from nearby homes. Saru would hide them all pointlessly, then fly into a rage when he couldn't relocate them.

Interestingly, Moon recalled, Badger would also misplace things then become irritable while searching for them. In fact, Groundspider had once whispered that Saru and Badger resembled each other, both in their personalities and looks. He observed that both were balding, with slightly pointy, randomly scratched heads and very yellow teeth.

'The same dull eyes . . .' Groundspider had teased. 'They could be half-brothers.'

That fateful day, Nanashi had entered the drying room, dodging freshly painted hanging maps that swayed from the ceiling rafters. Holding up a paper lantern, he had searched the dark corners for Saru. The animal's sudden screech overhead startled Nanashi. He raised his lamp only to find the largest, most detailed map torn and ruinously streaked, with Saru smudged from snout to tail in its wet, recognisable colours. It was one of Nanashi's tasks to repair damaged maps or redraw them from scratch.

He cursed the beast. With twinkling eyes, Saru waved a dripping brush at him.

'You're a demon!' Nanashi had growled, stamping one foot at the monkey. 'Come down now, I'm dragging you straight to Brother Badger.' He hoisted the lamp under Saru. 'Monster! Drop that brush! At least you've already done your worst!'

The monkey had stared at him, cocking its head to one side as if pondering his words. Then it raised its eyebrows, turned its back and lifted its tail. Too late he'd sensed the hairy little fiend's plan. Cursing, Nanashi had turned to flee as a wet sputtering sound came from the rafters. In fast, foul seconds he would never forget, the lantern was put out and his new robe and hair drenched by the most terrible of all monkey weapons.

'I'll kill you! I mean it this time!' Nanashi had fumed, backing out the door, as Saru mocked him with triumphant chatter from above.

He had bumped into Badger, who'd started yelling, 'What's happened? This mess! What a stench! Oh no, my maps!'

Moonshadow grinned broadly. Only after all this time could he find that day funny.

He pictured Badger's face and his signature stare of concentration, the one Groundspider called 'a dull look'. He remembered the time when he had disliked Badger almost as much as he had the monkey. Yet a single conversation had completely changed his attitude towards the grumpiest of his tutors. It had happened a month after the drying-room debacle, in the heart of a harsh winter, when the monastery grounds gleamed with fresh knee-deep snow.

He'd been sitting opposite Badger on the library floor, enduring the archivist's long lecture on the history of shinobi on the battlefield and in espionage. Bored to desperation, he had thoughtlessly given Badger a glare of weary contempt. The tutor had narrowed his eyes, then shuffled closer. His student had cringed, half-expecting to be slapped for his rudeness. Instead Badger had spoken softly, carefully, a trace of amusement in his eyes.

'You think me a pedantic old fool, Nanashi, a drab trainer compared to the others, do you not?' Badger had raised one hand. 'Don't answer; spare me a roughshod denial. I know you do. Why, you wonder, is this crusty old scholar even here? He is no warrior, therefore barely a man! Unworthy of respect, patience or the full attention of a young hero-to-be like you.' He'd watched his victim squirm a moment before going on. 'Well, let me impart a different history, then. A tale of respect and, perhaps oddly, of what a man must sometimes do in response to too much respect.' Seeing an intensely earnest look on Badger's face, young Nanashi had listened as he never had before.

'Not so many years ago,' Badger said, 'I was not called Badger – that is my Order name, given ironically no doubt, because the animal denotes patience. I was once a travelling teacher, and an author of battle manuals. My name then was Hosokawa.' Nanashi had gasped. 'Yes, that's right,' Badger had smiled. 'I don't just draw maps and translate. Half the published books you've already studied here . . . I wrote them.'

As Nanashi, Moon had glanced around the library, struck with awe. The Hosokawa! His works were considered required reading throughout the warrior class.

'Well, when I was that fellow, Hosokawa the famous writer,' Badger had continued, 'I chanced one summer to be lecturing in Tanabe Castle . . . the very week it came under siege. An unusual affair, that siege, for few armies use cannons – so hard to transport quickly in our mountainous land – yet a row of fine, imported cannons was lined up facing Tanabe's walls.' Badger had frowned deeply. 'But when the artillery captain learned that I was inside and might come to harm from his flying cannonballs, he delayed firing, telling his men he read and loved my books, and would avoid my accidental harm at all costs. He was in a hard position: his general, who was on the way, had ordered the castle's relentless bombardment.'

'So did he fire on it?' Nanashi had asked with fascination.

'He was obliged to!' Badger's supposedly dull eyes had sparkled. 'But though he fired all his cannons many times, not one was ever loaded with a cannonball. On arriving, the general demanded to know why the castle walls were still intact. His captain politely claimed he'd forgotten how to load the cannons. The general, a sharp fellow, had ordered him to speak the truth without fear. Apparently, on hearing the real reason and my name, the general exclaimed, "Hosokawa? I love his work! You acted wisely, Captain. Hosokawa must not die, and further more, I want his autograph!" Imagine that!'

Badger had laughed, then his face had clouded with sadness. 'He ordered his men to take the castle without using cannons. The hard way – just ladders and a battering ram. His army captured Tanabe all right, but a third of them died doing it. No harm came to me, and the general got his autograph. But when I learned all this, long after the siege, the burden of it split my heart. I withdrew from public life, never publishing again. Instead, I answered the Shogun's call,' his voice had turned to a whisper, 'to slip into the grey light, to become one of its phantoms, to live only as a secret guardian of peace.'

They had returned then to the scheduled lecture, but from that moment on, Nanashi had found it in him to respect Badger, to work harder in his classes, and to more readily tolerate both his abrupt manner and his stinking, pesky pet.

Back in the present, Moonshadow blinked and stared down at the paper, brush drooping in his hand.

Passive recall had proven itself again. While dreaming of the past, he had completed his map of Fushimi without apparent thought. Now it had to be checked with his conscious mind. He studied its wet lines, starting with the image of the great castle and moving clockwise around the page as he compared the map with his dawn memories. Every detail had to be right.

His planning – his life – depended on it.

The town of Fushimi was set among low rolling hills, beyond which sharp mountains rimmed the horizon. The original folds of the hand-made paper had left creases through his map, dividing it into four equal quarters.

In the top-left quarter, his brushstrokes showed Momoyama Castle, surrounded by a wide moat and linked to the town, downhill from it, by a single, heavily guarded bridge.

The top-right quarter of the map depicted the tangle of drab buildings, massive round, wooden vats and bamboo pipes that made up the sake brewery. Along with the castle to its left, it occupied the highest ground in the area, overlooking the town. A long, high cargo cable was suspended between the brewery and the castle. Lord Silver Wolf, renowned for loving sake, had obviously set this up so he could have barrels of his favourite drink cabled directly into his fortress.

On the bottom-right quarter of the page, the map showed the main road leading into town near a small shrine and a tori gate, a simple, three-beamed wooden archway marking the entrance to a holy place.

In the final, bottom-left quarter, his brush-strokes conveyed the grid-like streets of the town itself, sprawling away over a fold between the low hills.

He put down the brush, watching the ink change hue as it dried. The map looked correct, so the procedure now was to check it again, add any last details that came to him, then sit still, staring at it, until he could see it perfectly whenever he closed his eyes. If interrupted, or if he sensed another study session was required, he would hide the map in the ceiling of his room in the interim. Keeping it on his person at any time would be too dangerous. If injured, caught and searched, it would be bad enough that his concealed weapons would reveal him as a spy. The discovery of the map would do something far worse: it would help his enemies confirm his mission, making life even harder for any agent replacing him. Once he felt complete confidence in his knowledge of it, he would burn the page and scatter the ashes, since ashes too could be read by a trained eye.

Only one detail would be omitted from the map, in case it was discovered: his escape route once the plans were obtained. An unmarked and little-known trail, carefully described to him only as he left the monastery, wound east through the countryside near Fushimi to a gorge where GLO agents would rendezvous with him.

Precisely where that trail began and the day and time of this meeting were crucial secrets he could never commit to paper or speech. He had been told these things at the last possible moment for a good reason. A shinobi might face sudden capture at any time, and the less each one knew, the safer the others would remain. Moon sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes moving over his map again and again.

Abruptly, his warning senses bristled. He turned his head, listening. The babble of voices, the click of chopsticks from the dining area as a distant door opened. Footsteps. No unusual or alarming sounds, and now he could smell the man approaching down the corridor, a man who ate too many mochi, the highly addictive rice sweets. Moon knew who owned that syrupy smell in these parts. The innkeeper! After making certain the ink was dry, he quickly folded the map into an intricate flat knot. Next time he checked, he would know if anyone had opened it.

'Thanks Heron,' he smiled fondly. 'Another useful trick you taught me.' As he stood, tucking the knotted map into his belt, Moon remembered Heron once handing him a tiny, perfect paper reindeer. It was a reward. Young Nanashi had maintained neat grooming over the course of an entire week!

Heron would be proud of him now, he thought bashfully. Since meeting the unknown young goddess of the forest, Moon had found himself washing his face more carefully each morning. Taking greater care in tidying and tying his hair, too.

He snatched a deep breath then vaulted from the matting up into a corner of the room, wedging himself like a great insect where two walls and the ceiling met. With one palm jammed against the nearest rafter, his legs spread wide and the soles of his feet pressed to the converging walls, Moon yanked the map from under his belt. He slid it carefully into a cobweb-lined gap between the top of the rafter and a ceiling plank. Lazy knocks made the sliding door tremble. He dropped quietly to the mat, straightening up just as the door started to open.

'Aw! You are here.' The innkeeper's flat forehead was beaded with sweet-smelling sweat. He was a plump, friendly fellow whose eyes and movements told Moonshadow he had taken a genuine and kindly interest in him. The innkeeper thumbed over one shoulder.

'Young sir . . . a man awaits you, outside on the street.'

'Me?' Moon frowned. 'How does he even know of me?'

'Who can say?' The innkeeper's voice fell to a whisper. His eyes narrowed. 'He's been questioning all the young men roundabouts. Be careful. I don't recognise him, but I think he may be a policeman. It's . . . it's the probing stare!'

The innkeeper gave a warning scowl and turned away. Moonshadow swallowed. A policeman? Just what he needed!

EIGHT

Unwanted

admirer

Moon peered out through the inn's front door. On the porch a small row of flags hung from a ceiling drawstring that was taken down each night. The flags were painted with bright characters that read Our rooms are cheap, clean and friendly!

A big-boned man waited just beyond the flags, facing away from the inn, hands clasping a long staff behind his back. His frame was so huge, Moon decided, that at one time he might have been a professional wrestler. If that guess was right, if he was an ex-sumo, the stranger had lost a lot of weight since then. He now wore the robes of a town businessman. Moon crossed the porch and the visitor turned as if hearing his approach.

'Ah, young sir! Forgive this intrusion. I am Katsu, freelance detective,' the man bowed, a formal smile bending his long moustache. Moon bowed back, regarding him warily. Good hearing, he thought, no bladed weapons that were visible. And he admitted to being a private investigator! What was going on here?

'You seem familiar, sir,' Moon lied confidently. 'Are you not a famous wrestler?'

The man's eyes momentarily lit up then seemed to grow fixed and probing. Just as the innkeeper had warned!

'I once wrestled, but that was years ago. You would have been too young to see me fight.' Katsu shrugged, grinning disarmingly. 'Perhaps all sumo types are somewhat alike?'

This fellow, Moonshadow decided, might prove to be quite dangerous. Cool natured and quick-witted, he should be responded to with care. The hasty question about wrestling had been a mistake. It had given the stranger his first insight into Moon, that he was a good – maybe trained – observer. A pity he should have learned that so quickly.

Who had sent him? What was he really after?

'Forgive my rudeness, I meant no disrespect,' Moon said. 'A detective, then? How exciting! But surely you can't be after a person like me?' He laughed, gesturing expansively. 'No murderers here! Just a dull, hard-working messenger from Edo!'

'Indeed?' Katsu chuckled, too knowingly for Moon's liking. 'Well, in fact, my current case involves no murders. It's all about a hero, actually, not a villain. I have been knocking on doors enquiring of many a hard-working youth today.' From his robe he yanked a patterned cloth purse.

'You see, I seek a certain brave boy pilgrim. I've been hired by . . . let's just say by a pious client who wishes to remain anonymous.'

'Hired to do what?'

'To honour this daring young man for his charity and valour. My client witnessed his chivalry near Hakone on the Tokaido, and says that Lord Buddha will not let him sleep until the boy is rewarded!' Katsu shook the purse, making its contents jingle.

'Are you he, by any chance? I must observe, you are the right age and height and generally fit the description I have.'

'As many do, I suppose,' Moon said casually. Katsu nodded and shrugged again.

For a split second, Moon wondered if the girl had sent this Katsu. He quickly dismissed the thought. Her again! Why did he keep thinking of her? He forced himself to concentrate on the detective. This man – and his story – felt all wrong. Whoever he was, whatever he really wanted, he was no ally of the Grey Light.

Katsu's random movements, the vitality in his eyes and his steady, silent breathing told Moon three things. The detective was very physically strong, mentally sharp and highly disciplined. He gave nothing else away, a warning in itself. Only a fool would trust him, for he was definitely a player in this game. But on whose side?

Moonshadow's nimble mind flashed back to a series of lessons Badger had given him on how to deal with authorities like magistrates or the police. It had all seemed tedious at the time, and despite having learned by then to appreciate Badger, he had still come to find those particular sessions as irritating as Saru-San's many fleas. Now he realised their profound worth and felt grateful that he could recall so much of Badger's advice. Don't just listen to their questions, the archivist had warned. Consider their unspoken strategy: where the questions are leading. They will try to trap you with your own answers, so choose each word with care. Any new facts you blurt will come back at you like shuriken. Remember that to mislead them, you must move, breathe and even glance as one wholly innocent.

'I'm neither the hero you seek,' Moon stretched as if the whole matter was starting to bore him, 'nor even a pilgrim!' He patted the calligraphy on his clothing. 'Just a poor runner of messages between the eastern and western capitals.'

'Hmm,' Katsu nodded amiably, 'and just arrived from Edo, you said?'

Moon sensed the snare in his questioning. 'I said from Edo, yes. But not just arrived. I've been in the area several days, delivering letters in both Otsu and Kyoto.' He almost winced. That was too specific. He'd handed Katsu new 'facts'.

'Ah,' Katsu's eyes shone. 'I was in Kyoto myself last week. Along the road facing Nijo Castle, those hedges of kirishima flowers – you know, azaleas – are they not looking magnificent this spring? One type in particular . . . such an outstanding colour.'

'Kirishima flowers?' Moon did his best impression of the stone Buddha outside the local temple. Katsu was watching his face closely. The smallest twitch would betray him.

'Yes, banks of them. One colour seems to have taken over this year.'

Moon's gaze blankly drifted left and right before meeting Katsu's seeking stare. 'What a shame I missed out on them. Sadly, my deliveries took me nowhere near the castle.'

'Nnng,' the detective's face hinted at a smile, 'indeed, a great pity.' He bowed to Moonshadow. 'I apologise for wasting your time. A good day and a safe visit to you!' He turned and lumbered off down the street, swinging his staff, whistling.

Carefully Moon watched him. Katsu never looked back.

'I haven't seen the last of you, have I?' Moonshadow muttered. This fellow's arrival was a bad development. Things had been going quite smoothly, but now he was under suspicion. Another day's scouting and preparation would have been ideal, but with Katsu prowling the town, the wisest course was to waste no time. What if the big man reappeared tomorrow with fifty local samurai at his back?

Moon glanced towards the castle. Yes. He'd go in tonight.

He turned to cross the porch then decided to quickly check for other potential threats. While pretending to inspect the porch flags Moon examined everyone in sight out of the corners of his eyes.

Other than the hulking form of Katsu, there were around twenty people on the street. By their faces or walks he was quickly able to eliminate each one from the category of possible problem. Soon only one remained. A flower-seller, fifty paces away, hunched over her tray of colourful kirishima flowers . . . the very azaleas of which Katsu had spoken. The beauty of the flowers swept his thoughts back to the girl once more. Suddenly he found himself wondering if she was especially fond of azaleas, the way Heron was.

'Get out of my head,' Moon whispered good-naturedly. 'Every time you bob up, things get cloudy. I'll start making mistakes.'

He quickly looked the flower-seller over. Her head was shrouded, face hidden, by a brightly coloured scarf. Moon watched her shoulders move as she sorted azaleas, studied the line of her slightly hunched back.

'No, too old.' He returned to the inn. 'No one I should worry about.'

Snowhawk looked up as the boy left the porch. She had felt his eyes glide over her. Now she was grateful that apparently, from the way he had just turned and disappeared, her disguise had fooled him. He'd believed her an old, hunched woman. Her thorough training had proved itself again; it appeared she could deceive almost anyone.

Whoever he was, though, he was still pretty sharp. Snowhawk had watched him handle the nosy private detective. Even at this distance, it had been obvious that he had read the fellow as easily as a scholar might discern a cheap, unreliable travel guidebook. Having had time now to study this boy, Snowhawk was convinced of a few things.

She had been right to return to this spot and watch for him after chancing down the street earlier and seeing him in his new disguise, striding from the inn. Regardless of that disguise, she had recognised him with absolute certainty. His balanced grace and his eyes had given him away. It was him: the same brave stranger who, dressed as a pilgrim, had rescued her and the farmers on the Great Road. Snowhawk gave a slightly smug grin. The gullible farmers she had used for travel cover. The way he had looked at her in the forest, it appeared he had done it for her. The farmers had been incidental. Knowing he liked her could prove useful later on.

There should be no underestimating him, however. This plucky lad had many skills. Subtle combat. Changing his appearance. Handling the suspicious interrogator now striding off down the street. The boy was clearly a professional. But a warrior monk? Snowhawk laughed. His trainers might have included a few perhaps, but no, he himself was no staff-carrying chanter. Her face tightened.

He was like her. He was shinobi. A spy, and clearly a gifted one.

Not perfect, though: he'd just failed to notice her, right under his nose. Some spies were good at sensing each other's presence. He appeared underdeveloped in that area. She nodded. That too was worth remembering.

Watching him in action back on the highway had impressed her. He was an outstanding warrior, fast and agile. Snowhawk stared thoughtfully at the porch of the inn, at the exact spot where she had last seen him. In all likelihood, this boy was the male version of her. If that were so, then he too was here to get the plans.

Had the shadow clan he served perceived the same grand chance for profit as her masters? Did they too intend to steal, then secretly auction Silver Wolf's new asset among the faithless, opportunistic warlords? Perhaps. A creature like herself or not, that made him her rival.

Here was the kind of complication she had never thought about. Snowhawk sighed deeply. She would love to speak with the boy, maybe even get to know him. Ask him questions about all they had in common. From up close, look into that bold, interesting face, those sharp eyes. He might just be the first person she had ever met who could understand her privileged, lonely life. The honour, the pride and the burden of being shinobi. As her trainers had said for as long as she could remember, one selected to do great deeds in secret, topple princes, alter the course of history. One who could do things others could not.

She closed her eyes. One destined to walk alone, friendless and often fearful, never daring to fail. Who but her own kind would comprehend such a destiny?

Yes, he could very well be her mirror image. She hung her head. Mirror image or not, she might end up having to kill him.

NINE

To cross

the moat

For the remainder of the day, Moonshadow was uneasy, half-expecting Katsu to return leading Silver Wolf's men to the inn. As darkness fell, he dutifully recited the furube sutra and then placed a tiny iron wedge in the runner of his door, locking his room. He unpacked his equipment for the mission, spreading his gear out on the matting so he could check each individual piece.

Under his specially hued night suit, he would wear a full-body undergarment of thin wire mesh. The featherweight cousin of chain mail, it offered some protection from part-blunt or light blades. But if forced to deal with multiple guards at close quarters, he would need more protection than it gave. Moon unfolded two strips of lightweight, segmented thigh armour, checking the ties on each strip's joints. The armour was unique to the Grey Light Order, each leg lined with a series of tough leather pouches. Flexible but strong, it reached hip to knee. Inspired by the defences of armadillos and insects like slaters, the leggings could deflect arrows or be used as suddenly rising shields when duelling. Moon donned the mesh, then his night suit and finally, the leg armour.

He examined each of his tools before stowing them in the legging's pouches, distributing their combined weight evenly.

First, his pair of shuko, black iron climbing claws. Usually, shuko were used along with ashiko, strap-on iron foot spikes, but Moon preferred a lighter combination: claws and serrated-sole sandals. He checked that the shuko's prongs were sound, leather palm straps intact. Once over the moat, these claws and the serrated grip of his specially woven sandals would help him scale the wall.

Moonshadow pulled on the draw cords of his night suit's thick cowl, tightening it around his head. Its interior was lined with a special red fabric, the colour of which disguised blood. Should his neck or face be wounded, his enemies wouldn't know they had made him bleed. Even when soaked with blood, the unique red fabric simply looked wet, as if from sweat. Its use among spies had given rise to a predictable legend. Simple folk said that the men and women of the shadows had strange powers, for as gossipping guards throughout the land had said, even when cut, these spies did not bleed.

Moon tied the draw cords and secured the cowl in place with one end of his double-length sash. He wound the long indigo belt around his waist then up over one shoulder, setting clever, open knots in it that could hold his sheathed sword on either his back or left hip. The knotted sash made it easy to move his weapon between the two locations. This would make a certain trick possible.

If facing a good swordsman, he could quickly switch his sword from back to hip then perform a speed draw like a regular duellist. Most samurai guards attacking a spy would be unprepared for such a move, since shinobi usually wore their swords in back-mounted sheaths. Few would expect a lightning draw from the hip instead.

Mantis had shown him the trick, saying at the time with just a hint of bitterness, 'It's a ploy that will surprise even experienced swordsmen. I should know; it worked on me the first time I saw it.' He had then peeled open his jacket and shown his student a thin horizontal scar on his chest.

Into the leggings went Moon's burglary tools. An iron right-angle for lifting heavy roof tiles without a sound. A small iron hook and a series of thin blades used for picking locks. A long, weighted, reinforced cord on a wooden spool. Water in a bamboo phial.

Moon counted his stocks of shuriken and smoke bombs, then turned to his means of transport over the moat. From his pack he drew out eight quarter-circles and two strong crossbeams fitted with foot straps, carved from a certain buoyant timber. He checked that the parts snapped together easily to form a pair of mizu gumo or 'water spiders'. First, the quarter-circles were assembled into two large discs, each held together with cunning, spring-loaded joints. Finally the two crossbeams and their leather straps were slotted in place wholly within each circle. Moon tested the strength of the water spiders then took them apart again and spread their parts throughout his legging pouches.

He smiled as he worked, recalling Groundspider's many failed attempts to use the floating discs. Wearing them like great round shoes, a very light person – one with a typical shinobi build like Moon – could balance upright on mizu gumo and cross a moat or still river. Being unusually big and solid for a spy, Groundspider would invariably flip upside down then thrash about underwater, dangling from the strapped-on floats like a huge drowning bat.

Despite fleeting moments of nervousness at his looming task, Moon chuckled, picturing Groundspider, drenched to the bone and taking his mizu gumo apart, after a failed moat crossing near the Shogun's fortress in Edo. 'What are you smirking at, kid?' The big fellow had scowled with mock menace. 'I'm better than you at everything else! Besides, this keeps happening only because I'm a ground spider!'

At last Moonshadow fed his short, straight shinobi sword into the knots waiting on his back, slinging beside it the cloth pack which held his day clothes. With his equipment in place, he unlocked the door. He waited awhile, listening carefully to the night sounds of the inn, until satisfied that everyone else was sleeping and no one lurked in the corridor between his room and the rear exit. He opened his door, crept unchallenged from the building and moved through the town's narrow back alleys for the castle.

The midnight bell hummed from Fushimi's largest temple, its deep ring turning butterflies loose in his stomach. Moon crouched in shadow, scanning the front stretch of Momoyama Castle's moat.

Though the night was ink-black, Moon knew the real moon would rise all too soon from behind the distant mountains. True, it would not be a full disc, but a glowing crescent that would still flood the rooftops with a dangerous amount of light. He had to stay ahead of that moonrise, or at the very least be on his way out of the castle when it struck.

Moonshadow passed the temple and crept along the moat's shadowy bank, dotted on the town side with willow trees and lone, twisted pines. His dark blue-purple night suit gave him confidence, for he knew its unique colour was harder to distinguish in shadow or half-light than plain black. But the first hint of real fear was already gnawing at the edges of his mind.

This was no training exercise. This was real: life and death. It was time to take control within through reciting the furube sutra, not dutifully as he did each dawn and sunset, but almost desperately, for now he faced real action.

Furube meant to shake or shrug something off. This 'shaking off' ritual made spies ready to carry out their missions. It cleared the mind, sharpened the senses, helped a shinobi throw off all distractions before going about his work.

In the darkness at the base of a tree, Moon folded his legs and sat on his heels. He narrowed his eyes and whispered the sutra's three verses, the Preparation Verse, the Facing Self Verse and the Verse of One Resolved. He brought his palms together, folding and unfolding his fingers through a series of difficult patterns, forming a different knot or symbol to accompany each line of the sutra.

Gather, tidy and align your doings and their karma.

Cleanse any lies made this day, scatter not one grain of life.

To end this path in happiness, make still your mind.

Back when he was Nanashi, Mantis had made him think a great deal about the second verse's final part. As Mantis had said repeatedly, 'scatter not one grain of life' meant, among other things, never kill if you have a choice. At such times, a strange, wounded look would fill Mantis's eyes. The once-famous duellist spoke often of karma: the consequences of one's actions, the effect that followed every cause. Year by year, he had challenged young Nanashi to stay mindful of the sacredness of life.

It had been hard to believe that this pious man, despite his incredible skills, had ever killed anyone or anything. Then one day, Eagle had revealed quite matter-of-factly that Brother Mantis, 'in the wildness of his youth', had duelled for a living, killing a total of seventy-five men, each in single combat.

Moon drew a slow breath. Scatter not one grain of life. Would he be forced to kill tonight? Would he, like his teacher, begin a journey of many regrets?

Moonshadow widened his eyes. He looked around, took in the moat, the distant bridge across it, the sloping castle walls beyond. He was having real trouble readying his mind. What was wrong with him? The furube had done half its work, for that initial sliver of fear had faded away. No, it wasn't that.

He shook his head as he realised. It was her! She was there, haunting him, on the edge of his thoughts at any given second. Why? Was he somehow sensing her nearby? Had his interest in her become a kind of madness? He narrowed his eyes and recited the sutra again, forcing himself to concentrate harder.

At last the awareness of her also faded, replaced by increasing clarity. His mind grew orderly, an undisturbed pond. He opened his eyes wide and looked up at the walls, beyond which his prize waited. His goal was everything now. Moon was tranquil but alert. Ready, eager, and more than that, fearless.

He kept his breathing even as he stood up and stretched. The banks of the moat were quiet, but a splash made him turn. Moon listened, his eyes moving back and forth over the water. There! Giant carp were nosing the surface not far from the bank. They dived skittishly with more splashing, becoming long grey shadows for an instant before they vanished.

Murmuring drifted across the water. Guards' voices. Moon heard another carp splash in the moat as it took a swimming insect. He frowned hard. Light as he was, if just one of those great fish nudged his water spiders, he too would flip over and hang in extreme peril. As he watched he realised that the moat teemed with carp, many of them the length and girth of his leg.

He glanced at the top of the curved wall. A faint glow above the massive stones marked a guard post's cooking fire. Silver Wolf's confident, aggressive men at the Hakone Barrier were amateurs compared with what he could expect here in Fushimi. These castle samurai, charged with protecting their master, would be the best of the warlord's fighters. If he was detected and forced to engage them, he'd be up against men chosen not only for their strength and speed, but for their willingness to lay down their lives for their liege lord. He felt his chest tighten in anticipation.

Moon stared down at the moat, smelling its water and mud. If he capsized out there he had two choices, both of them nasty. He could dangle silently until his held breath ran out and he drowned. Or he could free himself of the floats and swim away frantically, a noisy process on a still night like this. He lifted his eyes to the castle. If that happened, no matter how far he swam submerged first, dozens of arrows would fly from the top of that wall, probing the moat relentlessly until they found him.

Perhaps that glow wasn't really a cooking fire. Maybe the castle was on high alert already, and the guards were prepared to launch fire arrows at the first suspicious sound they heard. He felt his breath quicken. Fire arrows were a triple hazard. They broke the darkness, neutralising night suits. If their tips were bound with oiled cloth, they could even carry light a short distance underwater, revealing a submerged intruder. Worst of all, if they actually pierced their intended target while still burning . . .

He forced that image from his mind. Moonshadow crept into the shadows of a willow overhanging the moat. At the very edge he assembled and fitted the water spiders, then used dangling branches to help him stand and stabilise himself. As he released the willow branches, Moon glanced down at his hands. His fingertips were trembling.

Once he felt in control of the bobbing floats, Moon slowed his breathing again and began taking the long, rhythmic strides which would propel him out over the water. He moved through the darkest shadows, careful not to be seen. A special diet throughout his training had given him exceptional night vision. By halfway across, he could make out fine details on the castle wall.

Torches atop the huge stones lit up the moat with fingers of light. Moon zigzagged forward slowly, keeping to the darkest shadows, arms outstretched at either side as he padded along uneasily on the water. Each wooden float hovered and slid just under the surface. Cold water stung through his sandals and the split-toed cotton boots beneath them. Soon his toes were numb and the chill was climbing up through his ankles. Walking on water was nerve-wracking and awkward, but the technique worked. Trying not to become tense, Moonshadow silently mouthed comforting words: if only Groundspider could see this.

He neared the curved, damp wall and made for his target: a small drain outlet breaking the smooth stones roughly ten paces above the moat. A thin stream of water ran from it constantly, making the stones below it shine. It was a narrow duct. The shuko, his claws, and the grip of his sandals should get him up there, but then would come the hard part.

To fit into that drain, he would need to dislocate his left shoulder. If he could manage that tonight as well as he had in training, he could slide through the castle's under-floor drains to the kitchen or laundry. According to Badger's charts of Momoyama Castle, this particular drain outlet did not come from the latrines.

But what if that was a mistake? He nearly shuddered at the idea. If only he could be sure those charts were unspoiled and accurate! There was a risk that the crucial brushstroke he was relying on had actually been a streak of monkey's dung.

He heard some guards bantering, the sounds of a fire being stoked, more general bustle suggesting a large group of men further along the wall. Why so many on the walls tonight? His heart skipped a beat at the thought that he might be expected. So many samurai up there. What if he was caught?

He had heard what warlords did to spies and would-be assassins caught within their castles. Yes, they were executed . . . eventually. First, patient attempts were made to learn who they served, who had trained them, what their objectives were. Thoughts of how this information was extracted made his blood run cold.

Moonshadow concentrated on the drain. It was dead ahead now, quite close, but a strip of well-lit water lay between him and the dim wall beneath it. He stopped, still in shadow, looking up, hovering as he weighed the problem facing him.

A high parapet overlooked his escape route and, from time to time, voices came from it. Moon shook his head. Great stones beside the observation niche blocked his view into it. Was the parapet empty now or not? There could be guards up there, watching in silence. If so, once he moved forward into that brighter patch of water, he'd be seen. Quickly thereafter, he'd be dead.

He had to make a decision. If the parapet was empty right now, he was already wasting valuable time. If he bobbed around out here for too long, the moon would rise and make him a target even a one-eyed archer could hit. Moon glanced in all directions. Forward now, or not? Moon bit his lip, ordering himself to stay calm. But calm was escaping him now. A huge carp noisily broke the surface to his left. Great! This was all he needed . . . an oversized fish to draw attention to him, even in the shadows! At least there was only one.

Another splash. He looked about quickly. A huge school of giant carp was surfacing all around him, perhaps curious about his water spiders. What if their splashing made the guards investigate? What if, any second, one of these stupid fish tipped him over?

Heron knelt alone on a reed mat in the monastery's small kitchen, staring into the teacup between her palms. The kitchen door slid open behind her. She turned to it.

'So,' Eagle nodded, 'it was you I heard. Such light steps. For a moment there, I wondered if a skilled intruder was loose within our walls . . .' he scratched his neck and muttered, '. . . if my time had finally come.'

'Forgive me,' Heron said, returning her gaze to the steam rising from her tea.

'Did it happen again?' Eagle knelt down beside her. 'Another prophetic dream?'

She looked at him anxiously. 'I saw Moonshadow. I saw him standing, balancing on the white-capped waves of a raging sea, dragons rising all around him. Yet he crosses no oceans on his mission. What could the image mean?'

Brother Eagle shook his head. 'Who can say? But the White Nun warned you last year, when you began the lessons with her, did she not? What were her words? Until long into the training, you would foresee true nonsense: a mix of fact and lies.'

'Yes. As if inks of two different colours had spilled together.'

He smiled tenderly. 'Don't let the murky result scare you.'

'But the White Nun also bade me take careful note of what I sensed on waking, remember? Those impressions, the strings of words, have always been far clearer.'

Eagle gave a single nod. 'Indeed. Those riddle-phrases of yours, as I have called them . . . it's true that so far, as best we can judge them, they have come to pass. So what strange words came to you this dark morning? Were they also about our young Moon?'

'Yes.' Heron gave him a frightened glance. 'As I woke, this formed in my mind: he will not return, or he'll return with another prize. One for which he'll bleed.'

'How confusing,' Eagle huffed in frustration. 'Does it mean that if he survives, he'll bring back something other than the prize we sent him after? Or that he'll fetch the plans and some further asset Silver Wolf hoards, one we don't know about?'

Heron shrugged. 'I'm sorry, but I have no idea. In poison, smoke or pole-blade, I am the assured teacher. In matters of this science, but a floundering student.' She fixed Eagle with a pleading stare. 'But I fear for him, how I fear for him now!'

Eagle reached out and, with the back of his hand, gently brushed her cheek. 'Then even though your latest riddle is a tangled forest indeed, I shall act on it.'

'How?' Her face brightened. 'What can you do?'

'Groundspider left with orders to collect three other field agents and then meet the boy when his mission was done. In the light of your – our – new concerns, I'll despatch a rider to our safe inn on the Tokaido near Fushimi. He'll carry coded orders for Groundspider to double the number of men who'll escort Moon home.'

Heron took his hand and kissed it, her eyes shining as she held back tears.

'After all,' Eagle shrugged, 'we might need several agents to help carry this other prize.' His face suddenly darkened and he shook his head. 'Let's just pray it doesn't turn out to be something like the warlord's pet tiger.'

TEN

Eye of the

beast

Moonshadow bobbed on the moat, watching in horror as still more giant carp rose and surrounded him. The largest, an enormous black-and-white speckled female, sniffed his foot floats, apparently trying to decide if they were a potential meal.

'No,' Moon whispered desperately. 'These spiders you can't eat.'

His heart raced but he dared not move. From the wall above, the words of a guard reached him. They were surprisingly clear. The man was complaining about how much he wanted to kill some one called Jiro.

'Oi!' A guard with a much deeper voice cut his colleague off. 'Stand in line,' the man said gruffly. 'My sword saw his neck first!'

Then a third fellow spoke, dropping a name that made Moonshadow's heart pound even harder.

'Ah, that Jiro's nothing. Forget his throwing-knife tricks! Gangster trash!' The tone of the man's voice abruptly shifted. 'It's the third one that makes my skin crawl. The Deathless . . . huh! They should call him The Bloodless. At least he's on our side!'

'You know what one of the maids told me?' The first guard piped up. 'She saw The Deathless loosen his hood so he could eat. She said he has the head of a great owl!'

There were murmurs of awe from the other two, then the deep-voiced guard said quickly, 'Enough! We shouldn't be speaking of him. He could be anywhere . . . listening!'

The three fell silent.

Below them, Moon found his thoughts racing to catch up with his heart. The Deathless? And he could be anywhere? It sounded as if Silver Wolf had turned him loose, like a roving guard dog, to wander the castle's grounds. He cast a nervous look back at the banks of the moat. Nothing. But of course such a foe wouldn't show himself before striking.

He glanced down. Carp steadily circled his water spiders. Moon swallowed hard, hoping they would lose interest and move along. But he had more than idiot fish to worry about now. Could it be true? Was The Deathless himself working for Silver Wolf?

This was very bad news! Every shinobi in Japan had heard of the supposedly unkillable assassin. It was widely whispered that The Deathless was no myth. That he truly deserved his title. That he had mastered that most difficult and ancient of Old Country sciences: immunity to the blade of a sword. Heron herself had told Moon, over a year ago, that there really was such a lost art, though nobody in the Grey Light Order understood it.

A fat carp passed within a hand's width of his left foot-float. Moon held his breath. It turned away then dived without bumping the bobbing wood. That title was ringing in his head now. The Deathless. What else did he know about him?

Within the spy community, it was said that only one other man had the same uncanny power: Koga Danjo himself, ninja master and trainer of The Deathless. But a rumour had gone around, a few months back, that The Deathless had murdered his legendary teacher. If that were true, The Deathless alone now possessed his secrets.

The remaining carp circled him a last time then moved away. Moonshadow sighed with relief as he watched them drift towards the bank until they again began to circle, this time in a finger of light that crossed the moat from a burning torch on top of the wall.

Now directly in line with the observation parapet but further away from it than Moon, the great fish started feeding off water-boatmen and other insects teeming in one area.

Moon wrenched The Deathless from his mind and glanced between the carp and the parapet. The speckled one kept breaking the water, its round, shiny head facing the castle walls. That dumb fish, he thought bitterly, had a better-angled view of the parapet than he did.

An idea came to him. Using the eye of the beast, his Old Country science, he could look through that carp's eyes. Learn if the parapet was empty or not. Know whether to move forward or wait. A fine solution, but of course, there was a catch.

To maintain a basic sight-joining, he had to close his eyes. That was fine while hovering, but once he tried to move forward, with his eyes shut, he would be unable to control his balance. It was hard enough balancing on water with his eyes open! If he lost that control and flipped over, empty parapet or not, he would soon be dead or forced to swim for his life, abort the mission and flee. Following his failed attempt, castle security would be tightened even more.

He would never get this chance again, and not only the GLO but through them, the Shogun himself, was relying on him. Important as his duty to the Shogun was, Moon would feel greater shame over failing those who had raised and trained him. So there was no choice; he would have to take an even greater risk. One based on trying something new. He had tried to practise this on the road to Fushimi, but that chance had been dangerously interrupted. Now he had to make it work.

After the first level of sight-joining, basic beast sight, there were two higher stages. Dual sight, seeing through a creature but still using one's own vision at the same time. And the third, final level: sight-control, making a beast obey one's wishes, harnessing them as a weapon.

Moon gave a purposeful nod. Tonight, he wouldn't have to reach quite that far. But he would have to operate on the second level: dual sight. He needed to see through that carp, and now. But he needed the use of his own eyes too. Ready or not, it was time to make the leap. He'd achieved it before, under Eagle's supervision, but only in short, shaky bursts. Now he must do it here, out in the real world, with everything at stake. And make it last.

The speckled carp broke the surface, facing the parapet once more. He closed his eyes and started concentrating on it. His hands trembled. Quickly, vague snatches of the fish's vision appeared, distorted images seen through what looked like two thin, quivering layers of water. The first layer was real, the water of the moat. The second trembling veil was a regular symptom of the joining and one he was used to seeing. Moon breathed in, preparing to open his eyes while holding onto the beast sight now in his mind. His heart beat like a war drum in his chest. He opened one eye and the beast sight vanished. Moon cursed under his breath, closed his eyes and started again. The vision would not come. Eagle's words rang in his anxious mind. To do the impossible, you must first stop caring about the outcome. He realised that fear of failure was blocking his powers. Moonshadow opened both eyes, cleared his mind and recited the furube again.

'Anyway,' a guard's voice abruptly rang from somewhere above. 'I'll bet you three copper coins that The Deathless ends up killing Jiro for us!' Laughter followed.

'You're on, you're on!' a man with a high, squeaky voice replied. Moon heard coins jingling. More laughter followed.

'I will not fear failure, just as I will not fail,' Moon whispered. He doggedly repeated the sutra again, and at last regained his calm.

Now he was ready. He closed his eyes and linked his mind to the carp's again. Taking his time, he watched the watery beast-sight images change and distort for a while, then, with a new sense of confidence, he opened both eyes.

He saw the castle wall and the drain ahead of him with his own sight. Super-imposed over it, he saw a different, higher section of the wall at the same time. That image was bending and stretching constantly yet was clear enough for him to make out details.

Moon could see into the mouth of the parapet now. Two guards, one with a spear over his shoulder, were turning and leaving it. A wave of weariness swept through him. Eagle had warned him about this: the highest levels of the gift were demanding. They sucked the life force from their operator so should be used sparingly. He blinked, watching the parapet distort through rippling water. The stone niche was still empty.

Moonshadow gritted his teeth and strode forward to cross the finger of light.

On the town side of the moat, high up on the largest temple's shadowy roof, The Deathless raised a European spy glass to one eye. He gently pulled on the widest end of the segmented cylinder until the spy glass's round, dim image grew sharp.

The Deathless grinned as he watched Moonshadow slowly cross the well-lit strip of water. He swung the spy glass up then left and right. The nearest parapet was empty, the closest guards on the wall unaware of the invader's presence. He lowered the spy glass and nodded.

'How did you time that so well? You must have talents, Runt,' The Deathless muttered. 'But gifted or not, in this world you are still the dove and I the falcon.' He raised the instrument to his eye again. The unknown enemy had now reached the shadowy base of the wall, directly below a drain outlet.

Like Moonshadow, The Deathless had been reared to see in darkness that left normal men blind. His vision penetrated the haze. He watched the slender intruder cling to the wall like a frog, peel off a pair of water spiders and slowly feed their parts, one at a time, into his leggings. The figure then rummaged for something else in his hidden pockets, hunched against the wall, head turning warily in all directions.

'What do you fish for?' The Deathless whispered. 'Rope and grappler?' A moment later the slim, dark outline was on the move, steadily climbing for the drain outlet. The assassin nodded again. The way this enemy agent spread himself flat, quickly securing good hand and foot holds, suggested the skilful use of climbing claws.

'Yes, real talent.' The Deathless chuckled. 'But it will not be enough. I will wait, patient and thoughtful, poised to strike at your worst possible moment. And once I discover where your limits lie . . .'

He closed his spy glass with a muffled snap.

ELEVEN

Unexpected

friend

Moonshadow hung with one hand from the drain's protruding stone mouth, packing away his second climbing claw with the other. After breaking the sight-joining, he had felt confused as usual, but this time the mental fuzziness seemed to be lasting longer. A thin stream of water fell beside him from the drain. It didn't smell too bad, so Moonshadow leaned forward and passed his cowled head under the small cascade. The shock of the cold water cleared his mind a little, but he knew he could not wait for every trace of the joining to disperse. All too soon, that moon would rise.

He hauled himself up and crouched on the trough-shaped outlet, working his left shoulder loose. He prepared himself for pain, placed his right fist under his left armpit, and steadily forced the shoulder from its socket. There was a loud, nauseating click. Moon almost bit his tongue as he stifled an agonised gasp.

His eyes watered, his teeth ground together. At first it felt as if his arm was on fire and being torn from his body. Then the awful pain settled down to a dull constant throbbing. He angled his right shoulder forward, tucked in his chin and fed himself into the drain head first. Moon inch-wormed along on his belly through a thin layer of water, his dislocated arm trailing, rubbing against the drain's stone side. There was a dull thud, then what sounded like a heavy gate creaking shut somewhere above him. He froze, looking up, listening anxiously.

If he was detected in here, he would be defenceless. Groundspider had told him of a shinobi once trapped in a similar drain. That man's enemies had poured oil into the narrow tunnel, then set it alight. The desperate spy had barely escaped with his life, diving – on fire – into the moat and sustaining terrible burns.

From overhead, nothing but silence now. He moved on, listening warily.

When he had travelled around sixty paces in the dark, cramped channel, he smelled wet fur up ahead. An animal. A rat maybe? If Badger's chart of the castle was accurate and Moon's estimate of how far he had come was also correct, he was now under the great courtyard, nearing the keep. The outer mansions, guard quarters and landscaped gardens were all behind him now. Ahead loomed the central tower of the castle complex. At its base were living areas, stables and kitchens, and above them, its master's rooms and audience chamber. And, most importantly, at the very top of the keep, his treasure vault.

The drain grew lighter as he pressed forward and suddenly he could see the silhouette of a creature in his path. Its pointy ears brushed against the drain's ceiling. Moon slid forward, straining his eyes at the animal until he could tell what it was.

It was a lean cat, the type known as a kimono cat, contentedly chewing a rat it had already beheaded. Just past it, the drain widened, becoming brighter still. Moon reached the feeding animal. It gave him a curious look then turned and scuttled ahead, the rat hanging from its mouth. Moon frowned. This cat was odd! The black-and-white pattern on its back resembled a woman wearing a kimono, a traditional Japanese robe, hence the name kimono cat. Cats born with these markings were considered sacred and sent to live in the grounds of temples, so they were also called temple cats. But this one was like no other he had seen: it had a long tail. The tail of a temple cat was normally short, broad and almost triangular in shape.

'You're different. A loner, like me, neh?' Moon whispered to the cat.

It stopped and looked back at him, then gave a muffled meow as if agreeing. He winced. Its cry might draw attention. The cat scurried ahead until it stopped beneath an iron grate. Moon listened carefully and sampled the dank air before catching up to the animal. Old smells of soya sauce, spilt sake and burnt rice told him they had reached the kitchen at the base of the keep. His sharp ears said it was unoccupied right now.

Lantern or candle light streamed in from the iron grate and Moon dragged himself cautiously under it. The bars were just far enough apart for him to squeeze through the grate without a dislocated shoulder. Moonshadow had just enough room now to rise to his knees and reach across his body for his dangling left arm. Once more he prepared for pain. The cat tilted its head, watching his every move intently.

With a dull snap he put his shoulder back in its socket. The cat flinched at the sound, dropped its rat, and sprung up through the grate. Wiping tears of pain from his eyes, Moon clambered slowly after it. He rose to his feet and gingerly stretched. He was inside the kitchen's storeroom, not the kitchen itself. The cat stared at him, tail swishing.

His mind had cleared now from the effects of the carp-joining, his strength and energy were returning. A good thing, he decided. He was going to need them.

The storeroom was shadowy like the kitchen beyond it. Both were lit by a series of well-spaced iron lanterns. Moon heard a faint sniff. In the nearby corridor lurked the first of many night watch guards. Vigilant, hand-picked samurai, each one armed with two swords.

He slid off his cloth pack and emptied it. Tightly folding his day clothes and the pack itself, he distributed them throughout the pockets of his armoured leggings. Now, with only his sword on his back, there was less for an enemy to snatch at. He wedged himself into a dark corner and stared at the temple cat, which sat brushing its whiskers near the half-open sliding door to the kitchen. He would use it to scout before moving, but only on the least demanding level to conserve energy.

Moon closed his eyes. His hands trembled. The cat sat bolt upright and, turning its head, stared at him. For the first time ever, he saw his own face through an animal's eyes. The usual shimmering, watery veil was there, but his features were distinct despite it, and the experience of seeing them was strange and unsettling.

He opened his dormant human eyes. Through the cat's sharp vision he saw an unexpected colour glinting above his own high cheekbones. Now, while joined to this animal, the pupils of his unused eyes glowed with a subtle green hue. Did that always happen? Moon watched himself frown as an odd, sharp taste grew strong in his mouth – which he hoped was not the taste of fresh rat's head – and the kitchen smells suddenly became almost overpowering.

The temple cat turned away and bounded through the half-open sliding door, eager to resume its rounds. Moon watched carefully, taking in everything the creature saw as it padded around the kitchen looking for food.

Its vision lit on the paper-lined wall and the shadow of a corridor guard, standing tall and silent just outside. The cat vaulted onto a long bench, avoided a fish knife lying on it, then leapt to a large iron cooking plate set against the wall and framed by an archway of stones. Hunching in the centre of the plate, the cat looked around before turning its gaze up. Moon nodded at what he and the cat saw.

A rounded brick flue, installed for cooking smoke to escape the kitchen, loomed above the plate. It had no bars, mesh or bends, and was large enough for Moon to ascend inside it. It had to end in a chimney. But he didn't recall a flue or chimney on Badger's chart. Was this new? If so, what else had recently changed? Just one new extra-tough door, unexpected grille or new set of bars could destroy his mission.

The guard outside coughed then groaned softly as he stretched. Through the cat, Moon watched the man's shadow. He paced a little circle near the kitchen door. He cleared his throat and spat into what looked like a small paper hand kerchief. The cat and Moon together saw the shadow of his head turn sharply towards the kitchen.

Was the guard about to sneak in for a cup of water? It was time to go!

Moon broke the link with the cat and crept quickly along the ground, through the half-open sliding door and into the kitchen itself. The cat jumped from the cooking plate, following some promising smell with a twitching nose.

Moonshadow scrambled like a giant spider up onto the cooking plate and under the flue. Watching the guard's silhouette with his own eyes now, he rummaged quickly for the climbing claws.

The guard moved for the kitchen. Moon slid his hands into the claws. The guard gripped the paper screen-door. As it rattled faintly, starting to open, Moon fed his hands, then his head and shoulders up into the flue, stabbing outwards with the claws for a pair of hand-holds. The outer door slid open and the guard stole into the kitchen, looking around for a cup. An instant before his roving gaze lit on the cooking plate Moon's legs disappeared up the flue.

Moon ascended with silent speed inside the chimney, the prongs of his claws finding thin gaps between each layer of bricks. Legs splayed, feet wedged against opposite walls, he climbed higher, listening to the sounds of the guard below him in the kitchen. They echoed, growing fainter. More coughing. The trickle of water leaving a jug. The guard grumbling to himself as he sat drinking on the edge of the cooking plate. Moon glanced down. That was close!

The chimney emerged onto a gently sloping rain roof halfway up the side of the keep, its opening covered with a small tiled roof of its own. Moon squeezed himself from the chimney, rotated his aching left shoulder, then resumed climbing.

Now he moved under a crisp, starry sky. Cold night air stung his eyes as he clawed his way up massive stones and wooden beams to the top of Silver Wolf's tower. At last his claws chinked on the tiles of the keep's highest roof. Moon paused to catch his breath, looking out over the castle.

Tall and thin, the keep stood alone in the centre of a rectangle formed by the castle's outer buildings and their roofs, beyond which lay the walls, then the moat.

That outer rectangle and the keep were connected above ground level, but only at one point. A wide walkway, a miniature bridge, ran from the rain roof, where his surprise chimney had ended, across to one corner of the outer rectangle.

The walkway was obviously an archers' platform. From it, a regiment of shooters could defend the keep should the castle's outer defences fall. He studied its design. If a desperate last-stand by the archers failed, there were great ropes at the rain roof end which could be cut, dropping the platform, severing it from the keep so an invader couldn't use it. Moon took off his claws as he watched the walkway. It looked empty, unguarded, but since Silver Wolf was no fool, it would be watched.

He glanced at the faint lights of the town, then took in more of the castle's layout. The walkway led to that same corner of the outer rectangle from which a cable ran across the moat to the sake brewery.

Moon looked around. Would he see the cat again? He was tenser now than ever, and its presence had been strangely comforting, his link with it unusually strong. But the roof remained still, silent. The creature had gone its way. Moon steadied his breathing as best he could, stowed his iron claws and stared down at the roof tiles under his feet. This was it! He recalled Eagle's final words to him in Edo.

Never forget your valuable place in the universe. To be trained as one of the Shogun's shinobi, to risk or even lose your life in his service . . . there can be no greater honour. The real test of that training was about to begin. It was time to earn the honour – and the trust – afforded him. His stomach writhed, heart pounded. He forced the fear from his thoughts.

According to Grey Light Order intelligence, the plans were right under his nose now, or rather, beneath his sandals. To be precise, they waited in the keep's uppermost chamber, locked in an ornate Chinese chest beside a much larger iron treasure vault. That greater, more enticing safe was simply a ruse, a false target designed to divert any would-be thief. Moon wondered at the daring of the Grey Light Order infiltrator who had furnished them with such detailed information. Just before leaving Edo, Eagle had spoken – with great admiration – of this gifted field agent. He'd said only that they owed much to a woman, a former orphan like Moon, who had served in the castle before faking her own drowning in the moat.

Moonshadow drew the tile-lifting tool from his leggings and, using it adeptly, prised two great roof tiles up and out of their wooden frames. He set them close to the hole he had created, balancing one on the other so that, if pursued up through the hole on his return, a gentle push would collapse the tiles onto his first pursuer's head.

He carefully swung his feet into the black cavity between the roof and ceiling, about to descend. Out of the corner of one eye, an alarming detail caught his attention. He turned his head, making sure his impression was right. It was! A bead of nervous sweat glided down his spine. The sky to the east was growing lighter. The crescent moon was about to rise. No plans yet, and already, he was almost out of time.

TWELVE

The prize

Once inside the roof cavity, Moon pressed an ear to the ceiling boards. He listened hard for sounds of life in the treasure room below. Nothing.

Moon drew the burglary tools from his leggings. Using the thin blades, he silently popped one wooden ceiling square and slid it to one side. He dangled his head through the opening, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light of the room. A candle in an iron holder burned in the centre of the polished hardwood floor. Another glowed between the only two pieces of furniture he could see: a fancy wooden Chinese chest and a much larger, plainer safe of rough black metal beside it. Each had built-in locks, each a large keyhole. They stood together under the room's only window, which was shuttered and bolted.

It all looked just as Grey Light Order intelligence had predicted. Moon sighed softly. It also looked too easy to be true.

He took the reinforced cord on the wooden spool from a pocket of his leggings. Moon unwound the cord, then lowered its weighted end slowly until it touched the floor. Controlling the line with feather-light pressure, he gently dragged the weight across one floor plank and onto the next. When it had crossed several polished boards, the weight stopped moving freely and Moon, sampling the cord's tension with his index finger, felt it snag. His eyes followed the cord down to the floor, hunting for whatever had trapped it. There it was, just as he had suspected, hiding in the shadows below the candles' glow.

A black wire cable, in fact several thin cables, crossed the floor a hand's width above the boards. They were designed to catch the feet of anyone moving from the reinforced sliding door to the window area. He hung upside down from the gap in the ceiling, turning his head, following the cables. At each end, they were connected to large bamboo chimes that hung in shadow. He set his jaw. There must be a guard – or several – just outside, ready to charge in at the slightest sound from those alarms.

Moonshadow retrieved his sensing cord, then pulled himself up and crept through the roof cavity until he was directly above the Chinese chest. He raised and discarded another wooden square. After judging the distance to the chest below, Moon lowered himself over it. He hung by his fingertips from the edge of the hole he'd made, checked the rest of the room again, then soundlessly dropped to the chest.

On most missions, he would put out the candles before striking, lowering the sensing cord's weight above their flames and running drops of water down the cord. In this particular situation, that light was an ally he needed. He needed to see the cables of the chime traps at all times. He needed to verify the plans before he fled with them, in case Silver Wolf was using a second ruse: dummy plans. At least he'd been prepared. Thanks to Badger, Moon knew exactly what to look for when he examined the documents, how to confirm their authenticity.

He crouched on the chest, too wary of more hidden traps to stand on any part of the floor itself. The very boards might be planed to rub against each other and sing like nightingales, bringing the guards – and death – down on him in the sweetest voice. He recalled Badger's detailed account of an ingenious alarm-floor in the inner corridor of mighty Nijo Castle, where recently a Grey Light agent had sustained mortal wounds after the boards sang beneath the weight of his feet. Leaning forward, working upside down with his small iron hook and thin blades, Moonshadow attacked the built-in lock on the Chinese chest.

When a soft click announced that he had beaten the mechanism, he stepped from the lid of the chest and clung to the side of the black iron vault which stood next to it. With one foot, Moon swung the chest open. As its lid rose, there was a faint hiss and a spring-loaded blade shot up from inside the camphor-scented box. Moon closed his eyes gratefully. If he'd been sloppy and careless, standing on the floor and looming unwisely over that chest, the blade now gleaming there would have sliced off his chin.

Still gripping the side of the vault, he leaned out, hovering above the open Chinese chest. Using the iron hook, Moon fished out the chest's only contents apart from the spring-loaded blade trap. It was a plugged tube of polished bamboo, hung from a tough leather thong. Swinging from his burglary hook, it dangled in front of his eyes. Was this the real thing? The packaging looked right.

He needed somewhere to stand so he could use both hands while he checked the plans over. Using one foot, Moon slowly closed the Chinese chest. The spring-loaded blade retracted, automatically folding, and the trap reset itself with a subtle double click as the lid came down. He nodded. Should these plans prove fake, he would open the chest again and replace them. Moon stretched, stepping back onto the lid of the chest. He steadied his breathing once more and stowed his tools in his leggings.

Leaning out to catch the light of the candle, he unstoppered the bamboo tube. Gently he pulled a single roll of hand-made paper from it.

Moonshadow unwound the plans and looked them over. At once, every instinct told him they were the real thing. A series of technical drawings, with captions in some alien language, showed a peculiar device. It was similar to a musket, though part of its middle, near the trigger assembly, flared out like a water gourd. Lower on the page, a cutaway diagram of the flared section revealed six separate chambers inside it. Each chamber held its own lead ball, shot wad, and gunpowder. A set of cogs at either end meant this gourd-like magazine could be rotated, lining the weapon's barrel up first with one chamber, then with the next.

At the bottom of the single sheet, the plans carried an odd stamp-mark Moon had been told to look out for, the trademark of the black market broker Silver Wolf had used. So these were the real plans.

Moon swallowed. He had known that his mission was to intercept plans for a weapon that would give Silver Wolf a tremendous advantage. An unacceptable advantage in the hands of one plotting rebellion. But what a weapon! Now, confronted with its details, the implications of this terrible device shocked him.

Warfare, the ancient craft of Japan's ruling class, would never be the same again. Every soldier toting a gun like this would get six shots, in rapid succession, before needing to reload it. That was enough firepower to bring down charging cavalry or rows of armoured men. He shook his head, picturing a long line of such shooters. Then he imagined a whole army of them.

This weapon would dictate who ruled the country. Skill in combat would lose all importance, and what about rules of honour on the battlefield? The old way was to pick your opponent, declare your name, make a challenge, and duel him! It took courage to see a man's eyes as you fought him up close.

To fire on a distant, faceless foe, no manners, honour or courage would be required. Silver Wolf not only intended to plunge the country back into war. He would bring future war, using ugly new science Japan had never known.

There was only one way to take this wicked advantage from the rogue warlord: make sure that either nobody or everybody had these plans. Moon stared at the inner workings of the doomsday musket. It was up to him to stop this nightmare in its tracks.

He rolled up the plans and eased them back into the bamboo tube. He slung the thong around his neck then fed the tube carefully into his jacket, sliding it under both his night and mesh suits. The tube would keep the plans dry should he have to use the moat to escape. But was swimming out even an option now? His eyes flicked to the window. The glow behind those shutters was unmistakable. Moon cursed. The sky was growing brighter still. Escaping via the moat was out of the question because very shortly the crescent moon would turn that shadowy moat into an archer's shooting gallery.

He stood tall on the chest then bent his knees and made ready to launch himself upwards for the second gap he had made in the ceiling.

In the distance, a conch shell horn sounded, the type used to send signals in battle. Moon's stomach churned, his heart sprinted into a flutter. What was happening? He hadn't set off any traps! He looked around frantically. Or had he? An alarm gong pealed from the castle's outer rectangle. Surely they were not under attack? Not at this hour!

Warning shouts came from somewhere far below in the castle grounds. He heard the urgent thrumming of feet on wooden stairs. Guards, and lots of them. They were inside the keep, on the next level down but rising fast. How, how had he been detected?

'They see him!' A fierce voice relayed the report in the corridor outside the treasure room. Moon flinched hard. 'The intruder's climbing down again!'

No he wasn't! Moon tilted his head to one side, bewildered. The fellow outside was bellowing about something he hadn't done yet! Unless –

He blinked hard. Unless they had seen another intruder?

A muffled meow came from the roof above him, echoing through the ceiling cavity. 'Great timing,' Moon grumbled. Now the cat wanted to renew their friendship! There was another meow, a thunk, then a scraping sound as the roof tiles he had balanced collapsed into the hole he'd made. Moon listened as the scraping turned to grinding then stopped sharply. That damned cat! It had tried to follow him into the ceiling, setting off the tile-trap and blocking his escape hole! On the roof above, the animal began mewing, complaining because now it couldn't join him.

'Check the treasure room!' A guard's deep voice growled nearby. 'There could be more!'

Moon glanced at the door, then back up at the ceiling, momentarily confused. He was trapped! What to do? The keep's corridor floorboards pounded, the noise approaching fast. There were scuffing sounds, a sharp creak, then a tremble went through the treasure room's heavy sliding door. Moon crouched low on the Chinese chest, holding his breath. The reinforced door flew open.

A dozen samurai stood outside, long swords already drawn. Moon's hand slid into his leggings, probing for the high pocket where his shuriken and smoke bombs lay.

'There's one!' A powerful-looking swordsman pointed. 'Take him!'

Roaring as one man, the twelve rushed in.

THIRTEEN

Detected

He hurled a smoke bomb at the floor then leapt for the opening above him.

With a low hissing, white smoke quickly filled the treasure room. The samurai plunged into it, stumbling over the low black cables, setting off chime traps as they ran for where they had last seen Moonshadow.

'Don't swing till you see him!' The swordsman leading them yelled. 'Don't cut each other!'

The boards shook, the chime traps warbled. Moon dangled from the ceiling, swinging his legs. Below him, inside a white cloud, the guards collided with one another around the Chinese chest. Momentarily, they became a tight crush. Moon swung himself hard and dropped, aiming his feet for the shoulders of the man nearest the door. The samurai snarled as Moon landed on him, the impact sending him reeling backwards.

Moon sprung from the staggering samurai to the floor, bounded through the doorway and twisted around fast. He quickly slid the reinforced door shut, snapping its wooden locking pin into place as the weight of twelve bodies shook it from the inside. Moon ran along the corridor until he came to a window. Its shutters were open. He leapt up onto its sill, fished for his claws and put them on, then hurriedly lowered himself onto the keep's wall outside. As he cleared the window and started down the side of the keep, the corridor he had just left echoed with the sounds of more shouting, running men. He descended faster.

The crescent moon was clearing the mountains now, splashing light over the tiles and beams of the castle's roofs. Shadows darting across the courtyard below and more frantic shouts from above suggested that an army of guards now converged on the keep and its treasure room.

Good, Moon nodded. Let that diversion last as long as possible while he found his way out of here! He dropped smoothly to the rain roof, looking in all directions. He was now halfway back down the solitary tower. What was the fastest route out of this castle? He stared past the rain roof's chimney to the deserted archer's platform. That walkway would take him straight to the outer rectangle.

Hunching in shadow, Moon stowed his claws, then listened and watched the walkway. No signs of life. The din of a panicky search continued to come from high up in the keep, but all was quiet in this little fold of the castle. He gave a sharp nod. Seize the advantage while it was there! Moon stood up and scurried low across the rain roof.

Passing the chimney, he immediately sensed someone close behind him. Moon spun about, but the foe was already springing from the chimney's tiny roof. Knuckles glanced off the side of his head. Moon reeled backwards, catching a glimpse of his attacker: a slender figure, dressed like him in a dark night suit, wearing a back-mounted sword. So there was another spy!

Moon cartwheeled away to turn around in a strong upright stance, one hand on the grip of his sword. His mouth fell open. The rooftop was empty. Where did he go?

A knee slammed into his back from behind. He stumbled and groaned. This enemy could really jump! Moon twisted about, brought his fists up and used a scissor action to block a powerful incoming punch aimed at his throat. His agile enemy changed position with ease to sweep his feet out from underneath him. He crashed sideways to the tiles, forced to use his arms to break his fall. Seeing Moon's guard down, his unknown foe pounced, dropping on top of him and revolving nimbly to elbow him hard between the eyes. The force of the blow jolted Moon's head back. The rooftop around him instantly grew hazy. He tried to rise. His limbs were numb. He gasped, realising his attacker's cunning nerve-strike had paralysed him. He was an easy kill now. Moon willed his feet to move. They felt dead. The foe loomed over him, studying his night suit.

Crumpled against the tiles, Moonshadow waited for a sword's tip or edge to find him. Neither came. Instead of drawing a blade, his assailant crouched low and rammed one hand down the front of Moon's jacket; long, thin fingers probing for the bamboo and the plans. Moon tried to move his feet again and this time felt them respond. He summoned up his strength and rolled, trapping his foe's legs, dragging the enemy to the rooftop beside him. Sustaining the roll, Moon seized the stranger's wrist and twisted it fast, breaking the hold his opponent had taken on the leather thong around his neck.

Now Moonshadow further tangled the attacker's arms and legs with his own, gripping tightly as he rolled for the roof's edge. He sucked in an anxious breath. If he had rightly calculated the distance to the edge, momentum would help him fling his enemy from the roof. They'd have to abandon their attack to save themselves from falling. If he had figured the distance poorly, that edge would arrive too soon and they would both plunge over it, and anything could happen.

His sheathed sword dug into his back as he reached the final row of tiles. With a twist of his hips Moon released the attacker, flicking him from the roof. Soundlessly the stranger fell. Moon scrambled back from the edge, lungs heaving for air. He checked the leather thong, then patted the centre of his chest. The bamboo tube was still in place. He carefully leaned from the roof, eyes hunting for signs of the other intruder on the face of the keep. His assailant hadn't tried to kill him when he could have, so Moon hoped he had snatched a hold or found a landing point on the way down. But he saw nothing.

Moon shuddered. His attacker had simply vanished. There was no hint of him clinging anywhere below the rain roof. No dangling rope, nor claw marks in the growing moonlight.

Had he overdone it, had the fall slain him? His eyes probed lower. Nothing: no blood down the side of the building, no corpse at the bottom. He shook his head. Whoever his competitor was, his style was very different but he was good. His distinctive moves looked so light and crisp, yet were deceptively powerful. Moon clambered to his feet, glanced around warily, then focused on the walkway connected to the rain roof.

Someone else had found him, someone a little friendlier. Unable to help himself, Moonshadow grinned. The temple cat was crouched halfway along the walkway, head to the floor, apparently studying something trapped between its paws. His sense of relief started turning to elation, but years of training quickly cut in, warning him: this was no time to relax. Moon glanced over his shoulder. He had dealt with an unexpected complication, managing to survive it. But the real threat still lay ahead, the one he was always going to have to face: Silver Wolf's best guards, his finest castle samurai. And given the way the night had gone so far, who knew what else? Moonshadow licked dry lips.

He started forward onto the walkway. The cat looked up, glanced left and right, then leapt to its feet and ran to the edge. Moon stopped as it jumped from sight into the darkness around the long archer's platform. He narrowed his eyes, peering further along the walkway.

Yes. There was a man, standing alone in shadow, blocking the path to the outer rectangle. A moment after seeing him, Moon heard sounds from behind.

Men, approaching stealthily.

Then the crescent moon burst above the castle's skyline and the whole suspended gallery was streaked with fingers of light.

Moonshadow slowly turned a circle. He was surrounded.

FOURTEEN

Encircled

Moonshadow eyed the lone figure on the walkway. If he overcame that one man, a path to the outer rectangle, and escape, was his.

Moon advanced, darting quickly through the fingers of brightness, creeping watch fully through the bands of grey half-light.

On the walkway ahead, the man paced out of his shadow into a brighter spot. He pulled a short, shinobi-style sword from his belt and began tapping it, still in its scabbard, against one shoulder. Moon studied him.

This one was balding and wiry. Clean-shaven. Hard eyes and a plain black robe. He was smiling, the manner of his walk deceptively casual. Moon's mouth turned as dry as his lips. This fellow was very dangerous. There was skill in his aura, a cruel edge to his face.

The man looked Moonshadow in the eyes and bowed elegantly. Then his smile vanished. He started feeding his sword back into his belt.

Help me, Mantis, Moonshadow thought. What would you do if facing this confident fellow? He gave himself a subtle nod. Yes, that was it. Use the enemy's confidence, his assurance that he's facing another shinobi and therefore predictable shinobi moves. Be unpredictable.

Moon stepped back into a patch of shadow and hunched low. Keeping his weapon hidden behind his body, he moved it from his back to his hip. After tying it in place, he looked around.

Three men were sneaking up on his rear. Two were uniformed samurai wearing household emblems: a tall fellow and his shorter sidekick. The third man's numerous tattoos said he was a gangster, no doubt from one of those big-town criminal gangs the Grey Light Order had, at times, infiltrated on behalf of the Shogun.

The trio stopped moving. The tattooed one gestured to the lone figure blocking Moon's path. It was not a polite gesture.

'Come on, Akira!' The gangster was playfully irritated. 'Stop dragging it out. Get on with killing him, otherwise I will take the first turn.' His voice dropped. 'I still say it was rigged. We should have used my dice.'

Moon looked the complainer over. Many gangsters shaved their heads, but this one had long tangled hair, a messy beard and a droopy moustache. His loudly patterned jacket bragged that he was proud to be an outlaw. Moon was glancing at the man's forearm tattoos, red-green carps and dragons, when he realised that the gangster was holding a shuriken in each hand. Moon set his jaw. This was no mere thug!

As he turned back to check on the man blocking his way, Moon found the fellow creeping silently up to the edge of the shadow, one hand gliding to his sword's grip. He was dangerous all right, Moon nodded, he was clearly good. He could move without a sound! But how well would he handle . . . this?

Lunging at his enemy but staying just inside the shadow, Moon drew his sword from the hip, duellist style.

The smallest fingers of his right hand pressed into the weapon's grip, tensing the blade as its tip was about to clear the mouth of the scabbard. As the draw accelerated, Moon's left hand pulled and twisted the scabbard off the moving blade, keeping it under his belt, sliding it back around his waist. The combined, dynamic actions of each hand launched his sword tip at blinding speed.

In the moonlight, the explosive fast draw became a horizontal streak of silver, flashing momentarily from the cover of the shadow. The tip of Moon's sword ambushed the lurking foe, who stood, still drawing his own weapon, at the edge of the better-lit ground. The man flinched, and Moon saw that his eyes were turned upwards, as if he had been expecting a power cut from overhead. Aborting his own draw, the swordsman sprang back without a sound. Then he frowned, looked down and clutched his right arm.

Moon smiled to himself. Even the best could be undone by the power of surprise.

'Well you sure messed that up, Akira!' The gangster sniggered cheerfully. 'So now it's Jiro's turn!' Jiro raised one hand. Moon dived forward into a shoulder roll. An instant later he heard the clack clack of two shurikens ploughing into the walkway right where he had been.

There was no time to lose! Gaining his feet, he rushed the wounded Akira.

Akira parried Moon's powerful diagonal cut and sliced back, narrowly missing Moon's head. Next he aimed a sneaky sideways hack at Moon's belly, but Moon saw it coming and sprang into the air, raising both knees. Akira's blade glanced off the armour on Moon's left leg, denting one panel. Moon landed, regained his balance and backpedalled away. Akira rushed him with a series of wild horizontal swings, each one just missing its mark. Moon dropped into a low crouch and lunged at his foe's closest ankle. Akira narrowly avoided the cut, jumping back out of sword range, chest heaving with exertion. Moon shook his head. This man sure didn't fight like one with a deep cut to his arm! Then Moon heard – and a second later felt – a shuriken whiz past his cheek. Akira dodged as it almost clipped him instead.

'Idiot!' Akira yelled. Frustrated at Jiro, he swung a hard rising cut at Moon. Blocking it and seizing on his foe's broken balance, Moon slipped past Akira and ran.

He dashed in a zigzag along the walkway. Dark figures pointed and shouted from the courtyard below. The crescent moon was higher overhead now, its light reaching further, thinning the shadows with each passing minute. Ahead, where the walkway ran out, he could discern a line of tiles, then another of huge stones.

It was the corner of the castle's outer rectangle that faced the town's sake brewery. And it was close! An arrow streaked up from the courtyard, whistling as it just missed his shoulder. He ran faster.

Four sets of feet pursued him, shaking the walkway. He glanced back. Akira was at the rear now, which surprised Moon. Perhaps he had cut the fellow badly. The gangster had fallen behind the two samurai. That was no surprise.

He looked ahead. The moonlight glinted on a cargo cable. It ran from the top of an iron mast planted in one of the corner's stone blocks. Moonshadow's mind raced. The cable ran to the sake brewery across the moat. A risky escape route, since it meant fixing himself to a predictable trajectory, but if he could somehow travel it fast . . . He glanced back at the pursuing samurai, their robes snapping as they ran.

The cable would have been the wrong way in, since it would always be watched by the nearest guards. But now, fleeing, his cover already lost, getting seen hardly mattered!

He thought of the samurai's uniforms. Yes, there was a way to do this.

Another arrow flashed up from the courtyard, burying itself in the platform's handrail beside him, its tail flights trembling. Moon reached the end of the walkway and jumped for the roof tiles. He bounded across the outer roof and landed on the tall block of stone from which the mast rose. Panting, Moonshadow looked back.

Akira had stopped before the end of the walkway and was tying a tourniquet around his arm. The two samurai, as one might expect from professional warriors, were already scrambling with great determination across the roof. The one nearest the stone was perhaps five seconds behind Moonshadow. The gangster was at their rear, weaving nervously over the roof with less than cat-like agility.

Moon took in the sake brewery end of the cable, then he spun back with his sword raised as the large samurai scrambled onto the stone block.

The samurai guard lunged at him. Moon parried the attack, then turned the cutting edge of his sword quickly to hack at the foe's nearest wrist. But the guard had seen that trick before and he changed his grip fast, flicking his sword outwards to block the slice.

Something blurred into the corner of Moon's vision and instinctively he ducked. A shuriken hurtled just above his head, then another. He stood tall. The smaller samurai guard was struggling onto the block now. Moon ignored him and charged the tall one.

Forcing the big samurai to block a fast series of slices with ever-changing angles, Moon pressured the man into turning. Then relentlessly, cut by cut, he drove him backwards at his colleague. Finally, Moon gave a ferocious growl. He rushed the tall guard, locked swords with him and pushed, sending the man crashing onto his partner.

Tangling each other's limbs, the guards tumbled on the edge of the stone block.

As they struggled to rise quickly without nicking one another, Moonshadow dropped to his knee and aimed a precision cut at the tallest samurai's thick cloth belt. His sword's tip sang true all the way to its target and the man's belt fell away, severed cleanly near its stomach knot.

Moon stood up then jumped, aiming with both feet for the samurai's belly. The man wheezed as Moon landed on him, snatched the belt away, then pushed himself off hard. With a humiliated bellow the samurai angled a flailing cut up at Moon, who blocked the rising sword with his leg armour then scurried for the mast.

Enraged, the big samurai leapt up. His kimono swung open, revealing his carefully tied white loincloth. With a high-pitched grunt, he dropped his sword and frantically began tying the flaps of his clothing together.

Below the mast and its cable, Moon sheathed the sword on his hip. He wound the stolen belt around one wrist, slung its length, double-folded, over the cable, caught the falling end, and wound that onto his free hand.

There was a sharp crack. Sparks flew from the mast beside his head. Moon shuddered. Another shuriken! He looked around. The gangster was about to climb onto the stone block and he obviously hadn't run out of throwing stars yet.

The tall samurai finished tying the front flaps of his kimono together. The guards exchanged nods and rushed Moon, side by side, their swords swishing up into an overhead attack position.

Letting the cable take his weight, Moon gripped the belt tightly and launched himself out over the moat. The cable creaked. Light as he was, he rapidly gained speed.

Halfway across and descending fast, a shuriken glanced off the armour of his right leg. He winced and cried out. The tip of one of its blades had punctured a joint in his armour, just missing the pockets, crammed with tools and clothing, above and below it.

He raised his leg and glanced down at it. There was a new pin-prick hole in his legging, and he could feel a blood welt, right beneath it, on his thigh.

The outer bank of the moat flashed below. Moon released the belt and dropped from the cable at the foot of the sake brewery. Just uphill, three huge wooden brewing barrels, each atop their own little tower, cast a massive, dark shadow.

As he ran for its cover, a hail of arrows fell around him.

FIFTEEN

Blame game

In the castle's finest landscape garden, Silver Wolf's two top guards, then Akira and Jiro, stood in a line, their heads bowed. Their master paced angrily before them, his face matching the dark clouds rolling in from the mountains.

Behind them, The Deathless sat on a granite boulder, dreamily brushing its dappled moss with his large fingers. He nodded slowly, feeling the strength of the rock beneath the softness of the moss.

He was unperturbed by Silver Wolf's lurking rage. Like this rock he was weathered, hard and patient, yet like its speckled covering, misleading with deceptive softness, at least so far. The Deathless grinned. His invincible edge would show itself soon. First, his experience told him, he should hold back, let the enemy themselves make his task simpler. Let this warlord fume, his minions fumble about.

The Deathless crumbled some moss between his thumb and finger, watching Silver Wolf grumble as he paced.

He had known there were two intruders in town, each young, powerful, and about to strike, for he had felt them. He'd watched one entering the castle and, if his impressions had been correct, had even sensed the second spy, further away, no doubt crossing the moat elsewhere to scale another wall. Their slightly different energies suggested they weren't of the same school, but each of them was skilled. The Deathless yawned beneath his hood. His master Koga Danjo, before his . . . untimely death, had taught him far more than the greatest Old Country science. He had taught him to reason and to scheme about every situation. In the spirit world, no doubt Danjo regretted that now!

The two intruders The Deathless had sensed were probably among the best of a whole new generation of shinobi. By comparison, deathless or not, he was a scarred old war dog. He would let them compete, battle it out for the prize, then corner the exhausted winner, saving his strength in case they proved as strong as they felt. Yet he would prove superior: he the falcon, they the dove.

His eyes glided over his fellow hirelings. Along the way, these lesser men would be thinned out, for the pair they were up against clearly outclassed them.

Good! He alone would remain to make that final kill, and perhaps, as things grew more desperate for Silver Wolf, he could even raise his hefty fee a notch or two more.

The Deathless dropped his eyes to his seat of stone. He could make this work. But only if he remained as cool, as hidden, as that Ezo valley where he had been born. Double-faced, like this unbreakable rock and its misleading, passive moss.

'More rain in the next few days, then a storm, I would say,' Silver Wolf took his eyes from the cloudy sky and continued pacing his landscape garden, hands clasped at his back. 'But we have a greater problem than bad weather, don't we, gentlemen?'

On learning the plans had been taken, he had exploded with rage, threatening to behead the unfortunate guard who had delivered the bad news. Once alone, Silver Wolf had hurled his writing kit against a wall. Along the way to his garden he'd barked at every maid, servant and samurai he had encountered.

His fiery red fury had settled down now into brooding, white-hot malice. His every sarcastic word and chilling glance overflowed with it. But Silver Wolf knew self-control was vital if he was to salvage this disaster. As usual, he would have to do the thinking for his idiot men. He took a steadying breath. This peaceful garden always helped clear his mind. It was where he came to find solutions when things went wrong. As they had last night, and badly.

He crossed a small wooden bridge over the garden's spring-fed stream, stopping at a stone lantern under a maple tree. Muttering, Silver Wolf shook his head and walked on. Rounding a miniature 'sea' of raked sand, he strode back to the group of waiting, uneasy men.

The warlord eyed his hirelings coldly as he approached, making no effort to hide his contempt for them. He was tempted to slay at least one for last night's miserable effort, but then he would never get his money's worth out of whoever he chose to kill. Besides, their job wasn't done yet, and he still needed them all. With his guidance, they might yet redeem themselves. If not . . .

'Anyway . . . finish your report!' the warlord grunted at Akira. The spy cleared his throat. 'Before sunrise, I went with Jiro and your men to the inn your informer spoke of. The innkeeper there agreed he'd just had such a customer: a messenger boy, the right age and build, and what's more, a stranger to the town. But that boy vanished last night. Nobody near the inn has seen him since.'

Silver Wolf was thoughtful. 'Akira, though you failed last night, it was you who duelled our intruder before his escape on the cable. As your wound proves, you were closest to the action. So, what else can you tell me?'

'Forget last night, Lord, he won't escape us again!' Jiro butted in. 'My gangsters now watch every exit from town, with orders to stop and search any young male of slight build! A bit more time, that's all we need. He'll be found.'

'Which your heads won't be, if he gets away.' Silver Wolf ogled each one of them, ending with Jiro. 'Or if you speak again without first being spoken to.'

Jiro dropped to one knee and lowered his head. Akira gave a weary sigh. 'There were two of them, Lord, which added to the confusion last night.'

'Who was the other?' Silver Wolf folded his arms. 'An accomplice to the one you fought?'

'I don't think so, Lord. His kind, like me, prefer to work alone.' Akira gave Jiro a cold sideways glance. 'Professionals find the presence of others a hindrance. No, I would say that second intruder was a rival, a rival of equal skill to the one who took your plans.' He went to add something then stopped himself.

The warlord gestured impatiently. 'What else? Come on, out with it, man!'

'I was the one who saw the other intruder on the wall of the keep, Lord. I would say from the figure's light movements and peculiar, agile flitting that it was a girl.'

'Maybe you should have fought her,' Jiro mumbled. 'Man with the big reputation.'

Akira turned on him, hand moving to his sword. 'Lucky I'm still alive to fight anyone for our Lord! Half your shurikens flew nearer me than him!'

Jiro's hand flashed into his jacket. He took a step back. 'Oh, now it's all my fault! Who demanded first try at the enemy? Who won the dodgy dice roll and got his way? Who –'

'Silence!' Silver Wolf snapped. 'Unhand your weapons! I will decide where blame is laid and who shall die for it!' He raised one eyebrow. This gangster scum had made a good point, though. Who had failed him most the night before? He stared at each of his samurai, then the hirelings, leaving The Deathless till last.

It had been agreed that The Deathless be held in reserve, the others forming the first wave against any intruder. But their overnight visitor had proved too strong for that first wave. Silver Wolf narrowed his eyes. Surely The Deathless must have been watching? Why didn't he simply jump in and deal with that intruder, who was so obviously a worthy match for him?

Silver Wolf watched the tall assassin flicking moss. Reason cooled his anger. He wanted to demand answers, but what if he made an enemy of the killer? After all, this fellow was a dangerous living legend, and since he was immune to blades, not even a warlord could threaten him with death. Silver Wolf hid a sly smile. Of course, his magic probably did not extend to guns. He might have to consider that option, if his most expensive hireling didn't do something. And soon.

The Deathless looked up and appeared to read Silver Wolf's mind. His soulless eyes locked on his master's face.

'Have no concern, my Lord,' he said slowly. 'The matter isn't settled yet. I sense our thief is still in town. Be assured: I will conduct my own search, my way, and pounce when the time is exactly right. If your other . . . employees here do not redeem their failure first, then it is I who in time will recover your plans. And this boy spy's head.'

Silver Wolf met the killer's unblinking gaze. A bold promise! He would have mocked anyone else making it, or warned them to make good on their word or die, just as he had with Jiro. The warlord drew a slow breath. But no. Not with this man.

Instead, he thought aloud. 'So! There's another spy. And a girl?'

'I am quite sure of it, Lord,' Akira bowed. 'A girl, and his rival.'

'She too,' The Deathless said, crumbing moss between his fingers, 'is still here.'

'Sir,' the tallest samurai turned, 'no disrespect, but how can you know that?'

The Deathless pointed at Akira then back to himself. 'All shinobi are taught to detect each other. As Akira-San has shown, even when disguised, the subtle moves of one's body betray information to a trained eye. As we hone our craft, some of us even learn to sense each other's presence directly. But that's an imperfect science, and few reach the level where their impressions are consistently accurate.' He paused. 'I have.'

'What matters is that they are both still here,' Silver Wolf was heartened by the news. 'I see the way ahead! We'll make this rival work for us, then kill the pair of them.'

Jiro sprang to his feet. 'Great idea, my Lord!' His nose creased. 'How?'

'All of you, forget trying to find the boy. He's obviously well hidden now in town, no doubt waiting for the right chance to bolt. Therefore, make no loud house-to-house searches for him. I will have that particular corner swept by a more subtle broom.'

'Then what should we do, Lord?' Akira rubbed the bandage on his arm.

'Concentrate on finding this girl. She must appear in some guise by daylight. You, Akira: brief the others on her build and that distinctive agility. Let The Deathless here use his sensing powers! All of you: disguise yourselves. Comb the streets. Try to recognise her walk or manner.'

Jiro looked confused. 'And then?' Akira rolled his eyes.

'Follow her, you fool! She is this boy's rival, neh? Let her lead us to him and my plans. And when you get another chance, your second try at one or both of them, take no risks!' He pointed sternly at his best guards. 'Horses and capture chains this time!'

The two samurai bowed quickly. Silver Wolf gave a low hiss. 'But know this, each of you. My patience now lies stretched, like rice paper about to tear. Fail me again . . .' he had to stop himself. Rage was swelling inside him once more.

The Deathless cracked his knuckles. The tall samurai closed his eyes. Akira stood stony faced, unblinking. Jiro glanced back at the hooded assassin and swallowed hard.

'Now get out of my sight.' Silver Wolf turned away.

Groundspider, in his favourite guise – the gregarious silk merchant – pounded his way along a lonely coastal strip of the Tokaido. He had cleared the Hakone Barrier without incident, though he'd been sorely tempted to duel one of the cocky samurai there who had snapped at him when he'd reached for his papers.

The most bandit-plagued part of the Hakone forest and the tranquil lake district below it were also behind him now, and Groundspider was starting to believe that this phase of his mission was actually meant to run smoothly.

'Just goes to prove,' he mumbled to himself, 'how much the gods love me.'

He looked ahead from under the brim of his sun hat and knew at once that he had spoken too soon. A steely-eyed inspector, one of the so-called public service samurai who assisted magistrates and other court officials, was striding towards him.

Inspectors were roving assessors, ever watchful for threats to public order, and though they rarely took direct action themselves, they were notorious for reporting suspicious or even just unfamiliar faces to the nearest authorities. Groundspider maintained the simpering grin and oafish gait of his merchant character.

He felt the inspector's eyes lock onto him. Just a few paces more, Groundspider thought, and we'll pass each other by, and it will all be over. He took care not to look too sharp, too aware, lest the inspector decide that something about his manner and his eyes did not align. It was crucial that nothing captured the man's attention. As the two travellers passed closely, Groundspider slowed and politely bowed without stopping. The inspector nodded, looked him up and down with a frown, and kept walking.

Groundspider let out a long sigh. Good! That wrinkle in his mission plan could so easily have become a tear. He relaxed a little, then glanced up again at the highway ahead. More trouble! In fact, he sensed, worse trouble. The muscles of his abdomen tightened.

A stocky ronin samurai stood in his path, hands on his hips, eyeing Groundspider. The man wore a single sword, belted and tied in the manner of a seasoned duellist. He was a hand-span or two shorter than Groundspider, but his aura suggested that he was actually far more vigorous than he looked. The samurai seemed relaxed, confident too, and the light in his eyes warned of a hidden purpose. Groundspider continued to furtively study the fellow as he approached him. Not one scar on his face, which was never a good sign.

'Oi!' The man pointed at Groundspider. 'Trader! There's some bad territory between here and the next town. A man with a fine jacket like that shouldn't be without a bodyguard in these parts. Lucky for you, I'm for hire.'

'Sorry,' Groundspider said, 'but I have no money with which to pay you, only silk samples . . . all small and worthless in themselves!' He awkwardly hefted his large travelling pack from his shoulder and plunged a hand inside it, fingertips seeking the hilt of his concealed sword. 'Want to see some fine white silk?'

'No,' the ronin took a step forward, hands gliding to his own sword. 'But you can pay me with that jacket.'

'Must I?' Groundspider portrayed clumsiness with the handling of his pack even as his hand closed around the grip of his weapon. He readied himself to draw and strike without warning. His plan was simple: wound the fool, scare him witless, then walk on briskly. He'd give this thug his first scar, a nice clean one on his cheek, to remind him always of his mistake. 'You know,' Groundspider said, 'I'd rather not make that deal.'

'I insist,' the ronin snarled, slowly drawing his sword. Since he took his time, he'd clearly assumed that he was dealing with an unarmed, easy target.

Groundspider's sword flashed from the pack, its tip flying for the ronin's cheek. Taken by surprise, the ronin flinched to one side, then released his half-drawn sword and clutched the side of his head with both hands, letting out a howl of pain.

Groundspider grinned. Then a stern voice made him freeze.

'What outrage is this? An unauthorised duel?' Sandals crunched the grit of the road behind him as Groundspider quickly repacked his sword.

'You, merchant, turn! Face me.' The inspector drew his own weapon.

SIXTEEN

The hunted

At the foot of the sake brewery's hill lay the town's poorest street.

It stood on low ground which flooded often. Half its homes and businesses had been abandoned, and those still occupied were in urgent need of repair. The whole street showed signs of recent water damage from heavy spring rains.

Its smallest building, a badly run-down stable, stood rotting near the edge of town, a stone's throw from the bright red shrine that welcomed travellers entering Fushimi.

Other than rats, the near-ruined stable had only two occupants now. An ancient, retired packhorse, and Moonshadow.

Moon lay in a wide, deep bed of half-rotten straw, one hand on the plans around his neck, his cowl off but night suit and leg armour still in place. He lapsed in and out of sleep. The old, weary looking grey horse stood chewing, watching him.

Beside the stable's door, half-planks had rotted away, creating a thin window just wide enough for the horse to use. Every so often, growing bored with watching the boy in the straw, the horse would swing around, poke his head outside and stare off down the street, chewing contentedly.

Now the animal gave a loud snort. Moonshadow sat up. He tried again to shrug off the urge to sleep. Under his armour, his legs were covered in bruises and blood-welts. His back, left shoulder and every limb ached. Last night had taken far more energy than expected. Moon rubbed his eyes and listened to the traffic passing on the street outside. The horse returned his sleepy stare then turned and put its head out through the window.

The stable had only one door. Like the horse's spy-hole, it faced the street. The only way in or out. Moon scratched his cheek thoughtfully. If he had to leave fast, it would be no use counting on that excuse of a window. The horse might be using it at the time. The boards around it were rotten, also a hazard. He'd staggered in here, desperate to rest, but now regretted his choice of hideout: it was never a good tactic to box oneself in.

He'd assailed the castle on his first day in Fushimi, and the out-of-town rendezvous was scheduled for tomorrow, not today. He couldn't imagine, in this condition, waiting in some forest near the meeting place, at the mercy of rain and overnight cold. He had been told there were chalk caves in the area, but what if he couldn't find one?

Perhaps he should have held off until the second night before striking.

Moon wondered about the other spy who had assailed him just before he'd encountered the guards. How exactly had he vanished after being flipped from the roof? And to where? Moon's battle with castle security must have been a fine diversion, enabling the spy's smooth escape. He found himself smiling. Whoever that spy was, his skills were intriguing. His sheer energy and slight build suggested youth. He nodded. So he wasn't the only young shinobi in the field. Was that agent's world as solitary as his, or did he, like some adult spies, also have a daytime identity, a life that included unsuspecting friends? Moonshadow sighed. He'd like such a life.

He rotated his shoulder. It clicked painfully. He could not afford to be cornered while so utterly spent. If forced to fight now, a mere castle samurai would probably be able to wound him. He needed a full day's rest for his strength to return. This stable's layout was a problem, too. It left him blind and vulnerable. His pursuers could approach the building, unseen, any time. He stared at the rattly wooden door. If that fellow in the black robe, that Akira, burst through it while he lay in some fitful sleep . . . a desperate fight, no doubt to the death, would follow.

Moon thought of his duel with Akira on the suspended walkway, how Mantis's advice had guided him to snatch the advantage. He had wounded the man in black, but how would he feel today, if instead he had killed him outright with that cut?

He remembered Mantis telling him a duelling anecdote, one that he often remembered when he looked into his teacher's solemn eyes. Nanashi, as he was then, had – somewhat thoughtlessly – raised Brother Eagle's disclosure that Mantis had been a professional duellist, as Eagle had said, 'in the wildness of his youth'.

Mantis had almost scowled at the obvious hero-worship in his student's eyes. After thinking awhile, he had spoken of once wandering into a town where, as it turned out, a great sword contest was being held – one offering the winner a large cash prize.

'On the dusty street outside the training hall sponsoring the event,' Mantis had said, 'I was bailed up by a tall, skinny samurai who carried two swords, and also wore a curious, colourful head-binding, so all that showed was his eyes. He told me my single-sword school was inferior, the very spit of cockroaches, as I recall. At first, I just insulted him back. Go hit your head, I snarled, on a wet piece of tofu, and die!'

The impatient young Nanashi had barely been able to contain his enthusiasm. 'But you did fight him, right there and then, for the insult, neh?'

'I considered it, sure, because back then I was as hot-headed as you are now,' Mantis had said ruefully, 'but I chose to wait until the official matches later that day. I wanted that prize money, you see.' He groaned mildly. 'My pride, like my honour, had a price in those days. Anyway, the rules stated that the contestants had to duel until one surrendered or blood was drawn. But this lanky rooster, just as we were about to fight each other, suddenly demanded a death match, which could only be held with the consent of both swordsmen. Since he went on insulting me, I agreed. Of course, the bloodthirsty crowd who were watching loved it, and were roused to bet wildly on the outcome. I told my antagonist to take off his head-wrap and reveal himself, but instead he just shouted a final taunt, saying that he showed his face only to real men.' Mantis sighed. 'That did it. I was furious. We fought. He was good, surprisingly good. But I was better. I killed him.'

'Aw, he asked for it!' Nanashi had folded his arms with a lofty sneer.

Mantis had closed his eyes before saying more. 'When he fell, I stepped back, and the competition's doctors removed his head-wrap. The crowd gasped. He was not much older than you are now. Freakishly tall, but in truth, just a silly boy.'

'But he could really handle a sword, two in fact!' Nanashi had protested. 'Doesn't that make it fair?'

'A thing can be fair,' Mantis said quietly, 'yet still be wrong.'

He'd then fixed Nanashi with a disturbing, unfamiliar stare. 'I see them, you know, some nights, when I dream . . . all the men I've killed. I see that mouthy kid, too, he's with them. They all wait for me . . . in a tavern, in the land of the dead.'

'Do they hate you?' Nanashi had quickly asked. 'Do they want vengeance?'

'No.' Mantis had flashed a strange smile. 'They hold up their sake cups and say: "Come on, drink with us, there's no hard feelings. We were all just young fools!" That is my recurring dream, but in truth, I think it is actually my heart's constant prayer – forgiveness .'

Mantis's face and words faded, and Moonshadow stared at the door. No! He couldn't be trapped in here. The pressure of being cornered would almost certainly guarantee that someone would die, and it seemed his teacher's example had been etched into his soul.

But how to avoid being surprised without actually going outside? He needed rest! Moon briefly considered sight-joining with the horse and using the animal as a lookout, since it was so intent on watching the street anyway. But quickly he realised that his life force was too depleted for a sight-joining, even the basic kind.

He recalled the last time he had overdone it with 'the eye of the beast', and the humiliation it had cost him. During his training, when he'd first started enjoying success with the science, Eagle had warned him to pace himself. To rest up between experiments with his new skill, lest exhaustion take him by surprise. Swept along by the heady joy of mastering something new, he had ignored the warning. Three days in a row he'd enthusiastically linked himself to different creatures. First a dog, then a pigeon and finally, at sunset on the third day, a bat.

When he had been missed at the evening meal, Groundspider had searched for him. Finding him under a tree in a death-like sleep, the big oaf had been unable to resist the temptation to play a prank. With a stick of charcoal, Groundspider had carefully written 'turnip skull' and 'maker of foul gas' on Nanashi's forehead before carrying him to the dinner table where he had finally woken up. All through the meal Nanashi had felt uneasy at the wry smiles and crafty gleams in almost everyone's eyes. Badger alone had kept a straight face throughout. But that was him.

Just before bedtime, Heron, smiling behind her hand, had brought him a wet cloth and told him – in a tone of playful guilt – what had happened.

He had taken his revenge on Groundspider a month later, furtively smearing the ravenous one's rice bowl with an oil that brought on hours of diarrhoea.

Moonshadow closed his eyes, wishing he was home.

No, he could risk no sight-joining today, it was too soon, and more than a brotherly prank would await him if his enemies found him in a deep sleep.

Moon decided he would keep watch the hard way for a while. He crawled to the largest knothole in the door and began watching the street through it with one eye. Later, he would dig up the sack he had already buried at the back of the stable. In it lay the trappings of his next identity: the jacket, belt and wadded pants of a young merchant's clerk. He even had an abacus. Wrung out as he was, Moon smiled. The clothes-drying poles and laundries of Fushimi had served him well. Tomorrow, dressed as a clerk, he would proceed to the rendezvous point, where Grey Light Order agents would meet him. Whoever turned up would bring his last disguise, the one that would see him back to Edo. To safety, and to home.

A family of peasant farmers carrying baskets of vegetables drifted by. Further along the street, a wandering priest in a huge woven hat was trying to sell good luck charms to a pair of excitable teenage girls. Moonshadow looked the other way and gasped. A familiar, big-boned man carrying a long staff waddled towards the stable. Private Investigator Katsu! Still dressed as a town businessman, the snoop was going house to house alone, quietly checking the whole derelict street.

As Moon watched, Katsu flushed out a homeless outcast, a ragged older man wearing a faded red sash. Moon felt sad for the frail-looking fellow who bowed low to Katsu then scurried away between the buildings. The red sash, which he could never take off, meant he had been convicted of a serious crime, most likely a robbery. That sash was an order to anyone he met, an order to ignore him and offer no food, work or shelter. It was a living death sentence. Moon hung his head with a grim smile. At least that would never happen to him. Spies were always executed, the good old-fashioned way.

He watched on in horror. Katsu was striding for the stable door now, calling cheerfully, 'Hello, old horse!'

Moonshadow leapt to his feet. He made himself pant, summoning up his resolve, pooling all his remaining strength. Then he vaulted up into a corner of the stable facing the street. On the opposite side of the door to the horse's window, where the leaky ceiling met the rotting wall, he gripped the rafters, splayed out like a huge insect.

The door creaked open. Katsu peered around the doorframe first before stepping inside. He amiably patted the horse's flank, his eyes sweeping around the stable. The horse pulled its head inside and, with a friendly sputter, turned to watch the visitor. Moon, already struggling to maintain his grip, looked down on Katsu from behind.

Unlike a shinobi, this man did not begin searching a room by looking high and turning a circle. Detective or not, he was like most people: he barely looked up at all. Moon grinned. This fellow was not accustomed to dealing with spy-kind.

School time, Katsu!

Then his neck abruptly went weak. His last two sight-joinings, the carp and the cat, falling so close together, had already pushed him too far. Suddenly Moon could feel his vital ki energy, his life force, ebbing away. Hurry up, Detective, he thought tersely. Either give up and go, or look up and make me kill you. Either way, do it fast, please, before I faint and land at your feet.

Katsu took one end of his staff in both hands and started carefully probing the deep layer of scattered straw. Moonshadow's eyelids flickered. A dark wave rolled over him. He forced his eyes wide open. His left shoulder was throbbing hard now.

During every year of his training, he had worked with a bean-shaped straw dummy exactly matching his own weight at the time. He had lifted it fifty times a day and now could hold his body against most ceilings for over an hour.

But not this morning. A chill went through Moon as he realised it. In about thirty seconds, whether clinging up here or lying down there, he was going to black out.

Snowhawk crouched low in the thin alley across the road from the stable.

The big man swung the stable door shut with his staff as he exited. A tired-looking old horse poked its head out through a gap in the wall and the fellow turned around and patted its muzzle, saying goodbye.

She stayed in shadow, watching as the snoop stretched before plodding off down the street. It seemed his search of Fushimi's poor district was finished. If so, there was a mystery here. This searcher had obviously left empty-handed, yet Snowhawk could sense the boy spy in that stable. Surely he was the one hunted. So what was going on here?

Crossing the street, she furtively checked the big-boned figure ambling into the distance. Disguised now as a young weaver's apprentice in a drab hemp work kimono – a stolen one, of course – Snowhawk knew she could walk the streets unnoticed, at least by ordinary citizens. It was Silver Wolf's specialists, professionals like herself, that she had to be wary of. They too altered their appearance all the time. Her eyes flicked around. That hunchbacked farmer, one or all of those fit young brewery workers, anyone could be a shinobi in the service of Fushimi's lord. She stopped in front of the stable door. But her exceptional senses told her that only one like herself was nearby right now. Him.

He was in there, she could feel it. A clear, strong impression. If only she could avoid combat with him . . . get close enough to use her special talent. This boy was good, in fact, he was brilliant. Snowhawk smiled. But so were the last three warriors she had used her unique gift on. Before this day ended, those plans would be hers after all.

As she gripped the rattly door, a dull whump came from the other side of it. She knew that sound, she had made it herself more than once. A body landing in straw. Snowhawk frowned. It hadn't sounded like a very controlled landing, though. Too loud.

Maybe he was injured. Not too badly, she hoped! Snowhawk bit her lip. Why did she care? This was confusing. She would take the plans from him. She had to. But also, undeniably, she wanted to see him again. She had so many questions.

Why, what was the point? This hadn't happened to her before!

Snowhawk opened the creaky door slowly. There he was, stretched out in the straw, his face slightly ashen. Was he dying or critically exhausted? She slipped into the stable and closed the door. He was in the deep sleep of one utterly spent. She leaned over him. A strong face! Her eyes glided over his night suit to the leg armour.

He sat up sharply, one hand moving for his sword. Snowhawk leapt back into a defensive posture. His eyes focused then darted up and down as he studied her build and the crisp lines of her stance. Recognition flickered in his face.

'The ambush on the rain roof!' he whispered. 'It was you!'

For a moment his eyes were hard with alarm and wariness. Then they softened as he took in her face. The advantage was hers again: she'd be able to get close. Which meant victory!

She held up her hands and smiled. 'Don't kill me yet. First let me thank you properly for what you did back on the road.'

His tired eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'You didn't really need my help with those bandits.'

'Maybe not, but what you did was both brave and kind. Thank you.' Snowhawk bowed, keeping her gaze on him.

'Thank you,' he said coolly, 'for not killing me last night.'

Snowhawk raised her eyebrows. 'You're welcome.'

'Why didn't you kill me then?' The boy shook his head. 'You had the upper hand, yet chose not to use your sword. If you had, I'd be dead now and you'd have the plans. So tell me . . . why?'

She shrugged. 'I don't know.' But Snowhawk knew the curiosity burning in her eyes gave a more honest answer. She caught herself at it: wondering about him, about his life, who he served.

The mission! She had to take herself in hand and put the mission first. She dropped to her knees at the edge of the straw. He flinched, but let her stay there. Good! Despite any questions she might have, there was a job to do, an important, urgent job. Right now, only he stood in the way of its completion.

Snowhawk studied him. So now this boy knew she was his rival for the plans. It wasn't the first time her distinctive poise had betrayed her to another spy. Despite their rivalry, that other look in his eyes said he too would like to be friends. But would he let her get close enough? If he did, she had him!

'Can there be a truce between us?' he asked hopefully with a shy grin.

'On one condition.' She flashed her loveliest smile and saw it work on him. 'That you tell me your name. I'll give you mine too, of course. Then we can be . . .' Snowhawk creased her nose playfully, '. . . friends.'

The boy leaned forward. She sensed him weighing carefully what he would say next. 'My name is Nanashi.'

With an effort, Snowhawk kept her face passive. Nanashi? Wasn't that an Edo dialect word for 'nameless'? She crept forward softly. 'Pleased to meet you. I am Yuki.'

Snowhawk was certain he had lied, just as she had. They had been trained to. Why hadn't he bothered to give a more convincing name? No matter. He was sufficiently off-guard. It was time to get on with the task. She stole closer, looking deep into his eyes.

'You're as brave,' she whispered, 'as you are handsome.' She drew a soft breath and unleashed her most dangerous skill at him. Her stomach turned hot, her heart pounded. Snowhawk felt a familiar invisible energy surge from her eyes to his. But would he be that rare exception, would he prove immune to it? The boy's eyelids quickly sagged. No, he was susceptible, just like the others! She released another dose at him. His eyes almost closed. Part of her didn't want to go on, but she doggedly fired a third silent, powerful bolt.

Three had always been enough. The heat in her stomach faded. Her heart slowed.

Now his eyes glazed over. He fell back into the straw with a soft whump, eyes rolling back in his head just before their lids came down. She nodded. It was done.

He was in the grip of shinobi hypnosis now, hers to command or kill. She gave a weak, guilty smile. Or to spare.

Snowhawk darted forward and hovered over him. She patted his chest until she felt the bamboo tube. Slipping the thong from around his neck, she pulled the tube from his jacket. Holding it up, she unstoppered the end and took out the plans. A quick scan convinced her they were real. Snowhawk packed them away again then slipped the thong around her own neck. She glanced down at the boy. He began to snore.

'This, Nanashi, is not a sleep you can shake off,' she ordered her victim. 'You will now sleep all day, all night. If they don't find you first, you should wake feeling quite rested.'

She stood tall, looked down on him and shook her head.

'What a waste,' Snowhawk muttered. 'Now you'll be killed for failure.'

SEVENTEEN

To rob a

thief

The next day it began to rain just after dawn.

The downpour woke Moonshadow.

He sat up and looked around. The horse was staring at him, its ears twitching. He rose, feeling surprisingly refreshed as he dug up the sack. Moon quickly transformed into a young merchant's clerk, complete with an abacus dangling from his belt.

He stowed his spying tools in his backpack, then tied the pack and slung it beside another brand new item he had stolen: a reed-matting bedroll which hid his sword. He peered outside through the horse's spy-hole. The rain had driven most people indoors, but he couldn't afford to stay sensibly dry. Moon scowled. He had to find her and get those plans back, and fast. He closed his eyes, reaching out with his feelings, trying to sense shinobi energy. He felt something, but detecting other spies by impression was difficult, and had never been one of his strengths. Still, it was most likely her he felt, and nearby. He threw open the stable door. No time to lose: she wouldn't tarry long in Fushimi having snatched the objective from him.

Moon walked the streets in steady spring rain, watchful but grumbling under his breath. He wasn't just miserable. He was confused. Moon felt angry with her and with himself. He'd been plain stupid. Her sly tricks had swiped victory from his hands, or rather, from around his neck. This, his first real mission, meant everything, and he was desperate not to fail. But now, because of her –

Then he pictured her face. Yuki. Probably not her real name of course. But who was she? What was this Yuki really like? Moon caught himself grinning stupidly and let fly with a curse. He was two people today: a cold-blooded professional and an idiot who couldn't keep his mind on the job! This was all so strange. He was angry enough to hate that girl, yet the other half of him . . .

Moonshadow stopped, wet and frustrated. No trace of her. His trawling of the muddy streets had taken him in great circles, and now he was back where he had started. The poor street and its stable lay behind him.

Nearby stood the red shrine on the edge of town. There the main road widened as it curved its way out of Fushimi. Just over the next range of hills the road split, one fork turning north for the Tokaido, the other heading west to Kyoto.

An idea came to him. He hurried to the shrine, dodging muddy potholes in the road. The shrine's well-kept red buildings and massive wooden gate loomed in his path. Moon's eyes flicked to the property next door, a rich merchant's house.

Between the merchant's house and the busy main road was a walled garden. Moonshadow smiled secretively. There he could hide and wait for a bird to land. A bird that could fly, rain or no rain, all over town until it chanced upon her. He sighed, his shoulders falling. Maybe not a plan assured of success, but the best he could think of for now. After making certain that no one was watching, Moon leapt onto the high stone wall then down into the leafy garden.

He listened to the sound of the rain hissing in the garden's single large pond. No birds drinking from it now, but they would be along once the rain eased. He frowned. Where could she be hiding? He was still sensing shinobi energy, and it felt a little stronger now, so she wasn't far away. The rain began to ease. Every tree, vine and shrub dripped noisily. He turned a circle slowly, inspecting the garden.

Four stone walls enclosed it. Around the pond, small shrubs had been sculpted into dramatic shapes. The wall that separated the garden from the merchant's house was broken by a bamboo gate. On each side of the gate hung a thick curtain of vines. Moonshadow nestled himself into them, pressing his back against the stone wall. Now he could watch the pond from hiding.

As the rain settled down to a misting drizzle, the first bird arrived. A fat pigeon, it drank greedily, bathed, then began waddling around the pond, pecking for worms the rain had brought to the surface. Moon prepared to sight-join with the pigeon. This would be easy; he had linked to just this type of bird once before.

A black-and-white blur leapt silently from the outer wall to the ground. Moon's head turned sharply at the movement, then he smiled. The oddball temple cat! Either unaware of Moonshadow or ignoring him, the cat hunched low and commenced stalking the pigeon. Its tail swished as it crept along, belly almost dragging on the wet ground.

Voices drifted from beyond the wall. The cat turned its head towards the sounds. The pigeon, detecting movement at its back, made a quick airborne escape. Moon realised that with the rain slowing, the road would quickly grow busy again. People entering and leaving Fushimi would hurry about their business before more showers struck. His eyes lit up. People leaving. People like her. That was it! He turned and nodded at the cat. Here was a new way to watch for her while remaining unseen. More promising than the bird idea. And thanks to the garden and its vines, he could lie back and conserve energy at the same time. The cat stared at him for a moment. Then it turned, coiled itself and bounded back onto the top of the outer wall. Moon grinned, mouthing 'thank you'. Had the creature read his mind? Perhaps the natural rapport between them was even stronger than he had realised. He watched the animal pace busily up and down the wall.

The rain stopped. Moonshadow linked himself with the cat, then lay back in the vines with his eyes closed, seeing only what the cat saw, and conserving his life force. After a long back stretch, the temple cat relaxed into a lazy, seated hunch, grooming its damp face with one paw as it watched the passers-by on the road below its perch.

New voices came from beyond the wall. The air felt freshly scrubbed now and Fushimi was coming to life. The trickle of people exiting and entering town had doubled in just a few minutes. No one was wasting the break in the rain.

Through the temple cat's eyes Moon studied every woman, girl and lightly built male passing the wall on their way out of Fushimi. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that Yuki would try to sneak out of town this way, blending with the human traffic as before. In some new disguise, of course. Why, Moon asked himself, did he feel so certain? He smiled. Because it was exactly what he would do.

Only another minute passed before he was proved right. Through the beast sight's usual watery veil he spotted her. The first thing his trained eye recognised was the perfectly balanced stride of those willowy legs. As she approached from the poor street, he could make out her face. His stomach fluttered.

She was now disguised as a girl-pilgrim and, judging by the pack on her back, was definitely leaving town. He smiled at the bedroll she shouldered, knowing what was hidden in there. Yuki had stolen a paper cloak, a straw hat, and even a blue sash that read: Pilgrim bound for the shrine at Ise. Donations please.

He almost chuckled. She was so cheeky! She planned to give him – and everybody else – the slip, wearing exactly the same disguise he had worn on the way in. Moonshadow grinned at her boldness. He had to admit, it was a nice touch.

As she neared the wall, he frowned. He knew he wasn't good at this, but why did the energy he was sensing feel the same? Now that she was so close, he should feel her presence more intensely, but the impression was no different. He shook his head, breaking the link with the cat at the same time. At least he had found her now and it was all straightforward from here. He'd follow her out of town. Get the plans back. What then? He'd have to work that out as he went along.

Moon leapt up onto the outer wall. The cat was startled and it glared at him but stood its ground. He checked in every direction. Only a small boy, tagging along behind his farmer parents, had seen him land. Moon watched the back of Yuki's hat as she strode away. He'd let her go a little further, then he would spring down and shadow her.

Abruptly she stopped and began looking around. He hunched low. Had she sensed him? The cat hissed and leapt from the wall. Moon stiffened as he watched it run through the garden and vanish under the bamboo gate. Now he felt it too: not just a vague impression of a shinobi presence, but a real sense of danger.

Just as he glanced back to the girl, men and horses came rushing at her from all sides. He recognised the four attackers at once. The two men on foot were Jiro, Silver Wolf's pet gangster and Akira, always the man in black. The other two, on horseback, were the same samurai he had encountered on the castle's high walkway. Moon ground his teeth together with tension. They must have identified her earlier and set this trap. His eyes flicked to Akira. Yes, Mister Black Robe there must have sensed her. He really was the real menace of this little team.

The girl took off her straw hat and threw it aside. She drew her shinobi sword then dropped its bedroll covering to the mud. At the sight of a ready blade, the passing peasants and townsfolk scattered in all directions, some of them screaming.

Her attackers circled her on the wide road. Moon could not tear his eyes from her face. Yuki raised her chin, adopting a proud, warlike stance. His heart beat faster. Her eyes filled with fire. He stared without blinking. She was incredible!

Thick grey spools lying against the horses' saddles caught his eye. Moon focused on them. Each mounted samurai was carrying a long chain, looped many times.

The tall samurai pulled his beast to a halt then raised a length of chain between his hands. A small, eight-sided iron weight hung at the end. Moonshadow gaped. That type of weighted chain was used to stun, not kill. So they intended to take her alive. Silver Wolf not only wanted his plans back, but answers, too. She would not be treated kindly.

'Now!' Akira shouted. Each samurai dangled his weight a short length beside his horse, then, swaying back and forth in the saddle, set it rotating. As the strips of chain spun and gained momentum, whirring filled the air. The street was empty now apart from the girl and her enemies. Shutters slammed on nearby houses. Word had travelled fast that trouble was brewing, the kind that involved men from the castle and swordplay.

Moon's hands balled into fists. He couldn't let them take her. Suddenly the plans she carried were the last thing on his mind. He didn't know why, but all he cared about right now was rescuing the girl who called herself Yuki. He pulled his backpack to one side and rummaged in it for a percussion-triggered smoke bomb. Then he drew his sword from its hiding place and bounded from the wall to the muddy street below.

The Deathless held his sword out before him. Silently pushing through the vines, he moved away from the wall. He stood tall, stretched and let out a disappointed sigh.

'So close, Runt, so very close,' he muttered.

The assassin sheathed his sword and listened to the sounds coming from over the wall. Shouts, hoof-stamps, the whirring of the capture chains.

The cruel hand of chance he had just suffered made him shake his head. He had been seconds away from ambushing the boy-spy. Alone and unexpected, just the way he liked it.

On arrival, for some reason his target hadn't sensed him resting inside the garden's thick wall of vines. Or perhaps he had, mistakenly thinking the energy he felt belonged to the girl? The Deathless had bided his time, watching the boy nestle into the vines a few paces to his left.

He had thought himself gifted with the best timing and luckiest break ever. Then, just as he'd prepared to make his move, that pesky girl had passed by and somehow, his target had known it. Now, hell itself was breaking loose and the opportunity was lost.

A deep voice the other side of the wall cried, 'Who cares? Surround them both!' It was Akira, springing his little trap. The Deathless walked up to the outer wall, then turned and sat down, putting his broad back against it.

'Go ahead, fools,' he said to himself. 'Take down the girl and have your last try at the boy. You need each other's help. I work alone.' He cocked his head to one side, listening. 'But feel free to tire him for me first.' The Deathless rubbed his sword shoulder. 'Soon, young man, we'll dance,' he grinned. 'Then one must fall.'

EIGHTEEN

Mud and

smoke

'What are you doing, Nanashi?' The girl gaped at him.

He put his back to hers. 'It's Moonshadow,' he muttered quickly, raising his sword and pointing its tip at the nearest samurai rider's whirling chain. 'We'll settle our matter later!' Moon turned and gave her a determined glance. Their eyes met for an instant. 'I won't let them take you, Yuki.'

Her face glowed with a mix of surprise and delight. 'Snowhawk,' she nodded, then she turned her back to his, her expression growing fierce once more.

'I said surround them!' Akira growled. 'Space yourselves evenly!'

The tallest samurai rode closer, controlling his horse's reigns with one hand. He pulled the animal to a sliding halt on the muddy street then launched the end of his rotating chain at Moonshadow. The eight-sided weight flashed past Snowhawk, grey links noisily snaking out behind it. Moon dropped into a crouch and the weight whiplashed just above his head as its chain snapped taut. He flicked up the blunt edge of his sword, trying to tangle the chain, but it was quickly yanked out of range. The samurai reeled it in, then started the weight spinning again.

Turning fast on his horse, the short samurai moved behind Snowhawk and lined her up with the grey vertical disc of his spinning chain. He lurched forward in the saddle, releasing the weighted end. It flew at her.

'Down!' Moon yelled. Snowhawk threw herself into a forward roll. The weight flicked the end-strands of her hair as she tumbled away.

Akira ran to fill a gap in the circle of attackers, raising his sword as he dropped into a combat stance. Its tip pointed at Moon's throat.

'You and I, boy!' Akira shouted confidently. 'Come on, just us . . . how about it?'

Jiro scrambled around the moving circle until he was behind Moon. Moonshadow sensed a presence at his back and turned his head. Jiro raised a shuriken in each hand. He waited until Moon glanced back at Akira again, then he hurled the first one.

Out of the corner of his eye, Moonshadow saw Snowhawk's mouth tighten. Her sword rose fast. Abruptly she lunged at him. For a split second he thought it meant betrayal and instinctively raised his own sword. Then he heard the fff of a shuriken closing on his head from behind and he knew. Moonshadow froze. Snowhawk's blade swished past his head to block the shuriken with a loud clang. The spent black throwing knife spun away in a high arc, plunging into the walled garden.

Jiro lobbed his second shuriken, aiming for Snowhawk. She was ready for it and dodged, gripping Moon's sleeve and pulling him out of harm's way. The shuriken streaked near the pair's heads then narrowly missed Akira. It glanced off the wall, close to the assassin's elbow, before spiralling into the mud.

'Do that again Jiro,' Akira shouted with a red face, 'and I will kill you!'

'Yeah, sure,' Jiro called indifferently, taking new shurikens from his jacket.

The tall samurai prepared to let fly once more with his chain. His partner made ready to launch a simultaneous attack from a different angle.

'Two at once!' Moonshadow hissed in her ear. 'That way!'

He and Snowhawk jumped, as hard and high as they could, in the direction of the wall. The two weighted chains rocketed across each other with an edgy grinding sound, almost tangling right where their targets had stood. The two samurai pulled the chains apart and reeled them in fast.

Snowhawk and Moon landed beside the wall but were given no time to think. Akira rushed them. Jiro raised a shuriken in each hand, shuffling sideways as he tried to set up a throwing angle without Akira in the line of fire.

'Take the offensive,' Snowhawk grunted. 'Push through them to the shrine!'

Moon gave her a nod and then bounded forward to meet Akira, who looked pleased that his foe seemed keen to fight. But as Moon closed in, he stretched out and hacked fast with the tip of his sword, at the same time launching himself into a powerful jump.

Akira was startled by the tricky move and, as he raised a block to Moon's flashing blade, Moon somersaulted over him then hit the ground running. Akira turned and gave chase. Moon dashed alongside the wall for the great red gate of the shrine.

He looked back. Snowhawk had just blocked a shuriken attack with her blade and now she was running in a zigzag at Jiro. Jiro grinned and skipped backwards, drawing a dagger.

Moon spun about and traded several cuts and blocks with Akira. Then the two faced off, swords extended, each waiting for the other to make a move and, hopefully, a mistake. Moonshadow glanced sideways. How was she doing?

Jiro had backed away from Snowhawk, dagger in one hand, a shuriken in the other. The two watched each other now with equally ferocious, scheming eyes. He was preparing to throw, she to block. Another tense stand-off.

Hoofs stamped and gouged the mud as the mounted samurai took up new positions, their chains whirling again. Moon snorted with resolve. This couldn't go on. Eventually, he and Snowhawk would be worn down, then brought down with those chains. He sprang backwards out of Akira's sword range and caught Snowhawk's eye. She glanced at Jiro's hands then back at Moon.

When their eyes were briefly locked, Moonshadow mouthed the word gate. He held a fist against his belly and flicked his fingers open quickly, suggesting an explosion.

Snowhawk gave a tiny nod then resumed watching Jiro's twitching shuriken hand.

The samurai closed in, this time both targeting Moonshadow. Akira stole a sideways look at them then stepped back out of the field of fire. Moon's hand flashed into his jacket, fingers closing around the smoke bomb.

'Now!' he shouted. He drew the percussion-triggered pellet and hurled it hard at the ground near Akira's feet. Unsure of what was coming at him, Akira bounded to one side, sword swooping across his belly, ready to block.

The smoke bomb went off with a low hiss. Jiro threw his shuriken. The samurai launched their chain weights. Moonshadow and Snowhawk each vaulted into the plume of smoke as it quickly expanded along the wall. In seconds it was a dense white cloud.

He heard Snowhawk give a sharp cry of pain. His stomach knotted. Had that last shuriken found its mark? Through the cloud came two heavy thuds as weights hit the wall nearby. The white cloud grew larger still and Moon could tell his bomb's smokescreen powder was about to run out. Suddenly Snowhawk loomed in front of him. With gritted teeth she pulled a shuriken from one shoulder.

'I'm hit,' she whispered angrily, 'but it's nothing, I can still fight!'

'You in there, girl?' Jiro's mocking voice pierced the white fog. 'I got you, didn't I? Oh, that's right . . . did I forget to mention? I really wanted a win this time, so you know what I did? I had the points of these shurikens dipped. In sleeping potion!'

'He's bluffing,' Moon hissed. Snowhawk covered her wound, shaking her head.

'Feeling tired yet?' Jiro gave a high-pitched giggle. 'Here! Try some more!'

A blindly thrown shuriken whizzed through the cloud. It ricocheted off the wall near their heads. The pair bobbed low. Moonshadow gestured quickly.

'Jump for the gate,' he panted, speaking into her ear, 'the shrine, then uphill.'

Despite her injury, Snowhawk's face lit up as she grasped his meaning. If they fled uphill to where the streets were both steep and muddy, these samurai would have trouble controlling their horses.

Side by side they leapt hard for the shrine gate, half-hidden already by the smoky curtain, just as the tip of Akira's sword sang through the white fog where Moon's head had been.

They ran through the grounds of the shrine, shurikens blurring past them. Hurdling over a low fence, the duo tore uphill along a street of fancy homes where the town's wealthy merchants lived. With every footfall they splashed each other with dark mud and water.

Moon saw Snowhawk start to lag behind him as they pounded higher. He muttered a curse on Jiro. The gangster hadn't been bluffing. The potion was affecting her already.

The street ended at the foot of the sake brewery, where the pair ran for the cover of the three massive wooden vats. They crouched together behind a thick upright beam that was part of one vat's support tower. Moonshadow leaned out, peering downhill.

Snowhawk rubbed her shoulder. 'I hate being so close to the castle again.'

'Me too,' he panted heavily, 'but this must be the only dry ground left in town. We need to lose them before we leave Fushimi, or we'll only wind up fighting them in some field or forest, with a lot fewer places to hide.'

'Agreed. Can you see them?' Snowhawk gasped, her eyes gliding left and right.

'No, but we can't relax,' he warned her. 'They could be flanking us as we speak. There are back lanes you can't see from here. They run from near the shrine to the far side of the brewery. Wait!' He turned his head sharply. 'I think I heard a horse!'

Snowhawk grabbed his arm. He looked at her.

'I feel someone behind us,' she whispered.

Moon leapt to his feet and turned, raising his sword.

Under the vat farthest away, Akira was striding towards them, his blade at the ready. The man in black. He must have circled behind the brewery. Perhaps trying to flush them out. Moon looked quickly in all directions. So where were the others?

'Run,' he told Snowhawk, 'back onto the street, head downhill again. Remember about the horses, avoid flat ground.' She shook her head. 'Go!' he snapped, pushing her.

She hesitated, then crept between the beams that supported the vats. Moon watched her weave past the outermost uprights to the mud before he turned.

'Come! I'm in the mood now,' he gestured to Akira. 'Let's get this over with!'

Akira flashed his cold smile. 'It was nice never knowing you,' he said. He took a deep breath and rushed Moon.

Once he was within sword-reach, Akira dropped to one knee, turning his weapon and hacking hard left to right on a horizontal plane. Moon knew the shin-cutting move and jumped over the flashing blade. As he landed he brought his own sword down fast, aiming for Akira's head, but the experienced foe recovered from his swing with blinding speed. Akira's sword turned, darted up and blocked Moon's attack.

The shinobi swords locked together with a dull ring then slid noisily down each other's lengths until their square hand guards clanked together. Moon found himself face to face with Akira as each of them tried, leaning in hard, to force the other one back. He knew they both had the same plan: push the foe off, free the sword, strike at close range.

Moonshadow forced Akira back a step. Akira snarled at him, teeth gnashing with effort. Then Moon heard Snowhawk roar a battle cry out on the street.

'Go on!' Akira's eyes twinkled, his head shone with sweat. 'Turn, have a look!'

Ignoring the bait, Moonshadow gave a furious thrust. Akira went with the shove's momentum, pulled his sword free of the clench and slashed for Moon's neck. Moon narrowly ducked the cut, which lopped off a muddy bundle of his hair. He spun around and darted quickly through the support beams to the street. Moon knew Akira would follow. It didn't matter. This might be his only chance to rejoin Snowhawk.

As his sandals met the mud, he saw her predicament. Snowhawk had fled only a dozen paces downhill before the mounted samurai had appeared, closing on her quickly from one side of the brewery. From the other direction loomed Jiro, his chest heaving from running uphill, a shuriken already poised in each of his hands.

Moon cursed him again. Didn't this fellow ever run out of ammunition?

The samurai started whirling their chains as they cut off Snowhawk's escape with their horses. But moving on the steep hillside was no easy task: both animals' hoofs slid in the deep mud, making their riders' every manoeuvre difficult. Moon smiled as he watched the horses struggle. This was good. Now they had a handicap. It had been wise coming up here. The sound of the turning chains grew louder. The samurai converged.

'Back to me!' he shouted to Snowhawk. Moonshadow turned to find Akira almost within striking range. But the assassin suddenly stopped, his sword drooping, eyes flicking to something behind Moon. Something coming at him, maybe?

Akira jumped back. Moonshadow's instincts told him to duck and as he did, a weight streaked just above his head, dragging a chain behind it.

The weight and its tail of chain narrowly passed the thick upright beam supporting the outermost vat. As the chain grew taut, the weight orbited the support pole and abruptly dropped over the now fully extended chain. The weight swung around and around the chain, tangling in ever-tighter loops.

Moon gave a satisfied grunt. The tallest samurai had now – accidentally – tied his horse to this tower with his length of chain. The vat sat too low for its rider to simply gallop under and unhook his capture weapon. This was a great opportunity, but it wouldn't last long.

'Push him downhill!' Moon yelled to Snowhawk. She gave a sharp nod.

Akira bounded forward and sliced for his arm, but Moon dodged clear and ran out onto the hillside, straight for the samurai whose chain had tangled. Snowhawk did the same, her sword's tip swishing for the rider's nearest leg.

The tall samurai panicked as the two spies came at him, raking and stabbing the air, frightening his horse. With his hands full controlling his reigns and the chain that was anchored to his saddle, he couldn't draw a sword. Retreat was the only option. His smaller partner looked on helplessly as the tall samurai turned his horse and tried to escape downhill. With the horse's skittish movements, the chain had regained some slack but now it snapped tight again, jerking the big animal to a skidding halt and almost flinging its rider from his saddle. As the horse scrambled, its hooves slid in the mud and the chain relaxed then tensed again. The support beam under the outermost vat gave a menacing creak.

Akira glanced up at the chained tower and then ran clear. The horse neighed anxiously, sliding a little downhill, mud covering its hoofs. Its chain was wrenched taut again. After more loud creaking, a wet splintering sound came from under the vat. The samurai tried to control his distressed animal, but the horse made as if to bolt downhill, giving the chain its most powerful tug yet. With a thunderous crack the support beam came away from the bottom of the vat.

Moon blinked at the unfolding damage. The thick timber's base had stayed in the ground, but as the horse strained forward its chain dragged the top of the beam out over the street at a sharp angle. The vat above it groaned and one side lurched.

Snowhawk swayed on the spot. Moon ran up to her, snatched a grip on her sleeve and together they ran downhill, their highly honed balancing skills keeping them upright on the treacherous wet ground. A shuriken hurtled past, so they scurried into a zigzag run. Neither looked back until they were halfway down the hill. Then Akira and Jiro intercepted them, one darting in from each side.

Moon and Snowhawk again went back-to-back.

'I feel weak,' she whispered to him. 'As if I may faint. You should –'

'Forget it,' he elbowed her gently. 'I won't leave you.'

A raucous series of cracks and snaps came from the brewery towers. Moon couldn't see exactly what caused the sounds, but glancing uphill he quickly placed their other two opponents.

The tall samurai, his horse still attached to the beam, was hunched over his saddle, trying to release the chain. About twenty paces from him, his partner's horse had lost its footing completely and fallen onto its side, pinning its rider in the mud by one leg.

Jiro held up his usual shuriken in each hand. 'My last pair! Let's see you dodge these up close!' He made for the duo, his every step spattering his clothes with mud.

Akira dashed in also, his steps lighter, every move more agile and controlled. His look of resolve showed that he too planned to end the game now.

From above came a great roaring crraacckk! It was followed by a series of wet, heavy thuds and thunks, then splintering sounds and the damp tinklings of bamboos and planks tumbling together.

'What's that?' Jiro scowled. 'Some new shinobi trick?' He sneaked a look uphill, but was afraid to take his eyes from Snowhawk for too long. 'Something's falling!'

Akira kept his gaze locked on Moon. Moonshadow decided to take a chance. With lightning speed he glanced up at the towers then back to his opponent.

What he saw made his blood run cold. The outermost brewery vat had toppled from its weakened tower. It had broken open, dumping enough pale rice pulp to fill a pond, and now it was rolling downhill on its side. Round wooden tower braces and long pipes made from giant bamboo had also been torn free. They tumbled downhill around it.

The four of them stood in the path of the oncoming debris. Moonshadow gripped his sword tightly, eyeing Akira.

'The vat's fallen, it's coming!' he warned.

'Nice try!' Akira smiled. 'I look away, you'll cut me!'

A deep shout and wet rumbling from above made them all look. The rolling vat had crushed the tallest samurai and his horse into the mud and was bearing down on them now with only seconds to spare. Jiro shrieked as they scattered. Snowhawk plucked up the last of her strength and bounded after the gangster. Startled as she landed behind him, Jiro threw himself into the mud and rolled hard to escape both the vat and the reach of her sword. Moonshadow leapt out of the vat's path and was surprised when Akira also jumped high and fast. The vat thundered past them downhill, losing planks as it rolled. Moon looked around and quickly bounded again, barely avoiding a tumbling tower brace. Akira saw a thick length of bamboo pipe hurtling for him and rather than jump once more he cut it in two. A great slimy film of pale rice pulp trailed the debris down the hill, expanding as it came. An odour of rotting plants filled the air.

Once the four had regained their footing, they watched the vat finally come apart like a ruptured barrel. Blocking the street at the bottom of the hill, it crumbled noisily into a pile of gnarled timber and iron hooping. With whumps and rattles, the rolling bamboo pipes and tower braces caught up, landing all around the straggly heap.

Moon twirled back to face Akira. The distance between them was greater now. He had time to turn, make sure that Snowhawk was safe. Moon looked and wished he hadn't.

Snowhawk staggered, her sword extended towards Jiro, her arm faltering. Moon gasped as her legs buckled and she collapsed into the mud. Jiro ran forward, drawing his dagger, looming over her. Moonshadow felt his heart skip several beats.

'No, Jiro,' Akira shook his head firmly. 'Our Lord was adamant. He wants her alive!'

Moon ground his teeth. That treacherous hill and the happy accident of the vat had handed them an advantage, reducing the odds from four against two to even. Snowhawk's collapse had just snatched it away again. Now it was two against one.

'Well, it'll be me who brings you down!' Jiro stepped forward and hurled his two shuriken in rapid succession. Moon's sword streaked from its ready position to block the first missile with a loud shing. The shuriken blurred away downhill. Moon checked himself quickly. He wasn't wounded. So where had that second one gone?

He glanced at Akira, only to find the assassin examining a brand new slash high on the sleeve of his black jacket. Jiro's second shuriken had clipped him. Had it cut his clothing only, or actually broken the skin? Would he soon fall, like Snowhawk?

'Excuse me one moment, will you boy?' Akira gave Moon a polite bow then moved around him cautiously. Suddenly he turned and paced for Jiro. 'I warned you!' he growled, sheathing his sword.

Jiro sniggered amiably as if it was all a joke, but he held out his dagger. 'Hey now . . . come on, let's not get crazy here . . . the kid there's the enemy, right?' Akira kept coming. Jiro's face hardened. 'Oh, like that then, is it? Think I'm afraid of you, old man? Man with the big reputation! Your sword may be longer than my knife, but what –'

Moon followed the gangster's stare. To his astonishment, Akira had pulled a shuriken of his own from his black robe. He held it high. It wasn't star-like, as Jiro's were. It had only four long, thin points.

'A professional,' Akira said coolly, 'needs only one.'

'Don't do it!' Jiro backed away. 'I'm not in the contract!'

'Gangster scum,' Akira sniffed. 'Only shinobi or samurai deserve to die by the sword.'

Jiro's bottom lip trembled and he talked faster than ever. 'Kill me, with this kid still alive and untouched, and you'll answer to Silver Wolf, you know you will!'

Akira stopped and gave a frustrated sigh. 'You're right, killing you would be a mistake.' With amazing speed he hurled the shuriken at Jiro. The gangster tried to block it with his dagger, but it flashed under his blade and straight into his knee. The whump of its impact made Moon wince. 'But I can take you out of the game!' Akira snarled.

Jiro dropped his dagger and looked down at the shuriken sticking from his kneecap. He started to pull his stupid grin, then his face twisted with pain.

'That really hurts,' Jiro said hoarsely, 'Dirty trick, getting me with my own –' Jiro's eyes rolled back in his head as he fainted, falling hard into the mud. Moon's mouth twisted as he considered Jiro's injury. He wouldn't walk for months.

Akira turned to Moonshadow, drawing his sword as he spoke. 'Now let's end this as we should: a contest of equals. My name is Akira.'

'I know,' Moon gave a quick bow. 'I am Moonshadow.'

His enemy's eyes twinkled. 'Like the sword move?' Akira almost smiled.

'Exactly,' Moon said.

'Then I invite you,' Akira bated, 'to try your signature technique against me.' His face lit up menacingly. 'But be warned: I've seen it before.'

'So had the last man I used it on,' Moonshadow readied his blade.

A moment of silence passed before they rushed each other.

NINETEEN

Moonshadow

The hillside rang with the sounds of clashing steel as Moonshadow and Akira exchanged a flurry of strikes and counters. There were many near misses, but no one was cut.

Panting, they jumped back from one another. Moon swallowed. Akira appeared to be every bit as skilled with a sword as he. How to defeat him, without going all the way and taking his life? He concentrated, clearing his mind, thinking quickly. What would Mantis do now, if he was fighting this fellow in the open, in a daylight duel? There could be no exploiting the cover of a shadow this time. And as for being unpredictable yet again . . . how? Picturing his trainer's soft but cunning eyes inspired him.

Every duel is a gamble, a contest of wits. Figure out what your enemy expects, Mantis would often say, then do the opposite. Moonshadow narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. Many duelling defences began with the swordsman in a low stance, or kneeling on the ground. From that position, Moon might launch any one of thirty techniques. The last one Akira would expect was the very one they had just bantered about. His signature technique. But if Akira read the signals fast enough, and guessed their meaning, Moon was finished. He scowled. Every duel is a gamble.

Moonshadow paced backwards away from Akira, then rummaged in his back-mounted bedroll. Akira watched him intently, frowning. Moon took his sword's scabbard from the bedroll, sheathed his blade then carefully mounted it on his left hip. He turned and faced the castle, sinking to his knees, rocking back on his heels in the mud.

'No shinobi tricks now,' Akira took a step forward, 'this is a clash of swords!'

Approaching at an angle, Akira strode towards Moon, who remained on his heels, seeming to ignore his advancing enemy. Moon rested his palms on his thighs and stared off beyond the distant moat. His eyes grew dreamy and he seemed unprepared for combat. Worse still, by kneeling on the ground he had given Akira a height advantage. Akira eyed him suspiciously, then, deciding to take the opportunity anyway, he accelerated into a charge. His sword swung up and over his head, ready for a powerful descending cut.

His target let him come. At the last possible, critical moment, Moon grasped his sword with one hand and his sheath with the other and turned his knees, using the mud to slide around so he could face his attacker. In a flash he rose up onto one foot. Planting his weight firmly, he drew the pommel of his sword towards Akira.

The man in black bore down on him, sword poised to fall. Moonshadow sprang into a low angular stance, his blade and scabbard parting in an explosive fast draw. His sword rose with lightning speed, swishing as it traced the shape of a crescent moon. The first third of its blade bit into Akira's raised forearms before he could swing his strong downward cut.

On impact Moon's sword gave a double clunk which told him that under those long black sleeves, Akira's forearms were protected by armour.

No shinobi tricks? Moon cursed under his breath. Akira had come prepared for anything with a trick of his own.

He heard Snowhawk stir and let out a cry of pain. His throat began to close with tension, but he willed himself to concentrate. If he lost his focus now, Akira would slay him, then take her to Silver Wolf and the unthinkable would befall her.

With deep scraping sounds armour and sword ground together. In a split second Moon relived his last duel with Groundspider. But that had been a rehearsal; this was life and death. Akira's cold eyes bored into him. Moon avoided them and stared at Akira's sword shoulder. A harder target than the man's head, but –

Taking a deep breath, he made his decision.

He set his teeth and pushed with everything he had, channelling all his strength and bodyweight into his sword to shove Akira back as he had under the brewery tower. He needed but a small gap between them in order to pull back his blade and strike with decisive speed. Moonshadow roared as he finished the great push.

Rammed backwards with unexpected power, Akira's feet slid and he lost his balance on the muddy ground. As he narrowly avoided stumbling, the gap Moon had needed briefly opened. He took a long single stride then struck once, hard, with a powerful cut aimed straight for his enemy's sword shoulder. His weapon's tip met Akira's jacket and there was a dull snick, the sound of a blade cutting fabric. Akira shuddered and both fighters froze on the spot. Moon stood fast, watching, with his sword extended and its tip buried in Akira's shoulder.

Akira stood motionless, gripping his own weapon tightly, eyes fixed with concentration. Then he stepped back, pulling his shoulder clear of Moon's sword. Akira swayed. His weapon tumbled from his hands. He sank to one knee in the mud.

'Congratulations,' Akira said tersely, clutching his shoulder. 'Resorting to the obvious! Crafty pup, you pulled it off.'

'Thanks,' Moon shook off his sword and sheathed it on his hip.

Akira closed his eyes. Pressing his wound with both hands, he fell sideways into the mud. Soft rain began to fall. Akira slowly scooped a handful of mud and used it to staunch the bleeding from the cut in his shoulder.

His chest heaving, Moon wiped sweat and grime from his eyes and blinked at his fallen enemy. He'd been sorely tempted to kill Akira, but now he understood what Mantis had been trying to tell him. Whether done with so-called honour or not, a wise man found no glory in killing. Enemy or not, Akira was brave and skilful. A professional spy, like Moon, cunning and inventive. He had simply been on the other side, that was all. Moon had been forced to put him out of the game, just as Akira had Jiro, but he had not scattered this grain of life.

He could hear his teacher's voice in his head. Even the sword that serves justice is still an instrument of death. Moonshadow nodded. To live with regrets as Mantis did was the burden of all warriors with true hearts and minds. Regrets! At least so far, he had created none. Mantis would be proud of him, and happy for him.

'Don't try to follow me, Akira-San,' Moon bowed to his foe. 'In overcoming you, I was simply lucky. But you're wounded now, so next time, I won't need luck.' He smiled grimly, his eyes flicking to the crumpled form of Jiro. 'By the way, Akira-San, nice shuriken throw!'

Moonshadow ran to Snowhawk. Raising her from the mud, he cradled her in his arms. She was breathing and her eyelids fluttered. Moon checked over his shoulder. Akira lay still, gripping his cut shoulder tightly. His face was drawn with pain, but he gave Moonshadow the faintest hint of a nod.

Feet splashed the mud behind him. Moon turned his head to the sounds. A stooped town watch man with grey hair was struggling up the hill, using his closed paper umbrella as a walking stick.

'Young sir,' the man called anxiously, 'is it over? Is it safe now?' He looked at the debris and bodies strewn on the muddy hillside. 'What a mess you've made of our town, that is . . . well, what I mean to say . . . thank the gods you're unhurt!'

Moon fished quickly in his belt with one hand and pulled out a string of silver coins. He caught the town watchman's eye then threw him the money.

'That's for the damage. And to pay a doctor. See to the man in black.' Moon pointed at Akira then sighed, nodding at the motionless Jiro. 'The gangster, too.'

'Not this young lady also?' The watchman frowned.

'I'll see to her. If anyone from the castle asks you, tell them we took the road to the highway,' Moon flashed him a stern look, 'understand?'

The watchman tested the weight of the coins with one hand. His wrinkled face lit up. Moon had thrown him a great deal of money.

'It will all be done, young sir,' he said eagerly, 'before all the kami, all the old gods, I swear. Oh, and to Amida Buddha himself too, I promise!'

Moon looked down at Snowhawk as the watchman turned away. Under his breath he prayed, 'Please, Lord Buddha, don't guide this one to paradise yet.'

Tangled, dirty hair hung over Snowhawk's face. She was breathing, but in a fitful, half-drugged sleep. In the grip of the potion. At least, Moon thought, if it was of a common formula, its effects would be short-lived. She would need water, lots of it. He sighed heavily. Partly with relief because she was alive, but also for what he had to do, regardless of her condition. Or wishes.

He gently untangled the leather thong from her hair and slipped it over her head. Snowhawk opened one eye. She saw the thong dangling from his fist and tried without success to raise one hand.

'Nooo,' Snowhawk pleaded, her voice low and weak.

'Sorry,' Moon put the thong around his neck and fed the plans into his jacket.

'If I return without them, I'm as good as dead,' Snowhawk whispered.

'You're not returning,' he said firmly, 'with or without them!' He hugged her to his chest. 'My people don't kill agents for failure, they retrain them. You're coming with me.'

'All shadow clans kill spies who fail,' she muttered. 'Or make them kill themselves.'

'Maybe so,' Moon paused, then decided to take another big gamble. 'But I am not of a shadow clan. I am of the Grey Light, the Shogun's secret service. Come with me; let me beg my masters that you might join us. Do your masters deserve your loyalty? They might have trained you well, but one day they'll slay you for a mistake. We never would.' His voice broke with emotion. 'Do you hear me? We never would!'

He struggled to his feet, dragging Snowhawk to hers. Her legs buckled immediately and he barely held her up.

'They'll hunt me,' she gasped.

'No,' he said stubbornly. 'They will believe you dead, or my prisoner.'

Moon looked into her face. She opened one eye, gave a faint smile then fell back to sleep. He threw her over his shoulder and started across the hillside.

With the fighting over, shutters were opening along the streets that faced the battlefield. Wary-faced locals reappeared, inspecting the damage and the wounded. As he moved carefully through the mud, Moon's eyes quickly swept the hill.

The tallest samurai's horse was motionless and looked dead, but to Moon's amazement its rider was alive. Moonshadow's sharp ears could make out the fellow's groans as two brewery workers started tugging at the pile of debris that half-covered the man and his horse. Moon shook his head. The spongy mud had probably saved him from being crushed, but he would have broken arms and ribs at the very least.

His colleague, the smaller samurai, was being freed from beneath his fallen horse. A muscular farmer and three women were helping the exhausted animal to stand, while a merchant's labourer dragged the samurai clear. The smaller samurai's leg looked broken.

Moon heard hooves thrumming loudly on wooden planks so he peered over the moat to the castle's main gate. Two by two, a column of men rode out, perhaps twenty samurai in all, the leading pair carrying spears.

He scrambled away as fast as the mud would allow. Carrying the now drowsy, mumbling girl, Moonshadow ran the length of the rich merchants' street. When he reached the end of the road and the town itself, he slipped unseen into a lane between two houses then out, across a thin track and into a dense pine forest.

Two new problems nagged at his mind as he hurried on, teeth locked together hard with the effort of carrying Snowhawk.

First, would the Grey Light Order accept Snowhawk, make her one of their own? If she turned to them, would they ever fully trust one who had betrayed her own shadow clan? And what of his part in her defection? He was breaking rules, violating protocols of secrecy, true, but she also represented a great opportunity for his order, and therefore for the Shogun. If Snowhawk truly turned, she would be able to tell them much about their secret enemies, perhaps even about the rebellion!

He thought of Eagle's wisdom, Mantis's compassion and Heron's caring heart. They just might do it! To save her life, it was worth taking the risk and, if all else failed, he would plead with them to have the White Nun visit and assess Snowhawk. The White Nun's astonishing insight would tell his masters what his heart already knew: Snowhawk was an unmet friend, both to him and to the Grey Light Order. It was destiny, the kind of unexpected twist of fate that Brother Eagle had tried explaining to him, and he felt it from the pit of his stomach to the crown of his head. Once she was conscious, he would try to win her cooperation with his plan, to convince her to take the risk. He prayed she would listen, that she would trust him enough to gamble everything on his judgement.

His second nagging concern was intangible. What had he forgotten? There was something, lurking at the edge of his memory, some unresolved matter. With his mind so full of the girl and her needs right now, it would not reveal itself to him. He had the plans. For now at least, his foes were neutralised. He was even turning an enemy agent. But what was the stone left unturned? Was it one that could crush him if he didn't identify it quickly?

The soft rain stopped. At the top of the first rise, Moon set Snowhawk down gently under a wide, towering pine tree. Curled on a thick bed of pine needles, she snored contentedly while he caught his breath and looked out over Fushimi for the last time. No one appeared to be following. Sounds came from deep inside the town; muddy galloping, a gruff samurai shouting orders, but trees and buildings hid the activity.

Moon saw a trace of nearby movement and he leaned forward, squinting hard at it. He grinned. Could he believe his eyes? The temple cat! It stood on a low stone wall near the mouth of the lane, staring in his direction. Saying farewell, perhaps? Moonshadow shook his head. Perhaps destiny had granted him two unmet friends. But there was no room now on his shoulders; this one he would have to leave behind.

He shouldered Snowhawk again and struck out for the rendezvous point, but anxiety clutched at him as he pressed on. He grumbled inwardly, hating this feeling.

What was it? What thread had he left untied?

TWENTY

The greatest

challenge

He struggled uphill. As the pines thinned out and white rocky outcrops appeared, Moon knew the rendezvous point was not far away. He put Snowhawk down beside a thin stream that cut through the rocky shelf.

With the bamboo water phial from his pack, he wet her face, neck and wrists, reviving her enough to take a drink. Moon watched Snowhawk drain the remaining water so eagerly that half of it spilled down her chin. He refilled the small bamboo beaker again and again, for Snowhawk was remarkably thirsty. The more she drank, the more alert she became. After drinking several phials of the icy mountain water, she crawled to the stream itself and drank even more. As she quenched her thirst, he studied the surrounding terrain. Between two rather stunted pine trees, Moon spotted the mouth of a small chalk cave.

At last Snowhawk sat up unaided, wiping her mouth. She opened her eyes wide then looked at Moonshadow. He could tell her head was clearing, but it was also obvious that the potion had left her seriously weakened.

'Welcome back,' he smiled at her. 'Just in time. I would have had trouble carrying you over this last stretch.' He pointed uphill. 'If the map I memorised wasn't monkey-stained, just over that ridge lies a rocky gorge. This stream probably feeds into the river that runs through it. The opposite bank of that gorge is where we'll be met.'

'Monkey-stained?' Snowhawk rubbed her eyes. 'What kind of outfit do you work for?'

'Forget it,' he grinned. 'While you get your legs back, we're going to rest a little and talk about that outfit.' He turned and pointed to the cave. 'In there, for safety.' She peered at the cave mouth, looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. He held out his hand. 'Besides, either we rest now, or you carry me.'

They struggled together to the chalk cave, which turned out to be about half the size of his rented room in Fushimi. Moonshadow set her down carefully, wary of the low, irregular ceiling, then sagged to the chalk-peppered earth beside her, rubbing his aching thighs so their muscles wouldn't go into spasm.

'Remember what I told you?' He looked earnestly at Snowhawk. 'If you want to join us, the Grey Light Order – well, if they let you, which I believe they will – you'll never have to fear being killed by your own people, only by an enemy in the field. Everyone, samurai, shinobi, merchant or farmer, lives with that risk anyway!'

Snowhawk was silent for some time, appearing to weigh his words. Then she cleared her throat. 'Very well. Tell me about them. If you truly trust me, and want me to trust you too, then tell me of the Grey Light Order. Not what they do. Who they are.'

Moonshadow took a deep breath. His convictions about her had better be right, he thought. Slowly at first, he described his trainers one by one, growing more open and daring with his disclosures as he went on. He watched Snowhawk's attentive face, dappled by the shadows of the cave, as he told her of those special conversations and moments in which he had truly come to know each of his teachers. Who they were, not what they did. She laughed at Moon's stories of Groundspider; at his practical jokes, perverse pride in his size and appetite, and utter inability to cross moats using mizu gumo. She fell silent then nodded solemnly as he recounted Eagle's words concerning the unforeseeable hand of destiny and the importance of trusting one's instincts.

'That you belong with us, and should come home with me now . . .' Moon told her, '. . . these are probably the strongest instincts I've ever felt.'

Snowhawk glanced at him, tears welling in her eyes. 'Home?' she said. 'I am of Clan Fuma. They are powerful and skilled, but I have never thought of their mountain fortress as home.' She wiped one eye with a knuckle and looked away.

He nodded and went on. She was astonished and clearly impressed when he revealed that Badger, the archivist and arch-curmudgeon, was in fact the lauded scholar Hosokawa, who had turned his back on fame over a matter of conscience. Snowhawk shook her head, evidently fascinated, as he told of the wild man that Mantis had been and the truer warrior he had become through acknowledging his regrets and embracing com passion. Finally, when he spoke of discussing loneliness that day in the sunlit garden, and of all that Heron meant to him, Snowhawk hung her head and cried.

Moon put his hand on her shoulder, biting his lip, unsure what to say or do next. She wiped her cheeks, then stared up at him with a vulnerable smile.

'I knew you were brave in combat,' Snowhawk sniffed, 'but I see now that you also have another kind of courage. I have heard your words, and I will try to be as brave.' She rubbed her nose with the back of her sleeve. 'I've never heard of a shadow clan like your people. I will come with you. I will throw myself on their mercy. What happens then . . .' she raised her chin proudly and a flash of tenacity lit her eyes, 'is up to destiny.'

Moon let them both recover for another ten minutes, then they left the cave and pressed on together, side by side, up the hill and over the boulder-studded ridge. Thrilled and relieved as he was at Snowhawk's decision, the unsettling idea that he had forgotten something continued to plague him. The gorge appeared below them.

'Yes,' Snowhawk said wearily, taking big gulps of air. Then she gripped his sleeve. 'I'm still a little confused. It must be the potion. But I think I sense someone. A shinobi.' She shook her head, tossing mud-streaked hair. 'I think.'

'Well, good!' Moon nodded. 'Unless they've been delayed somehow, what you feel must be my people!'

He studied the gorge. It was perhaps a hundred paces wide and forded by a narrow rope bridge, the kind that could only be crossed in single file. The four load-bearing ropes suspending the bridge looked worn, parts of them frayed, but overall the bridge appeared sturdy enough. There was nobody on the far side of the gorge. His Grey Light comrades would be hiding, keeping to cover until they recognised him.

The sky was clearing now but he still heard water; rapids roared below the bridge where the jagged stone walls of the gorge became narrow.

He peered into the depths below. Not a desirable place to fall, Moon thought. It was a long drop, and one's head might clip the unforgiving walls on the way down. Down into the path of a great weight of water, a million kan maybe, of angry, surging river. Which for final fun, he noted, was dotted with sharp boulders, many hidden.

Snowhawk pulled on his arm and gestured behind them. Strolling smugly down from the ridge, as if it had every right to be there, was a familiar animal.

'A temple cat? All the way out here?' she smiled. 'Has someone adopted us?'

'I don't blame you for following,' Moon told the cat as it purred up to his feet. 'Fushimi's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there either!' He chuckled at his own joke then turned to Snowhawk. 'You spoke of adoption? Well, who could have predicted this? Looks like I'm one orphan who's taking home two orphans of his own.'

'If any of us make it to your home.' The colour had drained out of her face. She pointed down at the rope bridge. 'Do you know who that is?'

Moon looked and gave a slow, grim nod. 'Yes . . . I think I do.' With a shudder he realised what he had forgotten, what some part of his mind had been trying to warn him of. One enemy, known to be in Fushimi, had remained unaccounted for.

Until now. The most lethal of them all. The Deathless himself.

There he waited. In the middle of the bridge loomed the one they had both dreaded meeting, one whose legend and fearsome reputation they each knew in detail. The tall, proud figure with the distinctive head-dress stood, his arms folded, staring up at them. Moonshadow and Snowhawk exchanged tense looks. They both knew who they faced.

'I see,' The Deathless shouted, 'that you didn't have the decency to fight each other after all! No matter. Just give me those plans and you can go.'

'Don't trust him,' Snowhawk said quickly. 'He murdered his own master once he had –' She realised that Moon was about to fight The Deathless and stopped herself.

'Once he had the secret of immunity to blades?' Moon scowled at the nemesis waiting on the bridge. 'Don't worry, I know what I'm up against.' He patted his backpack. 'No time to put on the armour, but maybe I can wing him first with a shuriken.'

'Forget that,' Snowhawk said firmly. 'My trainers told me: he catches shurikens.'

The cat meowed, brushing between Moon's legs. He pointed at it, forcing himself to sound brave and cheerful. 'If you're going to butt in, you can fight him!'

But Moon's heart was quickly becoming a war drum in his chest once more. This would be a harder match than facing Akira; if he couldn't hang on to his inner calm, to clear thinking, this enemy would finish him quickly. To survive such a foe would call for more cunning than he had ever shown. And it still might not be enough. He made a final attempt at bravado. 'If only he'd just go away, then I could spare him!'

'You can't face him alone,' Snowhawk swallowed. 'I can't let you.'

He squeezed her hand and said, 'You're still too affected by the potion to fight well. So I stand a better chance if I only have to watch out for me. If he kills me, run. Run, or he'll sell you to Silver Wolf.'

She bit her bottom lip, nodding as he let go and turned away.

With each step his fear grew greater. Desperate to control it, Moonshadow whispered to himself as he strode to face the greatest challenge of his mission. Of his life.

'Gather, tidy and align your doings and their karma,' he recited quickly as he descended into the gorge. 'Cleanse any lies made this day, scatter not one grain of life.' He swallowed as Snowhawk had, almost choking on his terror. This time, he need not worry about taking life. This . . . creature could not be killed! He mounted the bridge, its short wooden planks shifting under his feet. 'To end this path in happiness,' he finished off the furube sutra with an effort, 'make still your mind!'

'Aw!' The Deathless called as Moon approached. 'I hear you prepare, so you must come to fight! Unwise, Runt! Would you not rather give up the plans and live?'

'My name is Moonshadow, you who are called The Deathless,' Moon tried to sound casual but avoided his enemy's soulless eyes. 'And deathless or not, yes, I come to fight.'

The Deathless gave a low, sinister laugh. 'Tell me, was that not one of the teachings of the first level that you just recited? How quaint! I would show you something from the ninth level, but if you won't give up the plans, then it's urgent that I kill you instead.'

A meow came from just behind Moonshadow. The Deathless peered around him.

'The temple cats of Fushimi are both odd and starved,' the killer marvelled. 'Look! It has a tail! So it is a freak and a girl who will witness your passing, Moonshadow.' He threw his head back and laughed. 'Why does the beast join us? It looks hungry. Perhaps it intends to feast on you once our business here is done!'

Moon's heart seemed to beat in his mouth now. He summoned up his dwindling shard of courage and drew his sword. 'That's unlikely,' he stepped closer, 'since they don't eat the living.'

'Hah! You have spirit!' The Deathless sniggered as he drew the blade from its sheath on his back, 'but it won't save you.'

The Deathless sprinted forward, his speed and agility surprising Moonshadow. The gap between them closed in an instant. The bridge shook and swayed at the killer's charge. His shinobi sword turned horizontally in one hand and sliced for Moon's neck, its twin blood grooves making a sound like tearing paper as it streaked through the air.

Moon barely ducked the attack. His foe's blade hissed overhead and as its tip reached the end of its arc, Moon sprang to his feet and hacked at The Deathless's arm. He felt his blade meet its target. Moonshadow gasped, amazed that he had actually been able to strike his legendary foe.

The tall assassin grunted and bolted back a few paces, jolting the bridge hard. A big cut appeared in his sleeve and skin showed through the gaping cloth, but there was no sign of blood, nor even of a wound. Moon's elation turned to horror and he flinched hard. So it was all true! Immune to blades!

He glanced back at the end of the bridge. Snowhawk had crept down to it. The cat was still behind him, hunching low fearfully at every buck and swing of the bridge. Moon waved at Snowhawk to run. She shook her head. He turned back towards The Deathless, raising his sword. Moon ground his teeth. If she wouldn't run, then she might just have to watch him die. He shuffled for his enemy, frowning with concentration. But not if he could help it!

The Deathless volleyed at Moon once more, parrying his sword as he landed almost on top of him. Moon was thrown off balance by the speed and closeness of the attack. Before he could recover into a defensive stance, The Deathless turned his sword like a striking snake and hacked at a sharp angle. Moon growled with pain as his foe's blade dug into his shoulder. He struck it out and away with his own sword as a searing wave of heat spread outwards from the cut. The Deathless lunged and, locking swords with Moon, started pushing his lighter opponent down and backwards. The bridge swung hard. The temple cat let out a terrified hiss.

'Poor Runt! Is this the best you can do? Moonshadow, neh? Then let's see you shove me off, turn and strike!' The big killer gave a heartless laugh. 'Come, show me your fastest move, the way you showed poor Akira. Or are you tired now?' Forcing Moon's sword down, The Deathless leaned over it sharply and headbutted his victim. There was a deep thunk. At the end of the bridge, Snowhawk gave a strangled scream.

Moon sank to his knees, badly stunned, The Deathless towering over him. Their swords were still locked together, but Moon was quickly losing strength and with it, he knew, the fight. But despite the awful blow to his head, his mind still worked with unexpected clarity. Think fast, he ordered himself, reason it out, as Mantis would say. Every fighter has a weakness, and even here, there is a way.

Most of his body had been conditioned to withstand tremendous impacts, but just one head-butt had swept him to the edge of mild concussion. How? There was only one explanation: that had been no ordinary head-to-head impact. So The Deathless wore an armoured forehead band under his bindings. Groggy as he felt, Moon realised what that gave away. If The Deathless secretly wore any armour, then there existed some weapon or cut that he feared. So he could be cut. And what could be cut might also be scratched.

Moon turned his aching head quickly. The cat was still there. He forced himself to split his failing energy two ways: half to sustain the sword clench, the rest to link with the cat as fast – and as completely – as possible.

So The Deathless liked to brag about levels of knowledge? This, Moon thought with angry determination, was the eye of the beast, level three: sight-control.

'Enjoy it!' Moon snarled up at his looming foe.

'Enjoy what?' The Deathless frowned.

Movement behind Moon forced the killer to look up. Just as he did, a black-and-white ball of fur and fury landed on his upper chest. Locking its hind claws into his jacket, the temple cat attacked, fore-claws slashing again and again at the face of The Deathless. In between the frenzied strokes it hissed, spat, and tried to bite him.

Moon saw his opponent reel backwards. Breaking the sword clench, The Deathless nearly dropped his blade as he tried to prise the cat off. Such an attack presented any swordsman with quite a dilemma. Using his razor-edged blade on a thrashing, wriggling target stuck to his own body was just too risky. Vainly The Deathless struggled, briefly pulling the cat free only for it to spring back, renewing its assault.

His vision muted now by both the head-butt and the sight-joining process, Moonshadow haphazardly gripped his sword and swung it at The Deathless's closest leg. As it struck home he realised that he had mistakenly attacked with the blunt edge leading. He was startled then when a red line appeared on his foe's leg, exactly where his edge had clubbed.

That was it! The secret of the dark science The Deathless lived under. Moon set his jaw and struggled to his feet. The Deathless was immune to cutting edges. They were as blunt edges to him. And the reverse was also true.

Moon raised his weapon. The Deathless was protecting his eyes with his sword hand, snatching blindly for the scruff of the cat's neck with his other. Moon swung his sword, blunt side leading, low at The Deathless's belly. Again it felt as if he had merely clubbed his opponent. Then a line of blood appeared where Moon's dull edge had struck.

The Deathless threw his head back, roaring with pain and anger. And something else perhaps, just a trace, of what Moon never thought to hear in his voice. Fear.

His mind churned, trying to hatch a follow-up plan. Now that he knew how, he could wound The Deathless enough to make a run for it. But the killer still blocked the narrow bridge. How to get past him without risking another cut? And what about Snowhawk? Moonshadow's strength was ebbing fast, his wound and the demands of sight-control draining the ki from him by the second. But he rallied himself, aiming wild strikes at his enemy's legs.

Cutting the air with frenzied strokes, The Deathless fell backwards onto the bridge. It twisted and swung, making Moon snatch a grip on the nearest rope.

'I'm right behind you!' he heard Snowhawk snap. 'Jump him, jump him now!'

The Deathless lay struggling, still trying to fling the cat off. Moon hurdled over him, shaking the bridge, and the killer sensed his position. The double-grooved sword flashed up, cutting Moon's thigh as he sailed overhead.

Moon's wounded leg buckled as he landed. Stumbling, he fell to the bridge.

Snowhawk landed behind him unharmed. Now they were both on the rendezvous side of the bridge, with The Deathless and the cat, still locked in battle in the centre of it. The formerly invincible killer now thrashed about as if gripped with panic, sustaining new cuts from the blunt edge of his own sword. Obviously unaccustomed to the wounds most shinobi were trained to bear, perhaps to pain of any kind, he swatted at the cat with weakened, flailing strokes.

Together Snowhawk and Moon looked back and he handed her his sword.

'I'm calling the cat off now,' Moon said through gritted teeth. His eyes watered with pain and as he blinked, tears were forced down his cheeks.

Strands from a fraying support rope dangled to the foot planks of the bridge. Moon began winding the thickest one around his wrist. 'Do the same, then cut the bridge's main ropes,' he told Snowhawk. His eyelids fluttered. 'Then hang on! It should come apart.' Moon's head sagged. Snowhawk cut the first of the four main ropes. The bridge lurched violently.

'Get out of there now!' she called to the cat. 'Come on, play time's over!' The cat ignored her, sustaining its crazed attack on The Deathless. Snowhawk cut the second of the main ropes. The bridge lurched again then pitched to a scarier angle.

Hanging on desperately, Moon looked up, willing the cat to break off its assault. It finally jumped from The Deathless and started bounding to Moonshadow, but behind it, The Deathless scrambled to his feet. Cursing, he swung wildly at where he thought the cat was. His fiery stroke narrowly missed the animal but cut the third main bridge rope.

'Hold on, Moon, hold on!' Snowhawk yelled, snatching a wrist-tie for herself. The bridge twisted sideways and shuddered. It hung briefly by the fourth and final load-bearing rope while the thinner overhead supports snapped free noisily one by one. Then, with a nerve-wrenching sssnap! the last main rope broke and the bridge came apart near the middle, each end of its ragged halves trailing straggly ropes as they dropped.

The two falling sections of the bridge swung outwards from the breaking point, pendulum-like, heading for the gorge walls their ends were still anchored to.

Starting to drop, The Deathless released his sword and snatched for the nearest escaping strand of rope. But the force of the swinging bridge whipped it away from his hands and he plunged.

As their half of the bridge swung towards the rock wall, Moon glanced down into the gorge. He caught a last glimpse of The Deathless, tumbling head over heels into the white water below, but saw no sign of the cat.

The severed section of bridge slapped against the gorge's rocky side, and Moon and Snowhawk cried out as they were jolted hard. The ropes wound about their wrists tightened sharply and burned their skin.

For half a minute they dangled, summoning up their last reserves of strength for the climb to safety. Then painfully, each fighting exhaustion as well as injuries, they unwound the wrist-ropes and clawed their way up, using the bridge's remaining planks and lines as a ladder. Snowhawk reached the lip of the gorge first and held a trembling hand out for Moon's. He gripped her wrist. She pulled him up.

Leaning on each other, the pair staggered uphill to the edge of the next forest.

'We rest here,' Snowhawk propped Moon against a log. She took a scarf from inside her jacket and tied a field dressing on his shoulder wound. 'Is there a back-up meeting place, in case –' she looked over her shoulder. 'Wait. My head is clear now and I know I sense shinobi energy.'

A bush rustled about ten paces behind her. Moon turned his head wearily. He and Snowhawk were in pretty bad shape. If it wasn't his people, could they defeat even some old cleaning lady now? He wasn't sure.

Groundspider rose from the centre of the bush. He wore a tree-and-leaf patterned camouflage suit with the cowl pulled back, a large backpack and a sword slung from one shoulder. He frowned and pointed at Moon.

'So it is you!' Groundspider broke into a grin. 'The girl here had me confused. What's the story with her? A hostage?'

Moonshadow and Snowhawk exchanged tired, relieved smiles.

'Not a hostage,' Moon told Groundspider, 'a new ally, with valuable knowledge. She comes back with us, or I don't come back.'

'Really?' Groundspider's eyebrows arched. 'Haven't we grown bold on our first outing? An ally, neh? Well then I assume one of you has the plans?'

They both nodded. Moon patted the bamboo tube inside his jacket.

After heaving a relieved sigh, Groundspider bowed to Snowhawk. Then he turned to Moon and shook his big head with envy and astonishment. 'And to think I was wondering how you would cope, out here in the unfamiliar, wide world!'

Moon glanced at him sideways. 'Let's talk about it later. Were you late?'

'Yeah, but not my fault. I was caught up in an incident on the highway while travelling in disguise. Some idiot ronin tried to make me hire him as a bodyguard. Hah! Do I look like I need protection? Well, he wouldn't take no for an answer and it led to swords.'

'Some people never learn,' Moon smiled knowingly. Snowhawk gave him a questioning look. 'Tell you another time . . .' he whispered.

'But that was not the worst of it!' Groundspider cracked his knuckles. 'Just because I cut this fool's ear off, a passing inspector made me file a report. For a while there, I thought I'd have to fight him, too! Convinced him it was self-defence, and my skilful cut a bit of mere luck on my part. But I still had to pay a price. Paperwork! It took hours. And the forms, you should have seen the forms! Whoever makes those things up must be a madman –'

'You must be Groundspider,' Snowhawk laughed. He blinked at her with surprise.

'Filling out forms? You have truly suffered,' Moon sighed. 'Any idea what's keeping the others?'

'They shot me a coded message arrow three hills back. They were delayed by roadblocks manned by a scruffy bunch of drunken gangsters. But they're only about ten minutes away now.' Groundspider glanced at Snowhawk then gave Moonshadow a strange, respectful smirk. 'Wait till they hear about this!'

Silver Wolf motioned to the samurai guard to send his visitor in.

'Then close the doors, keep all others away,' he ordered, examining his empty sake cup. His head ached from drinking too much sake the night before. At least it had helped him forget things for an hour or two. His empty audience chamber was eerily silent; yet another reminder of his terrible defeat. Silver Wolf hung his head and paced to the small padded platform. He sat down, dropping the cup onto the dais beside him.

Private Investigator Katsu entered the chamber.

Silver Wolf motioned for him to sit. 'Have you spent the bribe money I gave you?' The warlord folded his arms into his silken sleeves.

Katsu nodded. 'It was required, Lord. Yes, sadly, it is all gone.'

'Then, for your sake, Detective, I hope it produced results. Someone's going to pay for this . . . failed operation. It's been expensive in every way. Plans gone. Akira and Jiro each left useless, at least for the foreseeable future. My top swordsman badly hurt. His sidekick too. Both out of action for months. Most incredible of all, I'm told that The Deathless himself is missing, presumed slain! Now, who exactly has done all this to me? You had better know, Detective.'

'I've tried to make sense of scraps of information from useful, though expensive, informants, and also to draw conclusions from certain things witnesses – an old local watchman for example – were able to tell me. It's my unhappy duty to confirm your worst suspicions, Lord.' Katsu gave a little bow. 'I believe the nuisance who did this indeed hails from the Grey Light Order. It seems, in the end, he either somehow recruited the support of that female spy your men trailed, or possibly took her prisoner after Jiro had wounded her. Some of the accounts are conflicting, some a little confused. But the boy, the one who cut Akira quite badly, appears to be GLO. These dogs of the Shogun train in a monastery in Edo. As my Lord may have heard, they are an independent force, with, it is said, members from both Iga and Koga shadow clan training backgrounds. Like many spy groups, they accept suitable orphans for training as agents.'

'Very well!' Silver Wolf closed his fist. 'So he is a Grey Light creation!' He took a deep breath, barely hanging on to his self-control. 'Now the greatest question of all. What is the name of my number one target from this day on?'

Katsu gave a triumphant smile. 'The nuisance is called Moonshadow, Lord.'

'Moonshadow?' Silver Wolf raised one eyebrow. 'Like the sword move?'

'Yes, Lord. Apparently such namings are a custom among the shinobi.' Katsu took a folded page of notes from his jacket. Silver Wolf rolled his eyes as Katsu studied it at length. 'Ah, yes, here's another example, Lord: one of my informers mentioned a spy whose name was Great Downward Rushing Wind, also the name of a complex sword move.'

'Yes, yes! Fascinating!' The warlord wagged a finger irritably. 'But tell me this! Why was the little insect, a mere orphan boy after all, so effective?'

'I learned that, young as he is, he employs the eye of the beast, that Old Country skill, thought – until recently – to have died out forever. He can influence animals, my Lord, bend them to his will, use them as his spies. Or so the lost art was described to me.'

'Nnng,' Silver Wolf gave a resigned sigh. 'Good job . . . as usual.' He dipped in his lavish jacket then threw Katsu a small purse. 'That's the balance of your fees, plus the standard advance on your next assignment. I need you to return to your native Edo. Learn all you can about the Grey Light Order.' His voice thickened with hatred. 'They want a shadow war? They will get it! I'll crush them. I swear I will. Now, one final, tactical question. Who hates them more than anyone else? Even more than I do at this moment!'

The detective consulted his interview notes. 'Their arch enemies are the oldest shadow clan, Lord. The House of Fuma.'

Silver Wolf stood up and stared at the window, turning his back on the investigator. 'I'll be writing a sealed letter to them, seeking an alliance. Come back and collect it tomorrow before you set off. On your way to Edo, there's a certain tea-house on the highway where you need leave it.' He waved a dismissal. 'That is all!'

Katsu stood and bowed low before leaving. 'As always, it's an honour to serve you.'

As the doors closed behind his visitor, Silver Wolf snatched up his sake cup and hurled it at the window. The cup hit the sill and shattered into tiny pieces.

'Moonshadow?' he snarled. 'I'll break him like that! I will have his head!'

TWENTY-ONE

Oath of

loyalty

Gently rubbing his shoulder bandage, Moonshadow limped through the sunlit garden of the Edo safe house. It was hidden at the end of a quiet, leafy street, far from the fortress-like walls of the Grey Light Order's monastery.

Snowhawk sat on a flat stone bench that offered an ideal view of the large carp pond. Moon smiled as he watched her stare dreamily at the water. Maple and cherry trees ringed the deep pond. Gold and red fish bobbed to the surface, quietly hunting insects. It was a scene of peace and harmony. It was the opposite of how they lived.

She glanced up and smiled. He sat down beside her. They looked at each other and Snowhawk blushed. Moon gave a silly grin.

'Congratulations,' he said, looking away quickly, 'I just heard the good news. They have accepted your oath of loyalty. So, having given it, you can stay.'

'I still have a final test to pass, involving an interview with someone called the White Nun. But whatever happens, to have come even this far . . . I owe it all to your support.' She bowed. 'It's the reason they've given me this chance.'

'No,' he said firmly. 'They've taken you in because of your great skills.'

'It was hard, you know, a few days back,' Snowhawk hung her head. 'As part of proving my new allegiance to the Grey Light Order, I had to divulge everything about the clan who reared me, my former clients, my missions. All of it! To speak of such things goes against a spy's nature, but I made myself tell them what they wanted to know.' She smiled coyly at him. 'As you did for me, back in that chalk cave.'

'Mantis said it was Clan Fuma who sent you to Fushimi.'

'Yes. They intended to auction the plans to the highest bidder among the rebel warlords. Silver Wolf is not the only malcontent. The Shogun has many enemies.' She looked at him with tears in her eyes. 'Fuma train suitable orphans, just as Grey Light do. But take it from me, they are nowhere near as kind to them.'

'That's all behind you now,' Moon said. 'They do things properly here. Brother Eagle will have you schooled in certain methods only we use, then he'll assign you to somebody. You'll work with them for a few missions, kind of as an apprentice.'

Her nose creased over a cheeky smile. 'Any idea who they might put me with?'

Moon shrugged. Then his face reddened. 'I know who I hope it is . . .'

The pair looked round. Heron entered the garden carrying a basket covered with a rug. Snowhawk and Moonshadow stood up and bowed to her.

Heron flashed her gentle, stately smile and patted the basket. A weak meow came from under the leaf-patterned rug. 'Your report mentioned a certain friendly temple cat. An ideal sight-joining subject, you wrote, with a tail its kind don't usually possess.'

She uncovered the basket and the cat sat up, mewing excitedly.

'Imagine our surprise,' Heron went on, 'when a sopping wet animal of just that description turned up at our Tokaido safe inn near Fushimi. I'm told the poor creature was badly bruised and appeared to be half-drowned.'

'Were you looking for me?' Moonshadow asked the cat. He gently took it from the basket and held it against his chest. It immediately started purring. 'I don't even know if it's a boy or a girl, but I owe this cat my life.' He looked to Snowhawk.

Snowhawk nodded. 'We both owe it a debt, for the destruction of The Deathless.'

Moon frowned at her words. Could anyone be sure The Deathless had been slain? He stared down at the temple cat. After all, it had somehow survived the river.

'It seems she wants to be your mascot.' Heron's fingers glided along the cat's spine. The animal arched its back against her touch and its tail gave a satisfied flick. 'Or perhaps, simply another new friend.' She smiled warmly at Snowhawk. 'Our Moonshadow seems to have a talent for bringing home great prizes and making new friends . . . in your case, one might say, both at once.'

Snowhawk beamed at Heron. 'You are too kind.'

Moon stroked the cat's neck and its purring grew louder. Suddenly he put it back into Heron's basket and folded his arms.

Heron studied him then spoke softly. 'Moon-Kun. How I know that look and stance! It means something weighs heavily on your mind.' She put down the basket.

Moonshadow slowly shrugged. 'Before I went on this mission, my first real mission, I often thought of myself as one who'd forever be alone. Fate has been kind. It has shown me that I'm not.' He glanced from Heron to Snowhawk and back. 'I have both family and friends. And you know what? It doesn't matter if one's family or friends are unusual, few, or as unique as this cat. Those who truly care for you are the great stones of your castle's wall.'

'Ever true, and well said,' Heron sounded proud of him. 'So why the storm clouds in your eyes?'

'Because now I also have an enemy.' Moonshadow glanced at Snowhawk. 'A man with ambition, wealth and power. A man who won't forget either of us.'

'A man,' Heron patted both their shoulders, 'you will never face alone.'

Glossary

Amida (as in Lord Amida) Pronounced 'ah-me-dah'

Buddhist spiritual being revered by many in feudal Japan. Amida is known as Amita–bha in other parts of Asia.

Ashiko Pronounced 'ah-she-koh'

Detachable foot spikes, usually used along with shuko (pronounced 'shoo-koh') or climbing claws, they helped spies climb trees, cross ice, scale walls and even defend themselves.

Bo Pronounced 'boh'

A hard wooden quarterstaff used in both Japan and Okinawa for close combat.

Bokken Pronounced 'boh-ken'

A Japanese training weapon, carved from heavy wood in the shape of a samurai sword. Some bokkens even come with a matching carved (or in modern times plastic) scabbard.

Ezo Pronounced 'eh-zoh'

One of many former names for Hokkaido, the second largest and northernmost of Japan's main islands.

Furube sutra Pronounced 'foo-roo-beh' ('The Shrugging Off' or 'Shaking Off')

An ancient saying or prayer of preparation, recited by shinobi each dawn and dusk, and just before going into action. It was intended to clear the spy's mind of distractions, calm them and ready their skills. The furube sutra's parts could be described as the Preparation Verse, the Facing Self Verse and the Verse of One Resolved. Each 'verse' translates as a single line in English. The text of the sutra can be interpreted in a number of ways when translated from Japanese. Below is one possible rendering, kindly translated by Iaido expert and scholar Yasuhisa Watanabe and reworded by the author for tonal and dramatic purposes.

See also Sutra.

Gather, tidy and align your doings and their karma.

Cleanse any lies made this day, scatter not one grain of life.

To end this path in happiness, make still your mind.

Go

'Five' in Japanese. Pronounced as it reads, it can also be a name, part of a name, or a nickname.

Hachiman (as in Lord Hachiman) Pronounced 'hah-chee-maan'

Shinto god of war, divine protector of Japan and its people, whose symbolic animal and messenger, perhaps ironically from a western viewpoint, is a dove, the Biblical symbol of peace. According to legend, Emperor Ojin, a mortal, became the divine Hachiman. After Buddhism's arrival in Japan, Hachiman was also associated with the Buddhist deity Daibosatsu. Both peasants and samurai worshipped Hachiman in medieval times, and to this day there remain over 30,000 shrines to the war god throughout Japan.

Iaido Pronounced 'ee-eye-doh'

The samurai art of sword-drawing and duelling, which features about fifty different waza (techniques) and reached the peak of its development around five hundred years ago. Different from Kendo, which is a full-contact sport. Modern students of Iaido use steel swords in wooden scabbards and wear the traditional clothing of medieval samurai. Iaido takes many years to master. To this day, the art's 'world titles' are held in Japan, on a mountain top near Kyoto, before a Japanese prince. Author Simon Higgins has competed in this event as well as in Australia's national Iaido titles. See also Tsukikage.

Kami Pronounced 'car-mee'

The Japanese term for objects of awe or worship in Shintoism, Japan's oldest (and native) religion. Though sometimes translated as 'deity' or 'gods', this is not strictly accurate and 'spirits' may be a safer way of describing the Kami, who can be 'beings' but also simply forces of nature or 'living essences'.

Kan Pronounced 'can'

A traditional Japanese unit for measuring mass. One kan equals about 3.75 kilograms.

Karma Pronounced 'car-ma'

The Buddhist philosophy that states that deeds or actions create cycles of 'cause and effect'. Thus, good thinking and good deeds produce good outcomes, now or at some time in the future. Brother Mantis, Moonshadow's duelling coach, is particularly wary of actions which may bring 'bad karma'.

Ki Pronounced 'kee'

The life force common to all living things. Internal or spiritual energy, which in traditional Asian martial arts is harnessed to increase a warrior's power and stamina. Using ancient sciences like sight-joining can quickly deplete a shinobi's ki.

Kimono Pronounced 'kee-mo-no'

Literally means 'something worn'. T-shaped, ankle-length robes worn by men, women and children of all classes. Recognisably the traditional clothing of the Japanese.

Kirishima Pronounced 'ki-ri-shee-mah'

The Japanese name by which the country's colourful native azaleas were first known. It derives from the flowering plant's home locality: Kirishima is a mountain in Kagoshima Prefecture in Southern Kyushu.

Koga Pronounced 'koh-gah'

Like Iga (pronounced 'ee-gah'), a name associated with a mountain region of Japan in which 'shadow clans' trained highly skilled contract spies and assassins whose powers of stealth and disguise became legendary. Author Simon Higgins visited a preserved three-hundred-year-old Koga ninja house that features a display of weapons and tools and, beneath a trap door, an underground escape passage. It stands near Konan railway station in farming country outside Kyoto.

-Kun

When pronounced, the u takes on an 'oo' sound. An honorific used by seniors when addressing their juniors. Also used as a term of affection. See also -San.

Mochi Pronounced 'mo-chee'

Traditional Japanese sweets. Attractively wrapped in special paper, mochi vary in size, colour and style throughout Japan. They may contain unusual textures and flavours derived from plums, chestnuts or various vegetables. Author Simon Higgins became addicted to mochi on his first trip to Japan in 1982.

Moonshadow See Tsukikage

Naginata Pronounced 'na-gi-nah-ta'

A weapon consisting of a long pole fitted with a curved, single-edged blade. Sometimes used by spies, the short naginata was also a favourite weapon of high-born samurai women, being ideally suited for self-defence indoors.

Ronin Pronounced 'ro-nin'

Literally 'wave men' – unemployed samurai, warriors who had lost their ruling lord through military defeat, death or some other disbandment of his fiefdom. Many roamed the country, duelling or taking work as bodyguards, mercenaries or assassins.

Sake Pronounced 'sah-kay'

Japanese for 'alcoholic beverage', it can refer to alcoholic drinks in general, but usually refers to the traditional Japanese drink made by fermenting polished rice. Though often called 'rice wine' sake is actually brewed, so is really more like beer than wine.

Samurai Pronounced 'sa-moo-rye'

A member of the ruling warrior class; a warrior in a warlord's service.

-San The a is pronounced with a slight 'u' sound as in 'sun'. An honorific attached to a person's name to show one is addressing them with respect. It can be taken to mean 'Mr', 'Mrs', 'Miss' or, nowadays, 'Ms'.

Shinobi Pronounced 'shi-no-bee'

Also known as ninja. Those adept at spying or covert scouting. Some shinobi were also hired killers. They were trained in a wide variety of secret and martial arts, said to include combat with and without weapons, acrobatics, the use of explosives, poisons, traps, hypnotism and numerous forms of disguise. Some of the most effective historical ninja were women who went 'undercover' inside well-guarded fortresses, successfully stealing information or carrying out assassinations.

Shogun Pronounced 'show-gun'

Abbreviated form of Sei-I-Tai Shogun ('barbarian-subduing general'). The ultimate commander of the Japanese warrior class who, prior to 1867, exercised virtually absolute rule (officially) under the leadership of the Emperor, who was in fact a figurehead only. Most warlords aspired to seize or earn this auspicious rank.

Shuko Pronounced 'shoo-koh'

Iron claws worn on the hands to assist climbing. Shuko were used, usually along with ashiko (foot spikes) to scale walls and climb up trees, cross icy surfaces and even during combat.

Shuriken Pronounced 'shoo-ri-ken'

Circular or star-shaped throwing knives, usually black and made in ingots or from thin sheets of iron. They could have four, eight, twelve or more points. Each 'shadow clan' or spy group used their own distinctive style or styles of shuriken. Thrown overarm, they were aimed for soft points such as the throat, eyes or temple. Their tips could be poisoned or flecked with a powerful sedative if the target was to be taken alive. Any shuriken wound disrupted and weakened an enemy.

Sutra Pronounced 'soo-tra'

A 'scripture' of the Buddhist faith; teachings which were sometimes chanted or recited to focus and empower the devotee. See also Furube sutra.

Temple cat (also called Kimono cat)

A patterned cat, respected in Japan for centuries, whose back markings are said to resemble a woman in a kimono, hence their other name. Considered sacred, these cats usually have a stumpy, triangular tail. They are still found in many parts of Japan. Author Simon Higgins has photographed Kimono cats in the temples of central Tokyo (known in Moonshadow's time as Edo).

Tengu Pronounced 'teng-goo'

According to the superstitions of Old Japan, a long-nosed, tree-dwelling mountain devil, fond of lurking in the canopies of cryptomeria (Japanese cedar) trees. Tengu were often blamed for missing travellers, who were more likely the victims of bandits.

Tetsubishi Pronounced 'tet-soo-bi-she'

Also known as makibishi or (in Europe) caltrops. Sharp, usually triple-spiked foot jacks made from iron or twisted wire. The jack's tips were sometimes flecked with poison. They could be painted to blend in with reed matting or a polished wooden floor. Able to penetrate sandals, tetsubishi caused unexpected injuries, stopping or slowing a pursuer.

Tori (gate) Pronounced 'tor-ree'

A simple, usually three-beamed, wooden archway found at the entrance to a Shinto shrine. Often painted red, a tori gate signified entering a place visited by both spirits and the living. Throughout medieval times, Shinto, the native religion of Japan, and Buddhism, which had more recently spread to Japan from China, existed peacefully side by side.

Travel Guidebooks (in Old Japan)

Even in medieval times, the Japanese, despite the many dangers their land frequently presented, were enthusiastic tourists, and an entire industry developed around publishing travel guidebooks, some of them illustrated. But as a reference in Moonshadow (concerning Snowhawk's thoughts) implies, the guidebooks were not always reliable, some containing sensational, convenient or misleading information.

Tsukikage Pronounced 'skee-car-geh'

A 470-year-old sword 'waza' (technique) of the Musou Jikiden Eishin-Ryu school of Iaido, the art of the samurai sword. The Moonshadow technique employs a low, delayed turn, then rising at the attacking foe and executing a crescent strike at their raised forearms. This combination block-and-cut is followed by a push then a step, after which a fatal single vertical cut is unleashed. The characters making up the technique's name can be translated as 'moonshadow'. See also Iaido.

Water spiders (mizu gumo) Pronounced 'mi-zoogoo-mo'

Circular foot floats on which a spy balanced in order to cross a moat, pond or still river. Only those of very light build could operate them. Festival sideshows in modern Japan still tempt contestants to take the 'mizu gumo challenge' and try to cross a shallow 'moat' with round floats on their feet. The rare successes (usually children) take home prizes. The rest get a free bath. Some historians believe that the mizu gumo design used by Koga shinobi was actually a single wooden lifebuoy or flotation ring, inside which the spy was suspended, submerged to the chest. Below the ring, small foot-mounted paddles helped propel him forward.

Yojimbo Pronounced 'yoh-jim-bo'

A bodyguard or security officer. Most yojimbo in historical Japan were either trusted samurai retainers assigned to guard their lord's life and family, or were hirelings, ronin (see above) whose need for income and evident sword skills made them a reliable choice of protector, say for a travelling merchant or performer forced to enter a war zone or a region plagued by bandits. In reality, many so-called yojimbo were really little more than hired assassins or, at the other end of the scale, the equivalent of modern western 'bouncers' or security guards, keeping the peace outside a tavern or guarding a vulnerable warehouse.

Author's note and

acknowledgements

The Moonshadow stories are fantasy tales set in a romanticised historical Japan. Though they reflect certain key events of the early Tokugawa era, and include many facts and details about the sword art of Iaido and Japanese warrior culture in general, they remain adventure yarns, not histories. Despite the many liberties I have taken, I hope these stories inspire readers of all ages to investigate the saga and customs of fascinating Old Japan, a world which still has so much to teach us.

My heartfelt thanks to my multi-talented wife Annie, for her brilliant ideas and fantastic support in developing the text of Moonshadow. My gratitude also to Anita Bell, another creative polymath, for her guidance, business savvy and insight. A very special thanks to the whole team at Random House Australia, especially Linsay Knight for instantly believing in Moonshadow, Kimberley Bennett for her fabulous, inventive editing, and to Loretta Barnard. Moon and I are in your debt. My thanks also to Catherine Drayton for her faith, encouragement and astute ideas.

A very low bow and a big domo arigato gozaimasu to the brilliant Lian Hearn, who so kindly employed her encyclopedic knowledge of Japanese history and language to identify anachronisms in Moonshadow's first draft.

A special tribute to resident of Japan, Doctor Glenn Stockwell, Kancho (Chief Instructor) of Seishinkan Iaido Dojo, for so devotedly preserving the beautiful Iaido of his teacher, Kimura-Kancho, in the twenty-first century. My personal gratitude also to Yasuhisa Watanabe, Fuku-Kancho (Deputy Chief Instructor) of Seishinkan Iaido Dojo, for translating the furube sutra and leading me to sites of historical significance to shinobi culture while in Japan. My thanks also to Yasu and to Sandan-rank instructors Matt Andrew, Nathan Nilsen and Brent Harrison, and to my friend Nobutaka Tezuka, Eishin-Ryu Shodan, for training me in Iaido and helping me learn tsukikage, Moon's signature duelling move. To any readers wishing to learn or know more about this graceful five-hundred-year-old art, please visit:

www.seishinkan-iaido.org/

About the Author

Simon Higgins's employment history reads like a novel. He's worked as a disc jockey, laboratory assistant, marketing manager and even as a monster on a ghost train. He also spent a decade in law enforcement; as a police officer, state prosecutor and as a licensed private investigator.

Simon is proudly a student of Eishin-Ryu Iaido, a 470-year-old style of swordsmanship which prizes traditional techniques and medieval samurai etiquette and courtesy. He has trained in Japan and participated in Taikai (contests) before His Imperial Highness Prince Munenori Kaya. In the 2008 Iaido World Titles held near Kyoto, Simon placed fifth.

As well as conducting professional development sessions for educators, Simon runs writing workshops for kids and adults, in Australia and overseas.

To read more about Simon and Moonshadow, go to:

www.simonhiggins.net

and

www.greylightorder.com.au