“Yes, that is right. It is like that for some of the nin-sha. They are like the genie of the lamp. They remain with their masters and they cannot be freed until they do his bidding one hundred times.” Lady Kita grimaced. “That means one hundred kills, Charlie. They may kill ninety-nine men for the master, and still be forever in his service. Until they kill that hundredth person, they can never leave this world.”
Charlie’s jaw went slack with awe. “Why do they have to serve their masters?” he asked. “Why are they servants?”
“Mostly because they were sold into it,” said the lady sadly. “The daimyos have always been powerful. And the nin-sha clans were always poor. Sometimes they give away things that are precious to them so that they may be protected by the daimyo. Sometimes the things they give away are people. Sometimes not.”
“But they don’t have to serve forever,” Charlie pointed out. He pretended to wield a sword, waving it in the air before him. “They could kill a hundred people easily!”
“No,” laughed the lady. “That is not the way of things. The master must give the order, Charlie. Remember what I told you? The nin-sha are not like samurai. When they were strong, the samurai trod the earth like princes. They enforced the law however they wished. Woe to you if you displeased them, Charlie! The nin-sha, though, they were not like that. They were not butchers. They would not kill for the sport of it.”
“Oh,” said Charlie darkly. “So they’re stuck. That’s doesn’t seem fair.”
Lady Kita continued. “You asked me if there are still nin-sha in the world, and I told you that there were. But there are very few of them left. As the world changes, the clipper ships will sail away. The samurai will all vanish. The only nin-sha who exist now are the ghosts, Charlie, who are bound to the last of the daimyos.”
She looked profoundly sad. Charlie nudged her with a question.
“Why won’t the masters let the nin-sha ghosts go?” he asked. “Why are they so cruel?”
“Oh, there are many reasons, Charlie. Some of them you will not understand until you are older.”
“What happens then?” Charlie asked. “What happens after they kill a hundred people?”
“They go to heaven, Charlie,” said Lady Kita serenely. “Like everyone else.”
For the rest of the voyage, Charlie saw Lady Kita almost every night, and she continued to regale him with stories. But she no longer spoke about the nin-sha. Their story, she explained, was already told and there was nothing more for Charlie to know. Charlie did not badger his friend about it, but simply enjoyed her company and the tales she told about other things. She knew a lot about Japanese history, which Charlie thought was strange for a woman. She was a scholar, far smarter than any of his tutors had been. She knew so much about the world that she reminded Charlie of his father back home.
Eventually, the Cairngorm reached its destination, and Charlie and the other passengers of the clipper disembarked at the London docks. Because most of them were Englishmen, the passengers sung the praises of their homeland, glad to be home after so many weeks at sea. At the docks, Charlie said good-bye to Lady Kita, who did not offer to write the boy or ever see him again. She shook his hand politely, said nothing to the other passengers, then disappeared into the crowded port. Charlie held Priscilla’s hand as he watched Lady Kita go. For a moment, he thought he would cry.
It was early in September.
The season rolled from summer into fall. The autumn chill crept into the English air. In Wiltshire the leaves were changing early, and the estate of Sir Ernest burst with color. The lord of the manor had servants who milled about the green lawns, keeping the hedgerows trimmed and the animals fed, and pruning back the flowers for the coming winter. Sometimes, horses clip-clopped across the pretty hills. At night, when the estate was quiet, the windows winked with oil lamps and the chimneys spouted smoke. The animals fell silent. Sir Ernest and his only son got under the covers of their soft beds and slept.
All of these things Kita had watched while she waited. She had always been endlessly patient. After months aboard ship, tracking Charlie Mason to his father, there was no real rush to do the thing she had come to do. She enjoyed Wiltshire, though it was nothing like home, and seeing Charlie with his father pleased her. It was easy for Kita to spy from the woods or to walk the grounds when the sun went down. She was like the nin-sha of old, soundless when she walked, able to leave the grass undisturbed beneath her feet.
Tonight, Kita moved like a breeze, her slippered feet barely grazing the earth, her face obscured beneath wraps of black cloth. The sun had gone down long ago, and the moon had dimmed, too. A gentle wind buffeted the leaves of the yard. Sir Ernest was a widower and slept alone. He had only one child but a score of servants, all of whom would be asleep and none of whom-Kita was sure-would see her if they weren’t. In the weeks he had spent at Okaga’s castle, Sir Ernest had talked incessantly about himself and his collections, and Kita had seen some of these things when she’d spied through the windows. He was not an unkind man, though, and her master had liked him. Charlie, of course, loved him.
Kita paused, thinking of Charlie. Then, like a tiny flame, she snuffed out the image of his face, focusing instead on her task.
Her target was in the upper bedroom. Kita drifted to the doors. In the days before the restoration, men and women like herself ruled the night and made the daimyos tremble. They were servants now, those who “survived,” but they still had the skills, and being what she was made the doors no obstacle at all. With merely a thought she passed through them. She wore no weapons and her body was like ether, but when she willed it so, she could make her hands like steel. Kita did not will that now, though, and so floated her way through the silent house, admiring the things Sir Ernest had collected. He had many things from China, and items from the dark continent, too. Of course, the things her master Okaga had given him were well displayed in his enormous home, gracing the walls and tiny walnut tables, showcased by crystal chandeliers that must have been grand when lit. Kita allowed herself only a moment to admire these treasures.
Like the doors, the stairs posed no problem. Kita willed it and she ascended, carried aloft by an unseen force. On the second floor were the bedchambers, and the largest of these belonged to Sir Ernest. Not far from his own was Charlie’s room. Kita paused and looked at Charlie’s door. For a moment she was frozen. For a moment, she hesitated. How much did she truly want to do this thing? She had come on a mission, but now all she wanted was to see Charlie one more time.
No.
That could never be. Never again.
Resolute, Kita pushed on toward Sir Ernest’s room. This time she did not move through the portal, but opened it silently, and through the darkness she saw the chamber, large and-what did the English say? Posh. Sir Ernest slept upon his enormous bed, little sounds of sleep bubbling on his lips. The velvet curtains of his window hung open, letting in stray beams of moonlight. Kita scanned the room and its riches, and saw a sword near his mantle, a beautiful katana resting on a silver stand, perfect and unblemished. Other treasures rested near it. Kita’s eyes went at once to the object of her mission. Looking plain and valueless, the clay bowl sat atop the mantle. The thing that had called her across the seas, the one holy relic her people treasured.
Her eyes darted between the clay bowl and the man in the bed, and then to the katana on the mantle. Sir Ernest began to stir. Kita smiled. In a blur she went to the sword, pulling it free of its ornate scabbard. Quickly, she took the bowl in her other hand. Standing over Sir Ernest, she put the tip of the katana to the startled man’s throat. Sir Ernest gasped as he saw her, the blade nipping his skin. She shook her head, bidding him to silence. Half-asleep, Sir Ernest obeyed. He looked terrified to Kita, and also very brave. Other men had begged for their lives. Sir Ernest, she knew, would not beg.