Warrior Spirit

“You were hired killers? Assassins? Those crazy dudes who wore black pajamas and disappeared in puffs of smoke?”

Ken simply grinned and took a swallow of his beer. “History has never been kind to ninjitsu . Hollywood has done even less for our reputation. We like to say we’ve suffered from a thousand years of bad press.”

Annja frowned. Getting mixed up with a cult of bloodthirsty murderers didn’t exactly thrill her. “So, you’re denying that ninja were assassins?”

“I’m not denying anything,” Ken said. “I’m merely asking you to reserve judgment until you know more about what ninjitsu truly entails. In this case, I’m asking you to not believe what history books say about my kind. Tough as that may be to discount.”

“I’ve got an open mind,” Annja said, although she didn’t necessarily feel particularly open-minded just then.

Ken eyed her for a moment and then spread his hands in front of her. “ Ninjitsu developed out of a need for specialists who understood unconventional warfare. The samurai code of honor—Bushido—explicitly forbade certain tactics for use in times of unrest. But the various warlords of feudal Japan also understood that these supposedly unorthodox techniques could help ensure their continued prosperity and success. So they would secretly employ ninja to help them achieve their aims.”

“And murder people,” Annja said.

Ken sighed. “Annja, the truth is there were certainly some ninja families who did hire themselves out to the highest bidder with little regard to the universal scheme of totality. In that case, yes, you could say they were thugs.”

Annja could tell she was beginning to annoy Ken. “But not other families?”

“No.” He glanced around for the waitress and caught her eyes. He spoke to her in Japanese.

The waitress bowed, a feat Annja admired considering she was on roller skates. I would fall on my butt if I tried that, she thought. She shook her head and refocused on Ken. “So tell me more.”

“ Ninjitsu is a fascinating system of martial arts. As you know, samurai who lost in battle were supposed to follow their daimyo—their lord—into death by committing seppuku, ritual suicide. Not all of them would do that. Some of them would wander on a self-imposed exile. They would set themselves up in small villages in the mountains of western Japan—Iga and Koga Provinces—and there they set about trying to live peacefully with the flow of nature.”

“They’d become hermits?”

“Well, somewhat. Inevitably, the policies of the neighboring regions would impact their existence. Many of these villages developed into ninja clans as a way of preserving their way of life. They would carefully attempt to influence events such that their own lifestyle and that of their children would remain as unscathed as possible.”

“Interesting.” Annja could certainly understand wanting to protect and provide for future generations.

“Let me ask you this,” Ken said. “If you could pinpoint one person whose death would save the lives of thousands of men, women and children, would you take the step and remove him or her?”

Annja frowned. “I don’t know that I would ever want to make that decision. It seems like playing God to me.” And yet, Annja was fully aware she had been forced to make such a decision many times since coming into possession of Joan of Arc’s mystical sword.

Ken nodded. “I don’t disagree with you. I would find it difficult to do, as well. But those were the types of decisions that ninja jonin —leaders of the clan—had to face if they were to survive.”

“So, they would assassinate someone if it meant saving others?” Annja was suddenly sympathetic.

“Certainly. More often than not, however, they would take elaborate pains to set up networks of intelligence operatives who would keep their ears attuned to news and information. The ultimate goal was to be able to influence events as far ahead of time as possible to avoid war and destruction. This meant ninja had to be highly skilled at infiltrating enemy provinces, setting themselves up as regular people, reporting intelligence and, if the situation warranted it, sabotaging or assassinating key troops.”

Annja leaned back, suddenly aware that the young thugs across the room had gone quiet. “Sounds like they might have been better than samurai to have on your side.”

“A lot of people would foam at the mouth if they heard me say this, but many ninja were, in fact, samurai. There are plenty of crossover techniques and warrior ryu that include elements of ninjitsu and counter ninjitsu . It’s quite fascinating.”

“Well, this has been nothing if not enlightening.” Annja leaned forward. “But I think we’ve attracted the attention of the young guns over there.”

Ken looked up as the waitress brought over two new glasses of beer. “You think so?”

Annja could see the huddled conversation. One of the teppo , as Ken had labeled them, seemed more intent than the others. Annja figured him for the leader judging by the elaborate piercings, tattoos and amount of hair dye. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

Ken grinned. “In that case, I’d better drink my beer.”

Annja glanced at her own beer, but her stomach twinged. She’d already fought for three hours tonight. She wasn’t sure she was ready for another bout right at this instant. “Shouldn’t we get out of here?”

Ken shrugged. “Fact of the matter is if we leave, they’ll follow us. If they’re determined to cause trouble, it doesn’t matter where we go.”

“But we’ll be outside.”

“Yes, but I’m much more comfortable sitting here drinking my beer.”

Annja shook her head. “You’re an interesting guy, Ken. Anyone ever tell you that before?”

“Just beautiful archaeologists.”

“You’ve known many?”

Ken finished his beer. “You’re the first.”

Annja smiled in spite of the rising tension in the room. She saw the waitress start to approach their table, but Ken glanced at her and barely lifted his index finger from the tabletop. The waitress immediately stopped and retreated.

“Well, before we begin, let me just say that you’ve been a most enjoyable companion for dinner this evening,” Ken said.

Annja frowned. “Begin?”

Ken smiled. “Everything in the universe unfolds itself at the appropriate time. This situation is no different.”

Annja wasn’t sure exactly which situation Ken referred to, but she didn’t have time to think about it. The thugs had finally made a decision and were sliding out of their booths, making their way toward Ken, who still seemed entirely unfazed by the thought of what might happen next.

The young man Annja had picked as the leader swaggered toward their booth. Ken kept his eyes on Annja and his hand on his beer glass.

The thug glanced at Annja and then at Ken. He barked out a quick sentence to Ken, who simply sighed. “My companion doesn’t speak Japanese. Why don’t you be polite and use English? I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”

The thug frowned and glanced at Annja again before looking back at Ken. “You don’t give me orders,” he said in English.

Annja almost chuckled. Despite the thug’s insistence he was in charge, he had already obeyed Ken without even realizing it.

Ken’s eyebrows waggled once at Annja. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“You’re sitting in our booth,” the young man said.

“Really? That’s fascinating. How come you weren’t sitting in it when we walked in? After all, you’ve been here far longer than we have,” Ken replied.

“You’re in our booth.” The thug put both hands on the table and leaned over Ken. Annja could see his shirtsleeves inch up, exposing a twisting snake tattoo that wound its way from the edge of his wrist well up the forearm.

Ken glanced at the snake and then at the thug. “You didn’t use bamboo to get that tattoo, did you?”

“What?”

“Bamboo,” Ken said. “You see, in the old days, truly tough Yakuza would insist that their tattoos be applied using slivers of bamboo dipped in ink. It was an excruciating process, by which the Yakuza would prove themselves as impervious to pain and able to withstand anything in their loyalty to their oyabun .”