THE HANGMAN’S HALL was a study in simple splendor. The walls were painted vibrant saffron, against which the dark, polished woods stood boldly out. It was largely an open space, with two raised wooden walkways on the far ends, and a high roof supported by broad beams of heavy timber that crossed at right angles above their head. Windows above let in slanting shafts of light, but paper lanterns hung between the big posts. Each was painted with a decorative rune to bring prosperity, peace, and obedience to the old lord of Castle Kanashim.

Lord Kiratsu sat on a small dais opposite the wide doors. A stack of black cushions propped him up, but they could not the way the gray-haired old man sagged inward upon himself. His silk robes were funeral black, and his head hung in despondence so palpable that Ulrem could feel it even as they followed the strutting morijar in. A crowd of men in similar black robes and small, square hats stood off on the wings. Each bore a curved sword at his hip, but they had turned their faces from their grieving lord. They looked something like flocking ravens, Ulrem thought, their little blades poking like tail feathers.

Halfway across the chamber, Imitsu-tan stopped abruptly and fell to his knees. He pressed his forehead to the ground. The others flung themselves to the ground. After a moment, Kinro bowed as well, though he did not press his forehead to the polished boards of the floor.

Ulrem did not. He crossed his arms and rubbed the golden ring he wore on his forefinger. It was warm to the touch, roused by this strange place.

“He who approaches the Lord of Kanashim bows to his master,” hissed the morijar on the floor beside Kinro. His words were clipped, and Ulrem recognized the simplified tongue of the Hinoni tongue. The man thought him a simpleton.

“I have no master,” Ulrem said. He looked around at the men bunched on the sides of the hall.

Imitsu-tan began to say something, but the old man spoke up before him. His silver-haired head rose, revealing a face seamed with heavy lines, and deeply tanned. Water blue eyes glimmered in folds of frail skin.

“Who is this boar come stamping into my house?” Lord Kiratsu said. His voice was haggard and rough, like a rock scraping along a blade. “Who is this fool that stretches his neck with disrespect?”

“Who is this old man that threatens a guest in his house?”

The crows murmured, and the morijar pressed his head to the ground with a furious sound. Kinro did not move, did not speak at all. But Ulrem could tell from the way the smaller man held himself that he had, perhaps, spoken out of line. Lord Kiratsu took in a long, heavy breath. He was holding something bright and colorful in his hands. A scrap of a child’s blanket, Ulrem saw. Wrapped around a dagger. The old man’s gnarled fingers worried at the cloth.

“I commanded you to bring me the o-shinikenjar, Imitsu-tan. Rise, and explain yourself.”

“I obeyed, lord,” said Imitsu. He kept his eyes averted from the old man on the black cushions even as he climbed to his feet. “Or I found the man who claims such.”

“And this other stray?”

Imitsu-tan eyed Ulrem, perhaps measuring whether the big man would react to the slight. He did not, though the ring stirred on Ulrem’s finger. He pushed it back, out of his mind. Certain that an explosion was not imminent, the morijar said, “The outlander is his companion. I was…not informed of his presence.”

“Not informed? Then I will have words with the Third Sword.” He turned his attention to Kinro, still kneeling. “Rise, swordsman. Give us your name. Tell us of how you came to be in Kanashim Town during these troubled times.”

Kinro obliged. As he spoke, the ronijar gathered closer to listen, their round faces betraying much. Behind them, a small, bald man swathed in orange and white came through a cleverly disguised door in the far corner of the room. He carried with him a small lantern on a black stick and wore a necklace of thick wooden beads around his neck. A white sash was tied around his prodigious belly. He walked in stooping bows towards the dais, but the old man seemed not to notice this newcomer. He was bent on Kinro’s explanation, eyes sharp as he examined every word.

The priest knelt beside the lord of the castle as recounted their travels through the Hinoni lands. When silence again filled the chamber, Lord Kiratsu spoke to the fat man. “Does he speak the truth, Brother Nisimon?”

“I believe he does, my lord.” The man bowed low, pressing his bald forehead to the floor. He seemed to be shaking, and when he spoke, Ulrem could hear the quaver in his voice. Terror. “We received word two months ago from the House of Eight Plums. This man is the o-shinikenjar you sought, my lord.”

Lord Kiratsu rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. He seemed to reach some sort of decision on his own.

“My son was taken three nights passed,” he said. “Long have I done my duty as governor of this castle. I have hunted fugitives through the bogs. When the emperor called, I summoned my ronijar and marched to win his wars. I have crushed rebellions! But this… My heart fails. I cannot breathe! Fifty men have I sent riding to find that which is most precious to me, to no avail. So, o-shinikenjar. I must now beg you. Save my son. Please.” The old man struggled to his knees, and in turn, pressed his own head to the floor of his little platform. The gathered swordsmen gasped and threw themselves again to their knees.

Kinro inclined his head.

“We have had word from the captors. They name themselves the Black Feet,” the old man said miserably. He eased back onto his cushions and stared at the dagger wrapped in the scrap of cloth. “How they entered the castle I cannot say. My men have found no broken lock, have heard no lie amongst the servants. And yet, they took him from me!” At that, his voice broke, and tears flowed freely from the old man’s eyes, but he held the dagger out to the priest. The fat man made a wormish sound, and only after the old lord snarled at him did he take the dagger and give it to Kinro.

“Your son’s?” The little swordsman said, and passed it to Ulrem. The old lord nodded.

Ulrem pulled the scrap of blanket fabric from the sheath. It was a soft thing, fit for a princeling. Stamped in the middle of the scrap was a black foot. The dagger itself was unremarkable, bearing a slight curve and plain wooden handle.

“How do you know you weren’t betrayed?” Ulrem asked. His gray eyes ran over the kneeling ronijar. At the insult, angry faces looked up. But when they met his pale eyes, they hid again. Cowards, he thought. Court-warriors, suited to cutting with wit and little else. He let his glare rest on the priest. “You’ve told us little we hadn’t heard already down in the town.”

“You question my warriors, outlander?” Kiratsu snapped. Sudden ice came into his voice, and those blue eyes were deadly now, though they were rimmed with painful red. “My men are loyal. They serve me, and I serve the emperor. To do otherwise is death.”

Ulrem rolled his massive shoulders. “Perhaps.”

Kinro rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “My lord, my friend speaks truly. These things you’ve told us, even the peasants know. Who would want to take your son?”

The old man glared at them. “I’m called the fucking hangman for a reason. My list of enemies is as deep as a grave! And of course, there are those in the village who hate me. They fear justice in their wretched hearts. No doubt some of the castle attendants harbor hate, too. But my men?” Kiratsu shook his head. “They are like sons to me.”

“And they do not leap to find their brother?” asked Ulrem. He grinned fiercely at the few crows who dared rise to challenge him with balled fists, or pale hands on hilts.

“Enough!” rumbled Imitsu-tan. “If you would bark like dogs, I’ll throw you in the kennel. Enough I said!” The ronijar quieted, though their eyes burned with fury now.

“What do you know of these Black Feet?” Kinro said, taking the dagger back from Ulrem.

Lord Kiratsu turned his face away, and the priest answered for him. “These bandits took young Hokon into Zisatsun. Our scouts who found them report that the Black Feet demand ten years’ wages for the return of the boy. We know he is somewhere in the forest.”

“Have you sent more scouts in?” Kinro asked.

Now Imitsu-tan spoke up. “Twenty men were dispatched into the forest on the night Hokon’s kidnapping was discovered. But only the one man returned. The rest?” The room seemed to chill as their unspoken fate hung in the air.

“We have heard that name, Zisatsun. The Hangman’s Wood,” said Kinro. “What is in the forest?”

“Death,” said the priest, his voice strangle-quiet

Kinro squared his jaw. “Very well. We will go into the forest, and find your son.”

Lord Kiratsu bowed at the waist, nearly touching his head to the floor again. “I thank you, o-shinikenjar. Your efforts shall not go unrewarded.” He clapped his hands, and two of his swordsmen stood abruptly. They brought forth a long box. It was a gleaming black: lacquered wood polished to a high shine. Golden inkwork picked out the twisting form of a dragon along the side, and sunbursts covered the top. And in the center, Ulrem saw, the imperial sigil.

The old man plucked back the long sleeves of his robe and unlatched the box. Within, nestled in bright blue silks, was a long sword.

Lord Kiratsu held the sword up. Its sheath was a perfect, midnight black. Three roses of golden foil were placed along the long curve of the blade. Ulrem raised an eyebrow. That sword was longer than any other sword he’d seen the Hinoni ronijar use. It was nearly as long as his great sword. The hilt was wrapped in carefully corded braids and capped with a silver knob. Kiratsu drew it in a flourish, letting the steel flash before his eyes.

It was a masterwork. Cold fire swam in the hammered steel, and the edge was honed to perfection. The ronijar gasped to see it. Holding it before his face, Kiratsu suddenly seemed twenty years younger.

“This is the treasure of Kanashim, given to me by the emperor himself.” His eyes ran lovingly along the blade. “It is called Moonlit River, and it is forged of strange steel, purer than any I know. It gleams, even in the dark, for it was forged of an iron that fell from the sky.”

The old man slowly sheathed the sword. The light faded from his eyes, and the room seemed duller for its disappearance. Then he held it out to Kinro.

“I cannot take it,” Kinro said, drawing back.

“This was made for one such as you, Kinro-zhi, o-shinikenjar. Take it, so that my son knows I sent you to find him.”

Before Kinro could respond, Imitsu-tan suddenly leaped to his feet. “My lord!” he cried. “You cannot give him that blade! We do not know the truth of this man!”

“You question me?” Lord Kiratsu snapped. That iron had returned to him again. He sat up stiffly and thrust a finger out at the morijar. “I asked not for your opinion, wolf! It is mine to give.”

“How do we know he does not lie? Any man could have heard the happenings at the House of Eight Plums. There are many strangers on the roads and much uncertainty!”

“You call us liars?” Ulrem asked, stepping forward. He might have closed the distance to the little man entirely, had Kinro not planted a hand on his chest. He felt the ring stir at the accusation. Still, he held back. Once before he had acted out of turn, and it had nearly cost Kinro his life.

Lord Kiratsu sat back. He glowered at the upstart young man but rubbed at his jaw again. “A test, then? What would you propose?”

“He claims to be a blademaster, yet he dresses like the lowest of the masterless mazijar!” Imitsu-tan looked over his shoulder at the two men. Then he added, “Worse, he travels with this foreign dog. I trust not the look of them, my lord. We should send our own men back into the trees.”

“Say that to my face,” Ulrem said angrily, fists clenching so hard the knuckles popped.

“Hold, Lion.” Kinro inclined his head to Lord Kiratsu, sitting upon his black cushions. “If the lord doubts us, then we will depart. We go where the wind wills.”

The old man glanced at his priest. “What say you, Brother Nisimon?”

For a long minute, the priest played with his necklace, running fretful fingers over the round beads. Sweat stood out on his bald pate. His eyes darted back and forth as if hunting for an exit. Finally, he said, “The morijar has the right of challenge, my lord.”

Kinro said nothing.

“Very well,” said Lord Kiratsu. “My First Blade claims the o-shinikenjar is a fraud! Will any my brave ronijar stand to test them?”

The black-clad ronijar looked to one another. Ulrem thought they looked like children, standing so close together, hoping to be lost in the pack. Not a one spoke up, to Lord Kiratsu’s clear disgust.

“I will,” said Imitsu-tan. He bowed low at the waist. “It is my duty, lord.” At this, the old man inclined his head once, granting permission.

“Stay back, Lion,” Kinro said as the morijar turned to face him. “It is me they doubt. This isn’t about you.”

“Doesn’t feel that way,” the big man grunted. Yet, he backed off a few paces. He kept his eyes on the other ronijar, who stood to watch what was unfolding in the middle of the hall. There were a lot of swords there.

On his cushions, the old man leaned forward, eager eyes shining. Beside him, the priest whimpered.

“If you are what you say,” Imitsu-tan said formally, with only a scarce nod of his head, “then I would try your sword.”

Kinro bowed to him. When he straightened, the two men held one another’s eyes. Dark rings hung beneath Kinro’s green eyes, the mark of long travels and recent horrors. Imitsu-tan’s eyes were hard, deeply suspicious.

Slowly, their hands drifted towards the hilts of their curved swords. Neither man took his eyes off the other. They seemed not to breathe, though a storm drew nearer with every heartbeat. Ulrem settled back. He had seen this before.

Kinro seemed relaxed, but Ulrem had learned the hard way how quickly the smaller man could spring into battle. He was a yew bough, bending in the wind, but always springing back. Opposite him, Imitsu-tan seemed stiff and grim. A snaking vein stood out on his temple. Sweat ran down his face, but he did not wipe it away.

The initiation was faster than the eye could track. In a moment, two silver swords flowed out and into deadly play. Twice they clashed. Imitsu-tan shouted and took two darting steps at Kinro, chopping from a high overhand. He brought his guard around effortlessly. But Kinro flowed around him, forcing the man to spin off balance.

The swordsman growled and parried Kinro’s second cut, Ulrem saw the gambit. Kinro whirled under a crosswise slash, catching Imitsu-tan off-balance mid-step. He came up within the man’s reach, his own sword laid gently along the morijar’s throat, drawing a thin line of blood from the corner of the man’s jaw and down to his collarbone. Kinro’s free hand seized the other’s arm just below the wrist. A thumb pressed cruelly into the flesh there, and with a slight twist, Kinro could have shattered the man’s bones.

It was over, though it took Imitsu-tan another heartbeat to realize what had happened. The pain hit in a wave, and he snarled. His sword clattered to the floor.

“Stop!”

The scream split through the hall, shrill and grating. All eyes turned to the figure standing in the doorway behind Ulrem.

There a woman stood, her small hands clasped to her breast and terror on her powdered face. Despite the strange makeup, Ulrem could see she was beautiful. Her black hair was swept up into a crescent arc and hung with small silver bells like those on the robes that swathed her body in careful folds of silk.

“Please,” she said, “don’t kill him!” Kinro released Imitsu-tan, who fell back coughing and clutching his wrist. Scarlet blood trickled down his amber skin, already beginning to stain the collar of his senshimii robe.

“Beloved wife,” the old man rasped, waving a hand to ward the fighters back. The ronijar looked anywhere but at the two of them. “I told you to stay in your chambers while you grieve.

“Grieve?” she said, voice climbing. “My son was taken, not killed!”

The old man’s brow fell. He chewed his words for a moment, and then said, “You interfere in our investigation, beloved wife.”

“Investigation?” She took a few measured steps forward. “Will killing good men bring back my son, dear husband?”

The old man growled like a caged beast. “You don’t know a man’s work!”

“I know a fool’s work,” she shot back.

“My lady, we had to know the truth of these men,” said Imitsu-tan, his voice carefully formal. “Forgive me.”

“Is your heart blind to what your eyes ignore?” she snapped, stopping before Kinro. Her slim hands folded around his own. “Will you save my son, blademaster?”

“I will, my lady,” Kinro said. The eyes of all the ronijar, the priest Nisimon, and the ancient lord of Castle Kanashim watched this brief interview with naked disbelief.

She turned her gaze to Ulrem. So close, he could see the red in her eye, the streaks in her powdered makeup. Still, she spoke firmly, with command. And she did not speak to him as a child.

“And you, outlander?”

“I go where he goes.” Simple words.

Imitsu-tan cleared his throat. “My lady!” he cried.

“Give him the sword.” The words were addressed to her husband. Then, to the morijar, “You’ve wasted enough time.” She swept out of the hall without another word. Several of her attendants, who had been pressed against the walls, closed in behind her.

Lord Kiratsu watched her go with a wry smile on his face. “She is the summer to my winter,” he said quietly. He held out the sword again to Kinro.

Gingerly, the small man took it. The sword was half again as long as the one that hung again at his hip. It looked like a common tool beside the thing he held curled in his fingers.

“My lord,” Imitsu-tan said, dropping to one knee and bowing his head low in deference. “I apologize. Only—my heart is yet unsettled.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “I would go with the o-shinikenjar. To ensure young Hokon is returned to you safely.”

Lord Kiratsu’s faint amusement at his wife’s fiery appearance withered. He glared at Imitsu-tan. “You would go? Why? You are my morijar, my First Sword. Your duty is to the castle!”

“And I failed,” Imitsu-tan said, ducking his head. “Allow me to redeem myself. To restore my honor, my lord.” He sounded as miserable as the old man looked.

“An extra set of hands would make for swifter work,” Kinro said.

Lord Kiratsu grunted. “In that case, you should take the priest, too. He knows some prayers to drive the ghosts away.”

The fat man squeaked. “Me? You can’t—I can’t—”

“Ride under the trees, or hang from them, worm!” the old man growled. “Peace knows I’ve fed you enough over the years. It’s time to return the service. Or you can fatten the crows!”

The priest blanched, and the lord’s black ronijar laughed all around him, applauding the old man’s wit. Grateful to have his wrath turned anywhere but upon themselves.

But Ulrem was watching the Imitsu-tan mop again at the sweat on his brow. When he saw the big outlander’s eyes upon him, the morijar snarled and swept away.