“I will!” whispered Jimmu.

To reach the main gate of the castle, Jimmu had to cross a bridge over a moat whose waters shone blood-red with light reflected from the sunset sky.

Jimmu beat his fist against the gate.

Almost at once, a spyhole opened and was filled with the face of the gatekeeper. His expression was unfriendly.

“What d’you want?” he rasped.

Jimmu had practiced his answer over and over again.

“I want to serve Lord Choju Ankan,” he said. “I want to be a guard here at Mitsukage Castle.”

The gatekeeper’s laugh wheezed like a pair of bellows.

“A guard?” he said. “Better run along and come back when you’re fully grown.”

“I want to serve Lord Ankan!” insisted Jimmu.

Another voice said, “What’s going on, gatekeeper?”

The gatekeeper’s face turned from the spyhole. “Youngster outside says he wants to be a guard, sir. He’s only a bit of a kid. Shall I send him away, sir?”

There was a moment’s pause, then the other voice said, “No. Open up and let me question him.”

Bolts thumped and scraped; hinges squealed. The gate opened wide enough for Jimmu to slip through into a courtyard. Directly in front of him stood a short, broad-shouldered man dressed in black armor that shone like a beetle’s back. He looked middle-aged. He had a broad face and his head was shaven, except for a black pigtail that was streaked with white. At his waist, the man wore the long and short swords of a fully fledged samurai. His air and stance told Jimmu that he was accustomed to being obeyed, and Jimmu bore this in mind throughout all that followed.

“I am Ishida Muraki, captain of Lord Ankan’s guards,” the man announced. “Who are you?”

“Jimmu, sir.”

“What is your family name?”

“I have no family, sir,” said Jimmu.

The captain looked Jimmu over, and hobbled slowly around him, limping on his left leg.

“Where have you come from?” he demanded.

“Nagoya,” Jimmu replied.

The captain did not need to ask how Jimmu had made the journey. From the state of the boy’s feet, he had obviously walked.

“When was your last meal?” asked Captain Muraki.

“Two days ago.”

“You must be hungry.”

Jimmu held himself proudly.

“I’m no beggar, sir,” he said.

The captain grunted approvingly.

“Gatekeeper, take Jimmu to the cookhouse and scrounge what you can for him. Bring him to my quarters when he’s finished.”

The gatekeeper bowed.

“Am I a guard now, sir?” Jimmu asked the captain.

Captain Muraki smiled at the boy’s determination.

“Eat first, then we’ll talk and I’ll decide,” he said.

“Thank you, Captain Muraki,” said Jimmu, bowing politely.

Jimmu’s interview took place in a long, bare room. It was dusk; the shutters had been lowered and oil lamps lit. The only decorative object in the room was a tall blue vase that stood on a low table set against the wall. The floorboards were so clean and well polished that Jimmu was momentarily aware of how badly he needed a bath—and a change of clothes.