Child of Vengeance by David Kirk

his voice behind the victory cry shouted the moment his wooden sword had exploited the gap and struck gauntlet or helmet or cuirass.
    Then, for a few vital seconds, he would feel a rush of accomplishment he felt nowhere else. Those moments were when he could allow himself to believe that he could one day be a samurai.
    Not all took it as seriously as he did, however. Boys from the surrounding villages came to be taught, some days only a handful, some days over a dozen. Today was busy, and two boys thought this bought them anonymity. They had started giggling and slapping at each other’s calves, one with a wooden sword and one with a pole that served as a mock spear, any pretense of discipline forgotten. The hall’s master, Tasumi, had given a wordless bellow of rage and stormed over.
    “You think you can come here and fool around?” the samurai snarled, the two boys cowed before him now. His face was slick with sweat, having just spent an hour drilling set patterns of parry and riposte. The other students had fallen silent, looking on.
    “No, sir,” the one with the pole muttered eventually.
    “So why are you acting like an idiot, then?”
    “I’m not,” said the boy, and then Tasumi cuffed him around the head. The boy looked surprised for a moment.
    “What was—”
    Tasumi cuffed him again. “Not too clever, are you?” said the samurai.
    “You can’t do that!” said the boy with the sword, and then Tasumi lashed out with both hands and brought their heads together.
    “If you paid attention, maybe you would know how to stop me,” said Tasumi.
    “Why should I pay attention?” said the boy with the pole, and he looked up defiantly for a moment.
    “Oh?” said Tasumi.
    “My father works the clan’s finances—I’ll take his role someday,and then what good is a spear to me?” said the boy, his voice cracking in anger as he tossed the pole on the floor. It clattered in the silence. Tasumi grinned.
    “A bead pusher, eh?” the samurai said.
    “Yes.”
    “Counting is important for you, then?”
    “Yes,” said the boy, but his voice was faltering. He had suddenly become aware of how alone he was in the face of that grin.
    “Then let’s give you some practice,” said Tasumi, and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders.
    Twenty-five times Tasumi dunked the boy’s head into a trough of water, the boy spluttering every count of his punishment, fifty times the boy had to drop into a squat while holding a rock the size of his head, then two hundred times he had to run barefoot around the outside of the dojo shouting an old battle cry at the top of his lungs.
    “You shouldn’t be so hard on them, Uncle,” said Bennosuke when they were finished. He and Tasumi were standing beneath the eaves of the dojo, watching the other boys troop home. The son of the accountant was limping and glowering, his hair hanging around him in a loose and matted mess.
    “You can’t harden clay without fire,” grunted the man.
    “You’ll drive them away,” said Bennosuke.
    “They’ll be back,” said Tasumi, and jerked his chin toward the back of the accountant’s son. “That one especially. You think his father would let good coin go to waste? He’s paid his dues for the next few seasons, and he won’t want to have fattened my purse without something in return. Why are you defending them anyway? They’re the same age as you.”
    The samurai was built like a wrestler. His arms were long and the thick hair upon them was parted by the light ridges of scars. He had entered into an arranged marriage with Bennosuke’s aunt when they had been little older than the boy was now. Bennosuke had never met the woman, and Tasumi saw her only a few times a year, for she served her duty as a handmaiden to the wife and mistresses of Lord Shinmen in his stronghold.
    But perhaps because there was no bond of blood between them,things were easier than they were with Dorinbo, or perhaps it was simply because Tasumi was a far blunter