While none could argue that Edo’s Imperial gardens were the finest in all of Japan, it could be said that the runner up for that title was in Hamada. Hamada had a difficult history to contend with, as it had always been loyal to the Shogunate in governance, but not so much in populous.

  Just sixty years ago, the ‘Hamada Uprising’ had split apart the province, and great armies of Ashigaru had descended upon the land to put it down. Despite the timespan, those wounds were still fresh in the minds of the children and grandchildren of peasants that now toiled in the fields beyond the great castle’s walls.

  Hamada hosted a castle in its namesake, from which the Oda Family ruled. Hamada had previously belonged to Fukama Family of the Matsudaira Clan, but their failings in the Uprising led the Shogun of the time to reconsider their rule of the realm.

  Thus it was Oda that ruled Hamada, far from the Shogun’s eyes in Edo. Lord Oda Tomokore held domain over the whole of the Iwami Province as daimyo, ruling from Hamada Castle directly. His brother, Mototeru, controlled the local garrisons and expeditionary Ashigaru, and his uncle, Tadamoro, was the Chief Magistrate of the province.

  And finally, Lord Oda’s wife, Oda Koromi, tended to Hamada’s spectacular gardens.

  Koromi had never aspired to be a Lord’s submissive wife, nor a gardener besides. Raised in Satsuma, where the Shogun’s greatest warriors were trained, Koromi had aspired since childhood to be a great warrior like her mother, Dojima Moku.

  Dojima was powerful, one of the nation’s “Great Ten”, but even they had need of alliances, and the death of Dojima Ienori some ten years ago had left a critical lynchpin in western mainland politics absent. A new alliance with the Oda of Iwami was needed, and thus Koromi was ‘gifted’ to Tomokore to restore the pact.

  Their marriage was not entirely loveless, but they certainly both knew it for what it was: Political. Tomokore admired Koromi’s fighting spirit, and lamented occasionally that she could not find more time to visit the barracks. Likewise, Koromi appreciated Tomokore both for his understanding of her, and his gentler style of rule compared to most Oda Lords.

  Yet their marriage had, in the three years they’d been together, born no heirs. Attempts had been made, doctors had been summoned to provide fertility aids, but no real progress had been made on actually achieving a pregnancy. Koromi didn’t mind – She wasn’t excited to have her position in life further reduced by focusing on childrearing. But Tomokore was aging, turning forty-two as of the latest year of their marriage, and desperately wanted a son.

  Thus, Tomokore spent more time in the Geisha dens than he did their bedchambers though, and more often than not Koromi would choose to rest in a private room near the gardens she spent most of her days tending to. A normal wife ought to have been scared that her husband would find a suitable Geisha and take a concubine, but Koromi honestly hoped he did.

  It would be scandalous, but it would be relieving to her, as she would then be spared the pains and duties of motherhood. She was half Tomokore’s age, and envisioned for herself a grand life of adventure, visions of which she glimpsed in the liquid surface’s reflection in her watering pot. The tactile sensation of running her palm across rough leather gloves, which she imagined might one day be the hide of a great riding horse. The smooth sound of her garden shears closing shut were in her mind much like the metallic draw of a katana slipping its sheathe.

  Koromi lost herself in these fantasies so often that she could spend hours in them while tending to her gardens, fast traveling through time. Gardening had never been an aspiration of hers, but she’d found some peace in it. Maintaining one so vast and complex as Hamada’s was a job that consumed the lives of nearly thirty people, and while Koromi was technically in charge of them all, she delegated their tasks to trusted servants beneath her for the most part.

  Koromi was primarily interested in plantlife: Flowing maple trees, floating lotus flowers atop beds of lily pads, neatly tended azaleas and carefully grown plant sculptures.

  Construction and material efforts, such as creating and maintaining bridges over small streams or smoothing rocks and patterning sand, Koromi left to the attendants. Those were tasks that less lended themselves to the idle fantasies she’d grown to seek refuge in, in the fact of her stagnant life.

  She had surrendered herself almost entirely to the monotony of this new life. Until, of course, the news of the Shogun’s death spread to Hamada.

  That day, Koromi had donned a white and blue kimono, with open sides on the legs, the obi around her waist loosened for better mobility. The colors were Dojima’s, which made her stand out from the usual black and red of Oda, but as a political wife she had the privilege of keeping the trappings of her former life. The white also matched her hair, the signature pigment of Dojima, almost all born with pure white hair due to their selective generational breeding and forced beauty standards. Pulled into a broad ponytail, allowed to grow long as her ambitions for warriorhood had waned.

  Koromi was not as traditionally beautiful as some courtier women. She had appealing features for certain, at least by modern societal standards: Smooth, pale skin, soft blue eyes, a high-bridged nose, and a relatively small face altogether. These traits, partially inherited from her family’s selective marriages but mostly from pre-birth genetic modification, made her an ideal marriage candidate without looking as ‘perfect’ as many Edo noblewomen.

  The marks of her upbringing were what brought down her appearance. For one, most Samurai men expected their wives to be short, polite, quiet and submissive. While Koromi was often quiet, that quietness was often to the point of near-rudeness. She rarely broke the Courtesy tenet of bushidō, but she came close rather frequently.

  Further, Koromi was rather tall, and stood at eye level or higher than many men she encountered. Slender, certainly, but not as slender as the magazine covers would demand. Muscle toned her legs and midsection, not quite to the point of being overly visible, but enough to add bulk where most ladies would prefer it not be.

  Koromi’s arms were not organic, another negative to her appeal. As a child they had both been heavily damaged in a fire, and as a teen the damage was deemed sufficient enough to amputate and replace. Shogunate prostheses were true cyberware, electro-mechanical limbs of the modern age, but in this form they were visibly so. Anyone looking at her could see the alloyed plates that made up her format, the smooth connective ports where the prosthetics connected below her shoulders, and getting close allowed one to hear the steady clicking and servo-whirring of her fingers as they flexed and moved.

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  During her marriage, she had donned synthetic skin on the arms for the sake of wedding photos and portraits. As the fragile false flesh had steadily worn with time and garden work however, Koromi had abandoned the sleeves, allowing anyone to see that her arms were truly unreal. The blue alloy plating stood out even in her Dojima kimono, and especially whenever she had to wear Oda colors.

  Ordinarily, these traits would not be a problem, as Koromi had always desired to be a Bushi, the Samurai warrior class. She had trained in Satsuma long years in the art of swordsmanship, horse-riding and iai. All to be dashed away, her skills steadily rusting through disuse.

  As Koromi tended to the garden, carefully pulling weeds around a patch of golden chrysanthemums, she heard the approach of sandals on stone tiles behind her. The servants would all be barefoot, so anyone wearing wooden sandals was sure to be someone of importance – or someone who believed they were important.

  Yet Koromi continued her work. She had plausible deniability of not hearing the approach, allowing her to disrespect whoever it was coming up to her from behind until they announced themselves. Awkwardly, she hoped. A small rebellion.

  “Lady Oda.” The voice that came was Minamoto Koretsune’s, Koromi’s yojimbo, or bodyguard. He had a crisp, clean voice that carried well on the wind, much to Koromi’s general frustration. As she rose to her feet, turning to meet him, she transitioned smoothly into a small bow, her eyes finding both Koretsune and another man she did not recognize just behind him.

  Koretsune was taller than Koromi by a full foot, an impressive feat, but such was the legendary height of the Minamoto. He wore their signature blue and white, similar to Dojima’s colors but inverted, though in the form of armor. Segmented scaled armor wrappings made of ultra-light metallics, with the signature square shoulder plates bearing the Minamoto clan mon. He lacked the twin swords most Samurai carried, instead keeping a pair of long spears strapped to his back, that jangled as he walked.

  It all took to his broad frame well, and the blue colors went well with his dark hair and soft brown eyes. He was handsome, though he and Koromi did not get along well, generally due to his insistence on her ‘ladylike’ posture and attitude.

  It was not that Koromi did not respect the position of courtiers, she knew well that it was politicians who greased the wheels and ensured that the Shogunate ran smoothly. Her direct family consisted of many courtiers, and she respected the trade as a part of the world.

  It was that the life of a courtier was not the one she desired for herself. She had lacked the freedom to choose, and that forced action, being made a man’s wife without any choice of her own and forced into the life of a courtier, had made her desire the adventurer’s path all the more.

  Koretsune gestured to the man he’d brought along, a significantly older Samurai in a formal robe, though his daishō – a matched pair of swords, usually a katana and wakizashi – clung to his waist, tied into his sash. The older man’s robes were black, and he had the red mon of Oda on the breast and back of the robe.

  “This is Oda Michisue.” Koretsune said, and the old man bowed. Koromi returned the gesture, “A pleasure to welcome you to our home, Lord Oda.” She said, going through the motions of greeting with an almost robotic tone. This, she was sure at the time, was just another dignitary or distant cousin come to suck up for favor. The line of them never seemed to end.

  “Lady Oda,” Michisue said in reply, “It is an honor to be welcomed into your home. Your gardens here are beautiful, second only to Edo’s, if I may be so bold.”

  Koromi wanted to say that he may, for it was an observation everyone made. Gardens second only to Edo’s, and always second. But she bowed her head in an informal bow of thanks nonetheless, “Your words are kind, Lord Oda. What might I do for you this day?”

  Koretsune stepped back and to the side as their conversation began in earnest. Koromi could’ve dismissed him then, but she knew better than to let her guard down around strangers, especially armed ones that appeared mostly harmless. That was how many a tale had ended in some warrior’s demise.

  “I should like to speak privately, if that is agreeable.” Michisue requested. ‘Privately’, even if it was meant to just be the two of them, would always allow Koretsune to be present, such was his right as her champion.

  “The gardens have many things, my Lord, but they do not have ears.” Koromi said, and gestured to a small bench nearby. She slipped her sandals on from where they’d been resting, and made a token effort to dust sand from her kimono’s knees, before making the short trek over to sit down.

  Michisue said nothing as she acted, though he did not sit. He seemed to accept the meeting place though, glancing about only briefly in search of servants. They knew their places however, and departed when the samurai had arrived.

  “I bring dire news from Edo. I had hoped to inform your husband, but Koretsune tells me he is not present today.” Michisue explained.

  Indeed, Oda Tomokore was away, and would be for some days. He was visiting family in Hiroshima, a small vacation after weeks of court intrigue. Why Michisue did not simply call Tomokore was a mystery though, and Koromi surmised instantly the matter must be sensitive indeed if the comms could not be trusted.

  “Lord Oda will not return for several days. I can take a message for him.” Koromi offered, her curiosity dawning. Rarely did she get to interact with matters of importance, as all her political time was most often consumed by simple ‘orders of the day’; Farmers begging for coin, brokers levying taxation, Magistrates complaining and diplomats bootlicking. It all got so boring, the prospect of something dramatic, something of importance, all the way from Edo, had her excited. Many great adventures began with ‘dire news’ from distant lands.

  Yet Michisue was not so eager to answer, holding up his hand first, then bowing his head as he realized the reflexive gesture was rude to a Lady. “The news I carry is of great importance, but I am but one of many messengers. If it would not inconvenience you, my Lady, I would take your hospitality and wait for him here.”

  Michisue had not directly said he couldn’t tell her, but Koromi knew that half of Samurai politicking was learning to listen to what was not said, often more than what was. She bowed her head in turn, and stood, gesturing toward the guest houses. “Lord Minamoto here will see you have one of our finest guest rooms.” Koromi said, then paused and probed, “And rooms for your retinue as well.”

  It was a guess more than a sincere offer, but Michisue was either onto the plan or glossed over it, as he simply thanked her: “Your hospitality is legendary, Lady Oda. I shall undoubtedly enjoy my time in your care.”

  The two exchanged yet another bow, and Michisue was off with Koretsune. Koromi furrowed her brow. Michisue was a man of many years, but she didn’t know what position he held. He was not dressed like a Magistrate, but did not carry himself with the same pompous weight as an Onmyōji. A simple retainer then perhaps, a low-ranking samurai serving as messenger? Regardless, she wasn’t to get any information from him directly. Thus, his retinue would sate her thirst for knowledge.

  This, she hoped, was the start of at least a brief adventure, even if it never left the confines of her estate.