On Power
9 February 2005
by Loren Dean

The presence of power generally produces a response in the observer. The basest of these is awe: the belief that the powerful are naturally so, and deserve to be obeyed. A sheep responds to the presence of power with trembling bows and stammering acquiescence to the will of those he views as his betters. Sadly, many powerful people come to conclude that this response to their power is the correct one, and they themselves respond poorly to those who do not show them what they view as proper deference.

Interestingly, this response can be wildly varied. At worst, the failure to submit to a tyrant brings on a fit of temper. This path is generally one of red-faced recrimination. Perhaps the powerful man will rant about the natural order of things and demand the respect to which he is therefore entitled, or at least that to which he has grown accustomed. He may even resort to violence to enforce his will. This sort of demand is ultimately self-defeating – the tyrant invariably ends his days victimized by those with even more power, simply because he was too wrapped up in what he felt he deserved to see that in most ponds there is always a bigger fish.

A much more impressive response is respect, even when it is of the grudging variety. He who recognizes that he is not the only powerful man in the world is he that will ultimately gain even more power. The recognizer will earn this power through honest association both with those above him as well as those below. Ultimately, the recognizer is the man who will be thought of as great.

Unfortunately, for every high there is a low, and the halls of power house all sorts. At the utter nadir of the spectrum is the man whose response to the acquisition of power is not to increase it, and not to demand respect for it. The toady does neither of these things, choosing instead to bow and scrape before those above him, that he may always stay above those below him. Actual leadership is beyond the toady. He will never be a great commander. Indeed, he will never be great at all, however secure he may make his position by feeding empty compliments to those above him.

Fortunately for those who would walk the halls of power, toadies are quite easy to use to further other ends. Impressing a toady requires little skill: all one must really do is appear powerful. The toady, utterly terrified of risk, is never truly prepared to question those he perceives as having more power than he.

And so it was that Shosuro Ridachi sat in a pleasant Phoenix home, before a midrange functionary to the court of a rural daimyo. The functionary, one Asako Ieshige, was uncomfortable in a kimono that hung on him like grave clothes. Ridachi himself was small and wiry, but Ieshige was almost sepulchral, his eyes slightly sunken in a wrinkled balding head, hair thinning from his pate but growing in his ears. He had likely never seen a Scorpion, or if he had, he certainly hadn't spoken to one. Even now he was obviously trying to weigh Ridachi's power, considering how much he needed to respect this dark newcomer to his home, and whether or not he needed to do any toadying in the imminent exchange. He was on his guard, doubtless expecting Ridachi to say something other clans considered typically Scorpion – double-edged, cryptic, and eventually damaging. This was of course ridiculous. Ridachi had no such intention, but it never hurt to let people nurse their stereotypes. It made them predictable.

Next to Ieshige was his wife, Ume, who was nearly as thin as her husband, with a prominent nose and a hairline that didn't seem quite right, though Ridachi couldn't put his finger on exactly what about her hair was off. The Asako had a reputation as scholars and healers, far removed from physical labor. Ridachi had entered Phoenix lands attempting to avoid stereotyping the people he knew he would meet, but this pair gave every appearance of being exactly the sorts of bookish homebodies the Asako were rumored to be.

Ume was not as stressed as her husband, perhaps because she was more gullible. Ridachi had swathed himself in Scorpion mystique from the moment he had entered this village, and he was fully immersed in the classic Shosuro 'harbinger of great importance' role by the time he reached the home of Ieshige. Ume had swallowed the act completely, and was more than a bit awed. She was clearly ready to accept nearly any story Ridachi told before he even spoke.

And it was time someone spoke. Fortunately, Ieshige did so.

"What brings you to my home, Shosuro-san?" he asked, the honorific pitching up at the end, a question of status in the tone. Ieshige was trying to ferret out some clue as to Ridachi's actual status – attempting to determine exactly how dangerous Ridachi was. Ridachi let him look, certain in his ability to give nothing away.

"May I first say that you have a fine home, Ieshigi-san," Ridachi replied, his voice calm and soothing. With a glance and a nod to Ume he added, "it is kept well." Ume almost preened. Ridachi almost rolled his eyes. Almost.

"You have a son, I am told," continued Ridachi. "Sanuro."

Both husband and wife visibly started at the name. Ieshige regained his composure first.

"Sanuro?" he asked.

"The same."

"I had a son by such a name, but he is no longer a part of this family," Ieshige stated, mustering as much authority as he could.

"That is certainly correct, for he is dead." Ridachi let that statement hang in the air a moment. He had only known Sanuro for a few hours, just a ronin on the road to Otosan Uchi. Ridachi had spoken to the man over dinner at a roadside inn, and had been impressed. Sanuro had certainly been covered in the patina of grime most wave-men acquired in their travels, but something about him had seemed not have yielded. Ridachi had met many ronin that had abandoned all hope of honor and respect. Sanuro had not been one of them. Intrigued, Ridachi had hired him.

"How did he die?" Ume half-whispered.

"He was slain at a roadside inn, in the night, by a coward who would not give an open challenge." This was mostly correct. To be more specific, Sanuro had been slain in his sleep by a vengeful mosquito-oni that had been accidentally created by the innkeeper, who had murdered a previous tenant of the inn for a sack of koku. But for now, the statement given would suffice. Ridachi was not here to discuss the specifics of Sanuro's death, after all, but to do something much more important.

"I had hired Sanuro to be part of my bodyguard," Ridachi continued, his eyes moving above his mask to regard Ieshige and Ume alternately. "He was regrettably slain before being able to render the service for which we had contracted. His body needed to be dealt with, but I took possession of his daisho, and have brought it here to his family."

The couple before him said nothing, and Ridachi let them think while he unrolled the slender parcel he had brought with him, and removed a katana, setting it on the open cloth of the wrapper so as to keep it from direct contact with the floor.

"Sanuro-san's katana has served me well in the past months," said Ridachi. "As it happens, this sword accompanied me on a journey into the Shadowlands, where it slew two Oni devils." Again, this was close enough to the truth to be valid in this instance. Ridachi had certainly not been alone in the Shadowlands, after all. Nor was he certain that an undead skeletal troll could be classified as an oni.

Either way, Ieshige was clearly impressed. Ridachi carried on. "I do not know why Sanuro left his family and his clan, nor is it any concern of mine. What I do know is that his weapons were of good make, and were clearly the possessions of a man of honor."

Ridachi drew the katana then, and laid it bare across the saya. It was a gorgeous weapon, not gaudy in any way, but beautiful in its simplicity. "I took the liberty of having it fully restored and blessed by the Kaiu smiths at the Great Wall. While I admit that I have no say in the matter, it felt rather poetic to return Sanuro's sword to his family. It has traveled far, and has returned clean." The implication was clear: Sanuro's sword had earned him back his honor, at least so far as Ridachi was concerned.

Of course, the statement was delivered flawlessly, and Ieshige was now thoroughly cowed. "You speak well of my son, Shosuro-san. I thank you for your kind words, as well as the respect you show my family in returning this sword. Thank you."

Ridachi bowed his head, accepting Ieshige's words with an air of quietly powerful grace. "I would make a single request, Ieshige-san."

"Of course."

"Sanuro's sword is of course the property of his family. His wakizashi, however, was his personally. I also possess this weapon." He shifted slightly to reveal the hilt of Sanuro's wakizashi, resplendent in the red-gold silk common to Phoenix weapon wrap. "I would ask your permission to keep the wakizashi, that Sanuro's honor might ever be a reminder and example to me."

Ume was quietly weeping. Ieshige could not possibly refuse. And he did not.