Читать книгу Traditions. Essays on the Japanese Martial Arts and Ways онлайн

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“Whew,” he growled, “that one smells like a wild pig.”

Neither of the two barbers who were also eating in the nomiya had ever so much as held a sword. But with all the caution of master warriors they watched the swordsman. No one of his rank, they knew, would allow these kinds of insults to pass unheeded. Though they remained quiet, eating with mechanical slowness, they were ready to leap for the doorway at the first sign of a fight lest they become caught in the melee sure to ensue.

By now each of the three ronin had casually touched the swords beside them, with the pretense of adjusting their position slightly. Actually, each had pushed the collar of his sword free from the scabbard by an inch or two, freeing the blades for the fastest use possible. Ready now, they waited.

The flies buzzed in lazy loops, scouting the noodles below.

“Hey, ugly,” barked one of the ronin. “Wouldn’t you be better off out in back with the other—” his jest was cut off by the movement of the swordsman, who looked up from his bowl for the first time. His head swiveled. His eyes followed the droning flies. Then, like some kind of mantis, he struck.