Year of the Demon

AZUCHI-MOMOYAMA PERIOD, THE YEAR 21

(1588 CE)

5

Shichio sat in his writing room with three scrolls sprawled before him, wholly covering the lacquered red top of his knee-high desk. One showed a map of Suruga, Kai, and Shinano—northern provinces, nuts as yet uncracked. One was a map of Kyushu, dotted with personnel deployments. The third listed all the fortifications and garrisons in the Kansai, along with their troop strengths. Tonight’s puzzle was sorting out which regiments to disband in order to replace the casualties across all the other wounded divisions. It was taxing work, but Shichio was only too happy to leave his battlefield days behind him. He was far better suited to solving logistics problems than to all those sweaty, dirty, bloody days in the field.

It was late and the hallway on the opposite side of his shoji door had been dark for hours. Now something in the hall glowed like a foxfire, hovering at chest height, indistinct through the rice-paper windows. The shining orange ball bobbed right and left, up and down, making its way slowly to his study. It swelled in both size and brightness, then settled near the floor, close enough to the shoji now that Shichio could make out the blurry outlines of a dancing candle flame. He sighed and laid down his writing brush. “Must you disturb me yet again?” he said.

“Begging your pardon, General,” said a voice so meek it could only belong to Jun, his adjutant. “There’s someone here you should see.”

“Do you plan to tell me this someone’s name?”

“I don’t know it, sir.”

Shichio saw through the shoji as a kneeling shadow bowed low. “Jun, am I usually in the habit of answering summons from unidentified callers? No. Go away.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you ordered me to send for you for this one.”

“Ah. Him.”

Shichio rose, Jun sliding the shoji open even as he did so. The hallway was dark but for Jun’s candle and empty but for Jun, who was so slight of build that he could hardly be said to be there at all. Shichio took an object wrapped in silk from his shelf and tested its weight in his hand. It was no bigger than a sushi plate, but it was as heavy as if it were made of stone. He stepped out into the corridor. “So? Where is he?”

“Just this way, General.”

Jun popped to his feet and scurried off down the corridor. His candle caused yellow flares to shine here and there on the walls, bouncing its light off the gold leaf that seemed to cover every last panel and rafter in the entire Jurakudai. Shichio smelled incense and wondered if the wind was carrying the scent from the nearby Hongwanji temple or if Hashiba had sent his incense bearers running through the halls yet again. Shichio would have done almost anything for Hashiba, but first and foremost he’d like to give Hashiba some advice in decorating this garish monstrosity.

As Jun led him across a gravel courtyard under the three-quarter moon, Shichio saw the lunar reflection in the gold leaf on the roof tiles. By the gods and buddhas, Shichio thought, who gilds roof tiles? It was so overwrought.

But such decisions were not Shichio’s to make. Perhaps he would get to design a palace of his own one day. Now and then Hashiba spoke idly of invading China. If he did invade, perhaps Shichio would go and make a name for himself there. Perhaps he would besiege some city, and ride in triumphantly after it fell. He could seize the most elegant mansion in the most peaceable quarter, and make a proper palace of it. Tasteful colors, unembellished roof tiles, and an art collection to rival the Emperor’s. But until then he would enjoy the comforts of the Jurakudai, such as they were.

The man kneeling in the courtyard enjoyed precious little comfort. His elbows were tied behind his back with jute rope, each wrist bound to the opposite forearm. He wore no armor, and the gravel must have been punishing his knees. But he had the body of a soldier: broad arms, broad neck, a sturdy torso, and a shaved head. Shichio did not recognize him.

Until the man looked up at him. Then Shichio could see the scar running straight across his forehead, halfway between his eyebrows and the top of his forehead. It was thin, the scar, but even by moonlight it was unmistakable.

“Bring him inside,” said Shichio. “Now.”

Jun seized the prisoner by one of his elbows and tried to herd him toward the nearest building. The prisoner did not move. He had the muscles of a career soldier and the belly of a retired veteran; the reedy Jun could not hope to move him. But the prisoner conducted himself with honor: no doubt he saw that Jun or Shichio could summon other, larger men, and so rather than risking the indignity of being dragged off, he stood of his own accord and followed Shichio solemnly.

Shichio marched ahead, sliding open the first shoji he came across and slipping out of his sandals to enter the audience chamber within. Jun halted at the door, and with a tug he bade the prisoner to stop too.

“Well?” said Shichio.

His adjutant looked at the tatami floor. “Sir, he’s shod. And his feet are dusty.”

“Then you’ll have to clean the tatami later, won’t you? Or if that’s too much trouble, I could just have you skinned and hang your filthy pelt on the wall. That ought to be enough to distract visitors from the floor, don’t you think?”

Jun swallowed and shoved the prisoner into the audience chamber.

Shichio was about to tell him to shut the door when he saw it was already too late. Hashiba was crossing the courtyard, heading straight for him. Mio Yasumasa, that old fat oaf, trailed two or three paces behind. General Mio towered over Hashiba like a snowcapped mountain. Of course it was hard to find a grown man shorter than Hashiba, but Mio seemed to lord his size over him, stomping like an elephant and wearing his armor for almost every occasion. What possible need could he have to be armored tonight? Here, in the most secure building in the Kansai? Yet the huge sode at his shoulders made him seem all the broader, and the haidate bouncing on his huge and ponderous thighs made it sound as if an army were approaching.

Hashiba smiled when he saw Shichio. The moonlight deepened the shadows in his face, sharpening his features and reminding Shichio why Hashiba’s enemies seldom called him by his rightful name, Imperial Regent and Chief Minister Toyotomi no Hideyoshi. More often they called him the Monkey King. His face was too long below the nose, his cheekbones too sharp, his teeth too pointed. To Shichio he looked not so much like a monkey as like one of those little wrinkle-faced dogs from Peiping that women ought to find ugly but find adorable instead. Too ugly to be ugly.

“General Shichio,” Hashiba said as he drew near, his voice jolly and booming—as much to be heard over Mio’s clattering as to indicate his mood, Shichio thought. “Who’s our guest?”

Shichio had no way of answering that question. He certainly couldn’t tell the truth; if this man was who he thought he was—if he’d gotten that scar across his forehead the way Shichio thought he had—then Shichio might as well cut his own throat as tell the truth about who the man was and how he’d come here. And lying was no good either. Every now and again Hashiba forgave someone who betrayed him, but the fact that he did so made his punishments all the more terrifying. One never knew which Toyotomi Hideyoshi was going to hand down judgment.

It was Jun who rescued him. “My lord regent, this man was overheard maligning your name.”

Hashiba laughed. “And for this you invite him into my house?”

“My lord regent,” said Jun, bowing low, “some of your loyal soldiers were extolling your virtues at a roadside tavern. This one had been drinking like a whale—”

“As had my loyal soldiers, no doubt.”

“I’m sure you’re right, my lord.” Jun bowed even lower. “This one, he drank too much and he contradicted your soldiers. They said you were a master tactician on the battlefield. This one said his master outmaneuvered you.”

“So he’s a braggart. My dear Juntaro-san, if you brought all such men to my attention I’d never have a spare minute to sleep.” Hashiba chuckled. “And that’s to say nothing of doing what I prefer to be doing in my bed rather than sleeping.”

Jun prostrated himself lower still. If he could have sunk through the floorboards, he would have. “My lord regent, to be more specific, he said his master outmaneuvered you as if your armies had passed out drunk on the field of battle.”

“And if I were to make an example out of all such braggarts, I’d never have time to march my armies anywhere. Or to do any drinking.” Hashiba laughed again. “You dragged this man all the way here for nothing, my boy. Where did you say you found him?”

“At a tavern on the road to Mikawa, my lord.”

“Mikawa.” Hashiba’s smile vanished instantly. “He’s one of Tokugawa’s men?”

Shichio butted in before Jun could speak. “I think not. He wears neither the crest nor the colors. Don’t worry. I will get to the bottom of who he is and where he hails from.”

Just like that, the smile returned—but it was a wicked smile now. “See that you do,” Hashiba said. His eyes were warm, but his voice was cold; it was so hard to tell what he would do next.

He clasped his hands together with a loud clap. “So. Gentlemen. The audience with the emperor was a success. He’s given me his blessing to conquer the north. The weather is clear and the moon is bright. A perfect night all around for singing, drinking, and finding eager young fillies to mount.”

Mio bowed and assented. “A capital idea,” said Shichio. “Would you mind terribly if we spoke for a minute first? Alone?”

Hashiba reached up to slap Mio’s massive spaulder, then punched Jun on his bony arm. “Summon the girls and the sake,” he said, all friendliness and light now. “We’ll sit on the moon-viewing deck. Oh, and, Jun, see to it that these tatami are replaced. Your prisoner’s gone and trodden all over them with his dirty boots.”

Jun bowed, gave Shichio the tiniest of glances, and made himself scarce. General Mio gave a curt bow and headed toward the moon tower. Shichio stepped into the audience chamber and Hashiba followed, sliding the shoji shut behind him.

“Hashiba-dono,” Shichio said.

“Not here.”

“We’re alone.”

Hashiba looked at the prisoner, who stood proudly despite his bound arms and the dust of the road on his clothing.

“This man is no one,” said Shichio, hooking a finger under Hashiba’s chin to pull his gaze back to his own face. “But if you’re worried about him talking, we can arrange to have his tongue cut out, can’t we?”

Hashiba took half a step backward. Usually he liked these little hints at violence. They made him feel powerful. But not tonight. “Who is he, Shichio? You’re up to something.”

“He’s no one. I swear to you. But I think he has information about an abbey of the Ikko sect.”

“Nonsense. We doused that fire years ago.”

“Perhaps. But even a single ember can give birth to a forest fire, neh?”

“Ask Mio. He was around before your time. He’ll tell you: we put them to the sword by the thousands. Believe me, the Ikko Ikki are no threat to anyone.”

Shichio made a pouting face. “Let me ask this one anyway.”

Hashiba smirked. “Why? You’ve got no taste for asking questions anyhow—at least not in the way that guarantees the right answers.”

Shichio suppressed a shudder. He’d seen the fruits of Hashiba’s favored method. He’d seen the horrors of the battlefield too. Hashiba’s technique was indescribably, nightmarishly worse.

And despite Shichio’s efforts to conceal his revulsion, Hashiba saw through his mask. “You see?” he said. “All I have to do is mention real questioning and your blood runs cold.”

Hashiba had him cornered. But if there was one thing Shichio was good at, it was turning a position of weakness into a position of strength. “If I do it your way, you’ll let me ask my questions?”

Hashiba sighed. “If this is Tokugawa’s man, it’ll be nothing but trouble for me.”

“Come, now. He’ll never miss one man, will he?”

“Lord Penny-Pincher? He’d notice if a horsefly went missing. And taking the north will be troublesome enough without goading its best strategist.”

“Please, Hashiba-dono, please. . . .”

Another sigh. Hashiba looked at the prisoner for a moment, pensive, probably calculating benefits and risks. At last he said, “He cannot leave here alive.”

“Oh, thank you, Hashiba-dono.”

“You can thank me later. When you’re done with him, come on up to watch the moon with me.” He looked down at Shichio’s hand and the heavy, cloth-bound, platelike thing it was holding. “Bring that with you.”

“Count on it.”

Then Hashiba was gone and Shichio was alone with his prisoner. “I’m not going to tell you a damn thing,” the prisoner said.

“Oh, we already know that’s not true, don’t we? Yes, we do. It only takes a few drinks to get you talking. Well, I won’t be giving you much to drink, but you’ll find Lord Toyotomi’s other methods are equally tongue-loosening. Now, you’re not going to be so stupid as to run, are you?”

The man stuck out his chin and squared his shoulders.

“No? Good. Our destination isn’t far. I’d just as soon ask you my questions here—they’re going to replace the floors in this room anyway, aren’t they? You might as well do all your bleeding here. But you heard the regent.”

• • •

The prisoner followed obediently to the little outbuilding near the slaughterhouse—not that he had much choice, being prodded along by two of Shichio’s bodyguards. He blanched when he saw the table, and ground his teeth as they stripped him of his clothes, but otherwise no sign of fear showed in him. He knelt before Shichio not as one showing obeisance but as one prepared to commit seppuku. His eyes were already on Shichio’s wakizashi.

Shichio looked down at the sword, then back at his captive. “You samurai! Your thoughts always run straight to bloodletting, don’t they?” He slapped the man’s face. “You disgust me. You should praise your swords for their elegance, their craftsmanship, but no. You smear them in gore. Why can’t you butchers understand? These swords of yours, they’re works of art.”

He began to unwrap the thin, heavy thing he’d been holding all this time, the one he’d taken from the shelf in his study. “Unlike you, I appreciate artistry. Let me show you my favorite piece.”

He took his time peeling back the silk. As the folds of cloth fell away, the face of a demon gradually emerged. It was a mask—or rather a half mask, only big enough to cover him from his forehead to his upper lip. It was a very old thing. Rusty orange accented the recesses: the furrows in its brow, the wrinkles around its scowling eyes. It was the perishability of the mask that made it so beautiful, like icicles sparkling in the very sunlight that would melt them.

The moment his fingertips brushed its rough brown skin, Shichio found himself thinking of blades, of piercing and stabbing. The mask always had that effect on him. Indeed, prior to owning the mask, he’d never seen swords as beautiful. Now he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t appreciated them before. So graceful. So powerful. He found them quite fascinating.

He stood before his prisoner and donned the mask, binding it tightly in place with leather thongs. He slid his fingertips over the short iron horns jabbing up from his forehead, ran his tongue over the sharp row of fangs that extended down just as far as his own teeth. The prisoner’s eyes widened. He shrank away from the mask. It was a subtle thing, the smallest retreat in military history, but the fear was visible in him now. Shichio found it delicious.

“It gives me no pleasure,” he said. “The bloodshed, that is. To tell you the truth, even the smell of it sickens me. And the thought of tying a man to a table, making him utterly defenseless, and then bleeding him—it’s simply monstrous, isn’t it? And yet I must do as my regent commands. But you understand that, don’t you? Yes. Yes, I think you do.”

Shichio gave him a compassionate smile, stroked the man’s cheek, passed his fingers through the man’s hair. His prisoner pulled away from his touch. It was so easy to terrify these men, these fearless worthies of the samurai caste. They thought nothing of pain, they held death in contempt, and yet the mere sight of a lunatic gave them pause. This one had no idea what to make of Shichio and his mask, and in the structured world of the soldier, to be unpredictable was to be utterly mad. The largest cobra and fiercest tiger were nothing in comparison. Animals had instincts. Their intentions were easily known. Not so with a madman.

The fact that he wore a demonic mask did not necessarily make him a madman. It was the loving caress that made his prisoner shudder. Even Shichio’s bodyguards recoiled at the sight.

“Now, then,” Shichio said, “you were listening earlier, neh? When Jun explained who you are to the regent? Of course you were. Now you’re going to tell me about the things Jun left out. About that scar on your forehead. About the man who gave it to you. About his friend, the monk.”

The prisoner was quaking uncontrollably now. Was he trying to assess what the masked lunatic would do next? Was he evaluating escape strategies? Wondering how many swords and spears stood between this room and the streets of Kyoto, or how far he’d make it with his arms tied behind his back? Shichio was dying to know.

He took the prisoner’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and bent down close enough to kiss him. “Tell me about the monk,” he whispered. “Tell me about the house of Okuma.”

6

The challenger’s bokken smashed across the knuckles of Daigoro’s right hand. Daigoro backed away, but the pain did not. As his challenger circled him, Daigoro flexed the top two fingers experimentally. Pain shot through them as if they were made of broken glass. Two broken bones, maybe more. He’d have to wait until the end of the duel to be sure.

Daigoro limped to his right, mirroring his opponent’s movement. Sora Samanosuke was a cagey fighter. He retreated more often than he advanced and he feinted more often than striking true. The tip of his sword fluttered like a hummingbird. Daigoro knocked it aside, chopped down at the wrists, but Sora backed away. Daigoro lunged, pressing his opponent back, trying to catch him on his heels. Sora circled. Daigoro’s sword chopped high, aiming for the temple. Sora parried and cut low.

His bokken struck just above the knee. Daigoro felt his leg buckle and could only roll into the fall.

“Point, Sora,” said Katsushima Goemon. In that very instant he was in the center of the courtyard, separating the two opponents. The sheer speed of his movement drew a gasp from Daigoro. Half a heartbeat earlier, Katsushima had been kneeling in the judge’s position, yet despite the gray in his topknot and bushy sideburns, he moved as swiftly as any bird of prey. Even on the best of days, it took Daigoro the space of several breaths to rise from kneeling.

Today was not the best of days. Pain burned like a torch in his right hand, and of course his right leg was no help. Even at birth it was skinnier than either of his arms, and now with only one good hand and one good leg, it was just another weight he had to move to get himself back to standing.

The sand of the courtyard was warm under his palm. The wind made the trees whisper on all sides of the Okuma compound, and a dust devil whirled in one corner of the compound’s weathered wooden walls. Daigoro could smell the salt of the ocean on the breeze, and the promise of spring rain, though the only clouds were far toward the horizon. On the opposite side of the courtyard sat Lord Sora, resplendent in his yellow kimono and bright orange haori. His long white beard swayed in the breeze as he regarded the combatants, and suddenly Daigoro felt ashamed of his sand-dusted hakama.

At length Daigoro managed to get to his feet, and with his wooden sword trembling in the two usable fingers of his right hand, he bowed to Sora Samanosuke. The champion of the Sora clan returned the bow and both fighters retired to their sides of the courtyard, Daigoro limping and Sora all but floating. He’d been the underdog, and now his chest swelled with pride.

“What have I told you about patience?” Katsushima said as Daigoro lowered himself to a kneeling position. “You mustn’t press a fighter who wants to be pressed. You’re letting him draw you off your guard.”

Daigoro opened his mouth to respond, then bit down hard as ice-cold spikes of pain lanced through his right hand. He looked down to see Tomo, his baby-faced retainer, peeling his fingers away from his bokken’s grip. Tomo looked up, his ever-present smile bending into a wince. “I’m so sorry, Okuma-dono. Setting the bones is best done quickly.”

Daigoro wondered how a simple potter’s boy could know that. But he could also imagine the pain Tomo would have inflicted by taking his time in straightening the fingers. Better to do it as Tomo had done: swiftly, in one go. Daigoro fought down a wave of nausea and tried to center his concentration somewhere else—anywhere else, anywhere other than his hand.

“I cannot understand you,” Katsushima said, his tone sharper than it should have been. He might have been thirty years’ Daigoro’s senior, but Daigoro was the lord of the house. Then again, Katsushima had sworn no oaths to House Okuma. He’d taken no payment for services rendered. It was true that he’d been acting as Daigoro’s swordmaster, and he’d taken on the role of mentor in a more general sense, but strictly speaking he was more of a houseguest. The man was ronin, plain and simple.

“This is your seventh straight loss with the bokken,” Katsushima said, “and the seventeenth in your last twenty duels. Yet with steel you’re untouchable. Why?”

Because I don’t want to kill anyone, Daigoro thought. Because so long as I don’t wish to kill anyone, Glorious Victory Unsought will never let me lose. And because once you’re in the habit of dueling with steel, playing with bokken is about as serious as monkeys chasing each other through the treetops. This is a game, and one I only play because I have to.

Then that ice-cold pain hammered deep down into the bones of his hand. He looked down and saw Tomo had tied the top two fingers together. They were purple and swollen, but Tomo’s sure hands and a long cotton ribbon would see them bound as painlessly as possible. Some game, Daigoro thought.

“Your focus is as leaky as an old grass roof,” said Katsushima. “Listen to me. Why can you not show the same patience with wood as you do with steel? You never overextend yourself with Glorious Victory. You could have had this Sora boy and you gave the match away.”

“No,” Daigoro said, and he was about to explain why Katsushima was wrong, but then he remembered: Katsushima didn’t believe in enchanted blades. Tales of magic were for farmers’ wives, he said, and now was not the time to rekindle that debate. Daigoro had to prepare himself for a very different conversation.

So instead he said, “It hardly matters now.” He had taken the first point but lost the last two. In a few moments Katsushima would call out both fighters and announce Sora the winner. But on the positive side, Daigoro thought—still trying to keep his mind off his ruined right hand—at least the Soras won’t ask me to duel with steel. Glorious Victory is too heavy for me even at my best. Today I’m not sure I could even keep her tip off the ground.

Katsushima shook his head, gave the tiniest of snorts, and returned to the center of the courtyard. “Fighters, bow!”

Daigoro stood, bokken in his left hand and cold, piercing pain in his right, and bowed. “Fighters, approach!” said Katsushima, and the two duelists marched in lockstep with each other to meet Katsushima in the middle.

“Winner, Sora Samanosuke.”

And that’s that, thought Daigoro, bowing deeply to his opponent. Now we can get down to what’s important. He’d never had much taste for dueling. For years he’d wondered whether he might have felt differently if he’d been born tall and strong like his father or brother, but at the moment he wondered only about how quickly he might have been able to get down to business if everyone else weren’t so taken with duels.

Glorious Victory Unsought was half the trouble. It was his father’s sword, a genuine Inazuma blade, but even without it his father would still have been famous as a warrior, a diplomat, and a tactician. It was probably his fame that had gotten him killed. It was his sword that got Daigoro’s elder brother Ichiro killed—well, that and Ichiro’s ego, Daigoro supposed, but certainly these damnable duels were no help. Challengers came from far and wide to face House Okuma’s famed Inazuma blade. Now only Daigoro remained to face them. Ichiro’s death condemned Daigoro to a lifelong sentence of working day and night to uphold their father’s reputation.

Daigoro still didn’t understand why the clan leaders had agreed to name him Izu-no-kami, Lord Protector of Izu. At sixteen Daigoro was not only the youngest of the five lords protector; he could have been a grandson to any one of them. Okuma Tetsuro had left such a lofty reputation for his son to live up to, and Daigoro was not yet accustomed to shaving his pate.

“My lords,” Daigoro said, “it has been my honor to be defeated by such an agile warrior. Now, if you would like to join me for dinner—”

“Not so fast,” said Lord Sora. He stood and approached the fighters, his yellow kimono flowing behind him and the broad orange shoulders of his haori all but glowing in the sun. Sora Izu-no-kami Nobushige was another lord protector of Izu, and had held that station since even Daigoro’s father was a little boy. Despite his many years his white topknot had not thinned at all, and his red face still seemed as though he’d just left the forge that made him famous. Upon arrival at the Okuma compound, Lord Sora and his grandson had presented Daigoro with two of their clan’s famed yoroi, breastplates so well crafted that they were said to be able to deflect even the musket balls of the southern barbarians. Daigoro could not help thinking that the gift was made too late; had the Soras provided their unique armor a year earlier, they could have been meeting with Daigoro’s father today.

Years of hefting and hammering had made Lord Sora’s body strong, but the decades afterward had slowed him considerably. “My grandson is unsatisfied,” he said, almost shouting because he’d made so little progress across the courtyard. Daigoro noted the old man’s shuffling steps with sympathy; he wasn’t much faster himself. But he also noted that between Lord Sora’s shouting and his perpetually red face, it was impossible to read the man’s emotions.

“He believes the famed Bear Cub of Izu has not fought at his most bearlike,” said Lord Sora, still booming. “He believes our young lord has gone easy on him so that our parley will go smoothly. I am sure the young lord will explain to him why this is a misperception.”

At least that wasn’t hard to read. Daigoro was certain the doubts hadn’t come from Samanosuke at all. They came from the old man.

And the solution to all of this could have been so easy. Daigoro had but to hike up the hem of his hakama and show the Soras the wrist-thin leg concealed within. But to reveal his own weakness would have brought shame on both his clan and his father’s memory. Only a handful knew the son of Okuma Tetsuro was a cripple.

So instead he said, “My lords, my prowess has indeed been spoken of highly—more highly than it should have been. I assure you, I fought my best.”

“Then how is it that my grandson bested you so easily? Your reputation precedes you, Okuma-dono. Everyone knows you are undefeated in duels with live steel. If my grandson were so inclined, he might come to the conclusion that you have insulted our house. That you were toying with him. Even that you let him win in order to secure a better price on Sora yoroi.”

And one might also conclude, Daigoro thought, that you deliberately read the worst into every situation, the better to drive up the price of your precious armor. Or that you believe two broken fingers is too small a price to pay for nothing more than the honor of dining with you. Or that your grandson’s life is no price at all, that it will be good enough for your house if one of your lineage dies on Inazuma steel.

But Daigoro could say none of it. He could only try to keep from shaking his head, to hold his breath rather than let out a scoff. Lord Sora was close now, standing shoulder to broad shoulder with Katsushima. Daigoro hoped he’d contained himself well enough, because the old man was close enough to see the slightest hint of disrespect.

“I don’t suppose,” Daigoro said, his tone less gracious than it should have been, “that your grandson would like to come here and voice his concerns himself.”

Sora’s red cheeks wrinkled in the wake of a thin, spreading smile. “I fear he may have lost his composure.”

“He certainly wouldn’t want to do that,” said Katsushima, giving Daigoro a piercing stare.

“No, indeed,” said Daigoro. “No, he would not.” Stubborn old bastard, he thought. Damn you for making me do this. “But perhaps he might be willing to face me in a second duel?”

Sora’s white eyebrows pushed up toward his topknot. “Why, Okuma-dono, what sort of a barbarian do you take him for? He has his honor to think of. It wouldn’t do to challenge a man he’s just beaten.”

“Of course not,” said Daigoro, grinding his teeth. “I mean to say that, if he would be so gracious, I would be honored if he would accept my invitation to fight me steel to steel.”

A triumphant light gleamed in Lord Sora’s beady black eyes. “Samanosuke,” he called, not even bothering to look back, “ready your katana.”

Daigoro limped back to the veranda where Tomo and Glorious Victory stood waiting. Tomo regarded him with a smile that conveyed more worry than gladness. His hair was disheveled and he was wringing something in his hands, something too small and slender for Daigoro to see.

“Tomo, I’ll need you to do something more for these fingers. There’s no way I can hold—”

“It’s all well in hand, sir.” Now Tomo’s smile was boyish again, widening as he presented Daigoro with a closed fist. He opened his hand with a flourish, revealing a short, curved length of copper.

“Tomo, is that your hairpin?”

“No longer, sir. It’s your splint. May I see your hand?”

The metal matched the length of Daigoro’s middle finger precisely. How Tomo had managed that was beyond Daigoro’s ken. It hurt like hellfire when Tomo unwrapped the bandage he’d laid before, and when he bent misshapen fingers to match the curve of the copper, it was everything Daigoro could do not to wail like a little child. But the metal was a lot stronger than broken bone—maybe even strong enough to hold the weight of an odachi, Daigoro thought. If I don’t pass out first.

A few quick wraps with the cotton bandage and Daigoro’s broken fingers vanished, replaced by a fat, swollen, pain-ridden tongue, curled in just the shape needed to grip a sword. “By the Buddha, that stings,” said Daigoro. He wiped the last unbidden tears from his eyes and willed his clenching jaws to relax. “You’re a miracle worker, Tomo.”

“If you’re lucky, he’ll kill you, sir. And if not, I’m going to have to reset those fingers after the duel.”

Daigoro pushed himself to his feet, babying his right hand. He needed Tomo’s help to draw Glorious Victory, whose blade was nearly twice the length of his arm. He saw Samanosuke’s eyes widen as the two of them came to the center of the courtyard.

“Take your stance,” Katsushima said, and Daigoro’s right thigh quivered as he centered his sword. He found himself overgripping with his left hand, the better to take weight out of the right. The pain coming from those two fingers was blinding. Daigoro raised Glorious Victory to a high guard, the blade pointing straight at the sun, leaving his vitals wide open in an effort to take more weight off his maimed right hand.

Samanosuke hovered like a bee, well out of range. His katana was scarcely half the length of Daigoro’s odachi, and he was too crafty a fighter to simply wade in looking to score a quick kill. Had he ever faced a horseman’s sword before? Did he know Daigoro’s high guard sacrificed most of his reach? Daigoro couldn’t be sure.

Samanosuke ventured in closer. Daigoro held his stance. Another step and Samanosuke was close enough to strike. Their eyes met. Samanosuke lunged.

Daigoro had been so focused on Samanosuke’s blade that he never saw his mother rush onto the battlefield.

She looked like a madwoman, her hair billowing smokelike in every direction, and she grabbed Samanosuke from behind. “No no no no no,” she shrieked, her hands digging into Samanosuke’s elbows like iron hooks. Samanosuke had to struggle just to keep his footing.

Daigoro was paralyzed. He couldn’t lower his blade lest Samanosuke think he was attacking him. Nor could he simply toss his father’s sword aside like an old chicken bone. His scabbard was a good ten paces away. “Mother!” he shouted, his sword standing uselessly in his high guard.

“Not my baby,” she wailed. “Not my baby mybabymybaby—”

At last Katsushima took a hold of her, prying her hands off Samanosuke one by one. Moments later Tomo was on her too, and together they wrestled her back into the house.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Sora bellowed. Daigoro and Samanosuke still had their swords in hand. Formally speaking, their duel was still in progress, but any other semblance of formality had scattered to the winds. Now Lord Sora was shuffling into the fray, blustering as only he could. “Is this how you come to be undefeated? Do you Okumas allow your women to do your fighting?”

Daigoro lowered his weapon, taking care to point it away from everyone else so that no one could mistake it for an attack. “My lords,” he said, “you must accept our most abject apologies. Within the past year my mother lost her husband and her firstborn. No doubt you’ve heard how my brother Ichiro died, neh?”

Still visibly shaken, Samanosuke gave a nervous nod. “In a duel.”

“A duel just like this one.”

The truth was worse, though Daigoro had no mind to share family secrets. Ichiro’s name meant “firstborn son.” Daigoro’s meant “fifth son.” Their mother had miscarried two boys in between, but of course no woman could have named her next child “fourth son.” Four was the number of death. Daigoro’s mother had wanted to give her fourth son a girl’s name instead, for clearly some curse hung like a pall over the boys of House Okuma. Perhaps a girl’s name might deceive the evil gods and spirits. But her husband would not allow it, and so she’d named her next child Daigoro, despite the fact that he was not the fifth. The curse had already disfigured his leg; she would not hang the number of death on her newborn as well.

The thought of losing him shook her like an earthquake. Three of her four boys had already been taken before their time, and now the sight of her last living son facing live steel had shattered her completely.

“My lords,” Daigoro said, “I beg your understanding. She is beside herself with grief. Sometimes she does not know what she does.”

Samanosuke nodded, more sure of himself this time, but his grandfather was incensed. “I should think not,” he boomed. “I’ve never seen anything so disgraceful.”

“I give you my word, she will not interfere again. My men will see to it.”

“They should have seen to it the first time!”

“Quite right, Lord Sora. They should have. Rest assured that the responsible parties will be punished most harshly. In the meantime, please, if the Buddha’s compassion means anything to you, have pity on a poor woman who has lost more than she can bear.”

The breath coming from Lord Sora’s nose was as loud as a bellows. His huge red fists reminded Daigoro of the demonic Fudo statues standing guard over so many temples, the ones that had scared Daigoro so deeply as a little boy. He was a storm front in human form, and he even brought the rain with him: those dark clouds on the horizon had already reached the compound, blotting out the sun. “This is an outrage, Okuma. Most of the daimyo in Izu are younger than me, and you’re younger than the lot, but I’ve never, ever heard a daimyo called ‘my baby’ before. If you think we’re going to stand for an embarrassment like this—think what the other clans will say, a Sora beaten in a duel by a, by a—this, this won’t stand at all—”

It was all blustering from there. Daigoro offered apologies on behalf of his entire family. He offered to make good on his invitation to duel, the next time at the Sora compound. He offered a roof over the Soras’ heads. But though Samanosuke seemed amenable, his grandfather opted for a long ride home in the rain.

7

That night Daigoro sat in the teahouse, which had been prepared for many more guests than Tomo, Katsushima, and himself. Low tables ran the perimeter of the room, each one bedecked with chopsticks, a bowl for pickles, another for soup, another for rice, a space left for where the fish platters would be served, and a little bizen teacup. Daigoro supposed it was actually a mercy that his guests had left in a huff. Were they present, he would have been obliged to bottle up his suffering during their meal. As it was, Tomo could get straight to resetting his broken finger bones.

He winced and bit down hard, eyes watering, as Tomo pried the last of the fragments into place. “Terribly sorry, sir,” Tomo said, looking up with a compassionate smile. In truth Daigoro could not recall a time when he had not seen Tomo smiling. Fever, dog bites, even typhoons, nothing could sour his expression. He’d probably even smile if someone rammed a dagger in his chest. It was his way of dealing with the world’s tribulations, and in that sense he and Tomo weren’t so different. As a born samurai, Daigoro was expected to hide any pain or dismay behind a mask of equanimity. Tomo was lowborn, yet took refuge in his smile just as Daigoro took refuge in feigned serenity.

Daigoro blushed, ashamed that he’d allowed his mask to fall. Tomo finished with the fingers, binding them between thin strips of bamboo. It hurt like Fudo himself was crushing them with his great red teeth, but Daigoro managed to keep his mask on. “Thank you, Tomo. I believe you’ve saved my hand.”

“It’s nothing, sir.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, Okuma-dono.”

Daigoro watched as the potter’s boy took his leave, keeping close to the walls to avoid the heavy raindrops that still drummed against the outermost edge of the veranda. They hammered the clay tiles of the teahouse roof so steadily that it was difficult to hear anything else.

“So,” Katsushima said over the rain. “Today could have gone better.”

Daigoro chuckled, his spirits as dark and damp as the night. “Do you think so? I was hoping the rumor that my mother bested Samanosuke would spread like wildfire. Just think how everyone will fear the Okumas if their unarmed women can defeat swordsmen.”

Katsushima groaned. “What happened there? Why was she even out of her bedroom?”

“What does it matter? The damage is done.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I’ve dismissed all of her attendants, of course. At least her chamberlain had the good graces to spare me from making a proper example of him. He was a good man, and I shouldn’t have liked to execute him at all. He was sensible enough to retire to the orchard and throw himself off the cliff.”

“I wasn’t asking about the attendants.”

“Yes,” Daigoro said with a sigh. “My mother. Obviously she’ll be kept under watch until we can find more competent replacements.”

“No,” Katsushima said. Daigoro heard a distinctly chiding tone in his voice. “Your pressing problem is the Soras. And soon enough the Inoues. When do they come?”

Daigoro’s shoulders sank. “In less than a week. Not nearly enough time to patch things over with the Soras. And as bullies go, I’m told Lord Sora pales in comparison to Lord Inoue. I’ve spoiled everything, Katsushima. How did my father ever manage to keep these people in line?”

“You haven’t spoiled everything. The Soras did leave two of their famed yoroi as a gesture of goodwill.”

“That was none of my doing. They gave us those before we even sat down to tea. And I’m going to need a lot more than two breastplates if I’m to buy peace with the Inoues.”

Daigoro looked out at the raindrops spattering the faces of every puddle in the courtyard. “It looks like Izu is going to drown tonight, Katsushima, but the truth is this place is more like a field of dry grass. It only takes a spark to start a wildfire, and this damned rivalry between the Soras and Inoues is sending sparks flying everywhere.” Daigoro pounded his fist on the table—his good fist; the right still burned like hell. “I’ve botched everything I can botch. And because of today, tomorrow will be worse.”

“Patience,” said Katsushima.

8

Lord Inoue entered the Okuma compound on the back of an enormous white mare. He was a small man, scarcely taller than Daigoro, and compensated for it with a tall hat, voluminous robes, and daisho much shorter than average, as if someone might mistake him for being larger by mistaking his swords to be of normal length. To Daigoro’s mind he wore not clothing so much as a costume. He made quite an impressive entrance, but Daigoro wondered if he’d given forethought to what would come immediately after entering. His horse was far too long-legged for him, so the samurai of the Okuma honor guard had no choice but to find somewhere else to look as the lord lowered himself off his horse, at one point dangling with both feet off the ground.

“This is the fearsome Inoue Shigekazu?” Daigoro whispered under his breath.

Katsushima, standing beside him, sniffed. “This is the man he wants you to see. A feint, exactly the same as in fighting. Tread carefully.”

Daigoro nodded. “My mother is secure?”

“Tomo is watching her himself. Well, Tomo and a host of personal guards.”

Daigoro felt his gut go cold. It was one year to the day since they’d received word of his father’s death. He should have been comforting his mother, not locking her away like a common criminal. “Today will be especially hard for her,” he whispered. “She cannot be allowed to disturb the audience with Inoue, but see to it that she is not treated harshly.”

“I’ll round up that old healer of yours. Poppy’s tears should keep her quiet.”

Lord Inoue, having finally reached the ground, approached Daigoro with a bodyguard of eight samurai, all of them his sons. All were dressed in black and silver, and Inoue’s sideburns and thin mustache were also black traced through with silver. His darting eyes followed Katsushima, then flicked to Daigoro, then to the roof, the well, the shadows below the veranda. Daigoro had heard the man was paranoid, but the rumors hadn’t prepared him for this. He moved as if assassins lurked in every corner.

At last Lord Inoue reached the short staircase leading up to the broad, shady veranda that surrounded the main house. He gave Daigoro a deep and graceful bow. “Okuma-sama. I do hope your mother is feeling better.”

Daigoro willed his face to remain passive. How had Inoue heard of last week’s debacle with the Soras? His spy network was said to have eyes and ears everywhere, but Daigoro had taken steps to quarantine that information. He’d shut down the entire Okuma compound, allowing no one who had seen the duel with Sora Samanosuke to go beyond the gate. Surely the Soras had said nothing; not only did they stand to be hurt by the story, but they despised the Inoues. Who had talked?

“Mother is quite well,” Daigoro said, bowing back. His right hand accidentally brushed against the leg of his hakama, shooting spears of pain through his broken fingers. “I thank you for your concern. Come, shall we sit? You’ve been on the road a long time.”

They took their tea in a long tatami room overlooking the sea. The shoji were open, admitting a gentle breeze and the sedating smell of the camphor grove behind the compound. “Ahhh,” said Inoue, sipping his tea. “The sky is blue. The gulls are calling. What a beautiful day to talk about spies.”

Daigoro gave a polite laugh, glossing over his guest’s faux pas. “It seems we’ve finished with the preliminaries. Of course you’re right, Inoue-sama. My family would benefit from allying with your intelligence network.”

“As would everyone else. Even Toyotomi no Hideyoshi, the emperor’s new chief minister and regent, has been making inquiries. Tell me, Okuma-sama, what can you offer that even the likes of Toyotomi cannot?”

Daigoro knew what Inoue was after. The cagey old daimyo was one of the first on the islands to see the tactical merit of the southern barbarians’ muskets and matchlocks. Inoue’s musketry battalions might have been what first prompted Lord Sora to develop a breastplate capable of deflecting musket balls. And since Inoue was paranoid, he could not set aside the fear of assassination by musket. He simply had to have Sora yoroi, and not just for himself. He had countless sons, and high-ranking officers too. All of them needed protection. But Sora would not trade with him. So long as only Sora commanders were safe from gunfire, the Soras had an advantage to counterbalance Inoue’s firepower.

Lord Sora’s initial refusal to sell had swollen into open enmity, the kind that showered sparks all over the dry, grassy field that was Izu. Daigoro wanted to prevent a wildfire, and had he not failed with the Soras, he could have sold Sora armor to the Inoues. He could have forged a link between the two houses, protecting the Inoues while making the Soras rich. Everyone would win. But his mother had smashed it all to pieces. More importantly, Daigoro had failed to repair what she’d broken. He was sure his father would have found a solution, some answer Daigoro hadn’t been able to see himself.

So Daigoro knew exactly what Lord Inoue was angling for, and Inoue was aware of that before coming here, and both of them knew full well that Daigoro could not afford to give up what Inoue would ask of him. I do hope your mother is feeling better. That was no social formality, no idle comment in passing. It was an announcement: you had negotiations with the Soras and your mother made a shambles of them. You tried to outflank me and you failed. And you still need what I know, so now I can ask anything I want from you.

And Daigoro knew what Lord Inoue wanted. First and foremost he wanted the armor, but since he’d known he wouldn’t find that here, there was only one other thing the house of Okuma could offer, only one gift as valuable as the intelligence the Inoue spies could deliver. Daigoro knew what it was, and he knew his family couldn’t afford to part with it.

He met Inoue’s gaze. Those darting eyes were as still as stones now. As dangerous as musket balls. They saw too much.

“Lord Inoue, as long as we’re dispensing with the formalities, may I dare to venture a guess on what General Toyotomi has promised you?”

Those eyes glistened. The slightest of smiles touched the corners of Inoue’s lips. He cocked his head, shifted on his cushion, and gave Daigoro an appraising look. “Does my young lord wish to compete with me in the field of information gathering?”

“I do.”

“Please. Regale me.”

Daigoro swallowed. His pulse quickened, but he could no longer back down. “I think Toyotomi offered his own hand in marriage. He is already married, of course, but even a regent’s concubine is still an honorable station. I wouldn’t want to hazard a guess on which one of your daughters you offered, since you have so many—all beautiful and charming, no doubt, but I daresay you would offer someone young enough to promise many children. Am I far wrong?”

Inoue’s eyes narrowed. His smile became a thin, flat line.

“Aha,” said Daigoro. “Now, it’s been some years since I’ve had the honor of spending time with your daughters, but perhaps you’ll recall your Kameko was my grammar teacher. I remember how happy she was each time you gave her another brother or sister. As prolific as you’ve been, Lord Inoue, I can’t imagine you’re wanting for daughters of marriageable age. You’ll have a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old who’s perfect for the regent. She could provide him almost as many sons as you have.”

That last was a gross exaggeration. Toyotomi would need an entire village of women to produce the sons Inoue Shigekazu had fathered. Behind the lord’s back, people joked that Inoue’s intelligence network was so vast because he had a son or daughter married into every house from here to China. Another facet of his paranoia, Daigoro supposed; who better as a bodyguard than your own flesh and blood? Who better to command your battalions, manage your grain stores, prepare your food? No little girl of Inoue’s could ever hope to outproduce her own father, the man who counted children the way most men counted rice.

But certainly Inoue had offered one of them to Toyotomi. Daigoro could see it in his face. His black and silver eyebrows lowered ever so slightly; his gaze darted out to the horizon and back. Daigoro had struck the bull’s-eye dead center.

And now he feared what came next. Because he’d botched the Sora negotiations, the most valuable thing the Okumas could offer House Inoue was a marriage. And in that discussion Inoue held all the cards. He had no shortage of daughters to marry off, and Daigoro could only offer his own hand.

Only a few months ago, he would have been more than happy to submit to a marriage for his family’s political benefit. Back then, Ichiro was the clan’s prize. But now Ichiro was dead, leaving Daigoro as the eldest son of the Okumas. The costs and benefits of marriage were totally different now.

Daigoro cleared his throat. “I believe we were discussing a prospective wedding between one of your daughters and the lord regent.”

Inoue shrugged. “We were speculating idly about such possibilities, yes. But more pressing, my young lord, is whom you might marry. You’re the head of your house now. Shameful for such a powerful daimyo to be unwed, neh?”

Not as shameful as squandering my family’s most valuable bargaining chip, Daigoro thought. “I’m sixteen, Lord Inoue. I still have a year or two before bachelorhood becomes unseemly.” And a year or two to draw other allies close with the possibility of marriage. As soon as I’m spoken for, my family loses its best asset.

“Is that the fashion these days? Forgive me. I’m an old man; I do not see such affairs with the same eyes as you younger folk. Perhaps remaining unwed is not as shameful for you as it is for those of the older generations—mine, for example, or even your mother’s.”

Inoue’s narrow eyes twinkled. The lines around his mouth deepened, as if he were trying to restrain a smile. “Speak plainly,” Daigoro said.

“As you wish. How long has your mother been without a husband? A year? Longer?”

“What does it matter? She’s no dowager. The responsibility for House Okuma falls to me.”

“So it does. So it does. But if my young lord wanted to leave his prospects for marriage open, he might well marry off his mother instead, neh? Think of what a weight it would lift from you, not having to worry about her any longer. She’s started feeling the effects of her years, I imagine. It was a long time ago that I was her age, but I remember well enough.”

Daigoro thought of those wrinkles at her eyes, of how they’d multiplied in the last year. And he thought of how easily Lord Inoue could manipulate the Okumas if he managed to marry a son to their matriarch. Inoue was wrong: she wasn’t so old that her years were a heavy burden. The wrinkles came with worry, not age. Her grief was so heavy that it threatened to crush the life out of her. She was in no state to be married off, least of all to a bully from the Inoues.

And that meant Daigoro’s hand became all the more valuable. Not only could he forge a much-needed alliance; he could also protect his mother against predatory suitors—above all the predators from the wolf pack called House Inoue.

Lord Inoue’s eyes twinkled all the more brightly. “My young lord, I sense your hesitation. But as you said before, my sons are not the only ones seeking marriage; I have daughters too. You mentioned my Kameko, for instance. I daresay you know her well enough to remember how intelligent and graceful she is. An ideal wife for a bright young man such as yourself.”

Daigoro remembered. Kameko was as gentle a soul as any man could hope to meet. And as busy as Daigoro was in learning how to govern his clan and maintain stability in Izu, he had no time for courtship. That made Inoue Kameko a sound choice. He knew her. She’d taught him to read and write, and later taught him poetry and calligraphy. She was patient, sweet, kind, and conscientious.

And she was thirty years Daigoro’s senior. She would bear no sons, and the Okumas desperately needed sons.

That shifted Daigoro’s thoughts in a different direction. The last time he’d seen Inoue Kameko was at his brother Ichiro’s funeral. With her was a younger sister, one whom Daigoro guessed to be close to his own age. Kameko had attended out of respect for Ichiro, also a former student of hers, and the little sister was there as her attendant. But what was her name?

He could see her clearly in his mind’s eye. She’d worn white, with tiny red leaves woven into the silk. The leaves were red, aka, for aki, autumn. . . .

“Akiko,” Daigoro said. “What of her? She came to my brother’s funeral. That was very generous of her. As I recall, she’s unmarried, neh?”

Inoue’s eyes narrowed. Vertical lines furrowed between his eyebrows. He sipped his tea rather than speaking. There were only so many reasons for a reaction like that. Daigoro had backed him into a corner. But how?

However he’d done it, it wouldn’t do to let up now. The girl was obviously precious, the brightest star in her father’s sky. And she was important for some reason. But Daigoro couldn’t see what it was. He struggled to keep the uncertainty out of his voice, to speak as congenially as if Inoue were his oldest friend. “How old is your Akiko? I’d have guessed she’s close to my age, but if I may speak frankly, her face is as pure and bright as it must have been on her first birthday. It’s hard to guess the age of a beautiful girl like her.”

Lord Inoue finished his tea. Daigoro filled his cup for him, never taking his eyes off Inoue’s face. The wizened little daimyo studiously avoided his gaze. “Marriageable age for certain,” Daigoro said. “Unless you’ve got a husband in mind for her already. General Toyotomi, perhaps?”

Inoue’s gaze darted to the floor, then the wall, the teacup, the tabletop. Aha, Daigoro thought. I’ve got you. “Well, no matter,” he said, his tone rosy and light. “If she’s spoken for, she’s spoken for. Still, I wonder how one so young could have angered her father so much that he’d be willing to toss her out like a mud-stained kimono.”

That got Inoue to look up. “What do you mean?”

“Come now, Inoue-sama. Even the regent must bow to the coin. Toyotomi presses the war far and wide, but he seldom fights. More often he treats, neh?”

“You dare ask me? If it were not for me, no one in Izu would know the name Toyotomi, much less his exploits.”

It was a gross exaggeration, but Daigoro was happy to see he’d struck a nerve. He bowed, and in his most apologetic tone he said, “Of course. I meant only to point out that this is a man who buys his victories by giving lands to those who concede defeat. He expands his empire without expanding his purse. It’s risky, neh?”

“Risky?” Inoue scoffed. “It’s damned clever—and I thought you were bright enough to understand just how clever. Don’t you see? A defeated daimyo who retains his own territory thinks he’s won. He thinks mustering troops at Toyotomi’s command is no hardship, when in fact all the fool has done is to ensure that he’ll always be the one who pays to keep Toyotomi’s army fed. If the regent asks for ten thousand troops, then that is how many the local lord must assemble, and in the meantime the man has ten thousand bellies to fill.”

“Begging your pardon, Lord Inoue, but the risk I spoke of isn’t Toyotomi’s. It belongs to his womenfolk. How many wives and concubines must he have by now? Imagine what it must cost to keep them clothed and housed in a style that befits the regent’s own household.” Daigoro paused for a moment, to let Inoue envision just how lavish that lifestyle must be. “It might not go so badly for your daughter if General Toyotomi were constantly expanding his personal wealth, but he isn’t. Akiko will be the smallest cub in a litter already starving for its mother’s milk. By this point those women must be clawing at each other for the smallest bauble. But no doubt you’ve foreseen all of this, which only leaves me to wonder how awful a daughter’s crime must be for her own father to throw her to the wolves.”

“Hm.” Inoue smoothed his slender mustache with a thumb and fingertip. He was otherwise speechless for a long, pregnant moment.

At last he said, “You see much for a boy of your years. You impress me. And I would not see my daughter become a discarded concubine living in a hovel.”

“Like any loving father,” Daigoro said.

“If I were to offer you Akiko’s hand in marriage, would you accept?”

Daigoro blinked and looked out at the sky. Had he just outmaneuvered the great Inoue Shigekazu, or had Inoue outmaneuvered him? Daigoro’s first goal had been to gain the benefit of Inoue’s spy network. A marriage to the apple of his eye would accomplish that. But his next most important goal was to retain his family’s most powerful asset: his own bachelorhood, and with it the possibility of alliance through marriage. Now, rather than trying to avoid wedding a barren daughter, he’d pressured Inoue into offering him his most desirable daughter. Or had he? Perhaps Inoue played the fool all along, hoping to get Daigoro to push him to just this conclusion.

Either way, Inoue had asked the question, and he’d asked it from a position of weakness. Had this been a duel, Inoue would have been on his back, disarmed and helpless. No man of honor could kill him in such a position. In effect, Inoue was begging him for mercy. And a true follower of bushido had no choice but to grant his wish.

Father, I wish you were here, Daigoro thought. I wish you could tell me the right thing to do. He had no doubt that his family would be stronger with the countless eyes and ears of the Inoues. Nor did he have any doubt that the old man seated across from him would bully his new son-in-law whenever and however he could.

Equally doubtless was the fact that if Daigoro said no to Akiko’s hand, Inoue would take it personally. He’d borne his silly grudge against the Soras for decades. No doubt he would use the full might of his spy network to hurt the Okumas. He might even look for new ways to marry his children to Daigoro and Daigoro’s mother. Daigoro wasn’t even sure he’d outfoxed the old man this time around; he certainly didn’t know how many more times he could pull it off.

And there was the last consideration: what Izu needed now, more than ever and more than anything, was stability. As lord protector of Izu, Daigoro knew his duty. A marriage between his clan and the Inoues would bring stability.

What should I do, Father? Compromise our family’s position in order to stabilize Izu? Or compromise Izu in order to leave our family better positioned for the future?

Daigoro had no idea what his father would say. He knew only that his father had an aphorism, one he’d repeated countless times through Daigoro’s childhood: A samurai makes every decision in the space of seven breaths. The path of bushido was not for the hesitant.

• • •

The feast that evening was a thing of beauty. The Okuma cooks truly outdid themselves: roasted sparrows so delicate that they almost melted in the mouth; soft tofu artfully sculpted and dyed; shrimp flecked with gold; sushi of every description: squid and octopus, lobster and roe, eel and egg. Sake flowed. Toasts were made. The scullery maids would be washing dishes until sunrise.

Then came the musicians, and clapping and dancing, and after much prodding Lord Inoue stood up to sing. Even Daigoro’s mother seemed to be having a good time—owing in part to the poppy’s tears, no doubt, but only in part. Daigoro himself could have used some of her medicine; his broken fingers still felt like they were made of broken pottery. He watched his mother singing along and smiled. If anyone ever needed cause for celebration, it was her.

An hour into the festivities, Daigoro finally allowed Katsushima to corner him. “I’m pleased to hear you’ll finally be dipping your wick,” Katsushima said, “but are you certain you’ve made the right choice?”

Daigoro bent closer, the better to be heard over the shamisen and shakuhachi players. “No. But with Akiko as the dowry, Inoue could have bought a greater house than ours. He sacrificed and we sacrificed.”

“Who sacrificed more?”

“I don’t know yet. But Mother is having fun, and that’s something I wasn’t sure I could buy for any price.”

Katsushima’s face darkened. “She is a liability.”

“She is my mother. What would you have me do? Marry her off instead?”

“No.” Katsushima said it a bit too quickly. “As dangerous as it is to keep her around, it is more dangerous to let her go.”

“Well, what, then?”

Katsushima said nothing to that, but Daigoro was afraid he could guess the answer. Katsushima had no family. He was as free as a wave on the sea. But he was right. Daigoro’s mother might be at peace for the rest of the evening, but he knew how vulnerable she was. She made the whole clan vulnerable. She’d already spoiled things with the Soras, and because of her condition she’d forced Daigoro to bind himself to the daughter of a petty, overbearing, power-seeking spymaster. The Okumas were weaker so long as Daigoro’s mother was among them.

Just like that, the music sounded flat to his ears and the sake soured in his mouth. Someone like Katsushima might have married her off just to make her another clan’s problem, then cut all ties so she couldn’t be used against him. That certainly would have been an easier solution. But even Katsushima could see it wasn’t so easy to cut emotional ties. And if she couldn’t be kept around and she couldn’t be let go, there was only one other solution.

It would have been so easy. Daigoro had a hundred different sword hands he could assign to the task. In truth it was the only sensible alternative he had. And Daigoro would never forgive himself for thinking of it.

9

After the most dizzying month of his life, Daigoro found himself on a balmy evening sitting next to his new wife. Cicadas chirped merrily outside the compound walls and the sunset painted the western sky with a thousand shades of orange. Akiko sat beside him on the lip of the veranda, her perfume as sweet as apple blossoms. He still felt as if he barely knew her—their wedding was the first time they’d spent more than an hour in each other’s company, and that had been only a week ago—but so far he had the impression that they’d get along well. She made him laugh, and that simple fact made him realize he hadn’t had much occasion for laughter in over a year. It was good to have laughter back in his life.

Better still, seeing his leg hadn’t upset her in the slightest. It looked more like a skinned snake than anything else, and prior to last week the very thought of marriage had inspired dreadful thoughts of trying to hide his leg from his wife for the rest of their lives together. He couldn’t bear seeing a woman’s revulsion at the sight of it, but how could he conceal his leg from someone who would see him daily in his smallclothes? Perhaps Akiko had been forewarned about it. Or perhaps it had taken her by surprise when she first undressed him and she sincerely wasn’t put off. Daigoro didn’t care which one it was. He felt only an overflowing swell of gratitude that she hadn’t reacted sourly.

And the discovery of sex made his life immeasurably better. He’d understood the mechanics of it well enough, and for his fourteenth birthday Ichiro had even taken him to visit a brothel. But at that age he’d been even more embarrassed of his leg than he was now, and so the prostitute had only stripped herself naked and slipped her hand down the front of his hakama. Daigoro’s wedding night came as a nigh-religious revelation. Akiko was equally eager, and despite a touch of neophyte clumsiness in some of their experimentations, so far they hadn’t experimented fewer than six times a day.

Yet there remained the incessant affairs of state—this clan bickering with that one, Lord This and Lord That feuding over some perceived slight—and the affairs of House Okuma too. First and foremost was the wedding, the planning of which had consumed every spare moment beforehand and the paying for which promised to occupy him for some weeks to come. Between all of that and the constant temptation to chase Akiko back to the bedroom, Daigoro hardly had time to eat. He hadn’t so much as unsheathed Glorious Victory, to say nothing of training, though for that his battered right hand was supremely grateful.

Akiko ran a fingertip across his shoulder blades and handed him the next envelope. She had what seemed like an unending supply of them, some delivered personally at their wedding, others trickling in as the riders came and went with each passing day. Daigoro opened the newest envelope—it was cleverly folded to blossom like a flower—and discovered it was from Lord Yasuda, Daigoro’s favorite among all the Okuma allies. Daigoro thought of him more as an uncle than a military asset. Sadly, he was an aging uncle, and his many years were finally catching up with him. He’d taken sick, and so he hadn’t been able to attend the wedding even though the Yasuda compound was less than half a day’s ride away. Nevertheless, Lord Yasuda’s gift was most generous: nine beautiful horses, three stallions and six mares, along with wishes for many foals and many children. The aging lord himself had a new great-grandson, and expressed his wishes that Daigoro and Akiko quickly make for him a playmate close to his own age.

“Oh!” Akiko chirped. “Look, a delivery from the regent himself.”

“How about that?” Daigoro said. “I wouldn’t have thought news of our little wedding would have made it so high in the sky.”

“And to think the sun and the moon didn’t think to give us anything. How scandalous!”

She broke the wax kiri blossom seal, and watched eagerly as Daigoro took it from her and read. “Oh, hell,” he said.

“Is that what the regent thinks of marriage? It hasn’t been bad so far.”

Daigoro chuckled, but only halfheartedly. “Tomo,” he said, not needing to raise his voice; unless the boy was off on some errand, he was always within earshot. “Find Katsushima-san for me, would you?”

“Is it trouble?” asked Akiko.

“The worst kind. An execution order.”

Akiko gasped. “The imperial regent wants you to commit seppuku?”

Daigoro shook his head, giving the letter a puzzled look. “No. He orders me to kill the abbot of Katto-ji.”

“What? Why?”

“It doesn’t say. It says only to send his head back to Kyoto.”

It was his wife’s turn to frown. She read the regent’s missive for herself, and by the end Daigoro saw her forehead furrow with the same consternation he’d felt as he was reading. “Who is this monk?” she asked.

“You met him briefly.”

“What, the old man who blessed our wedding?”

That and more, Daigoro thought. He admired the abbot. He knew the old monk had once been samurai, and that meant he might well have made some enemies on the battlefield. It was even possible that he had faced General Toyotomi. Could he have been involved in one of Toyotomi’s defeats?

Daigoro dismissed the thought. Even if it were true, all past offenses were absolved as soon as one took the cloth. Why should anyone call for his head now? And why would someone of such a lofty position even deign to remember that the abbot existed?

“Daigoro, this is dated two weeks ago.”

“I know.”

“He could have you killed just for failing to respond.” She shook the letter at him like a stick. “This is Toyotomi Hideyoshi we’re talking about. Patience and fair-mindedness aren’t what he’s known for.”

“I know, Aki. Just listen—”

“How did this happen? Does he send you so many letters from him that you can just forget one?”

Daigoro wasn’t accustomed to being reprimanded by a woman his own age. He wondered if this was what married life had in store for him, though he had to admit there was love in her agitation. After only seven days together, she cared enough for him to get upset when she saw him threatened.

Even so, he was glad to see Katsushima walk up behind her and snatch the letter from her fingers. He’d taken her entirely by surprise—his footfalls were as muted as his personality—and that made her catch her breath long enough for Daigoro to get a word in.

“Aki, listen to me. Suppose it took a week’s time for this to come from Kyoto. That would have it arrive on our wedding day—to be lost in the confusion, neh?”

“And then to be tossed in with all the other letters and gifts. . . . Merciful Buddha, Daigoro. What are we going to do?”

“Only the obvious,” Katsushima said. He reexamined the kiri blossom imprinted in the broken seal, studied the letter once more, then handed it back with a fatalistic shrug. “Best to get it over with.” Out of old and indelible habit, his thumb flicked out to loosen his sword in its sheath.

“I won’t,” Daigoro said.

Katsushima gave a curt bow. “I understand. It’s harder when you have a personal connection. Lend me a horse and I’ll see it done.”

“You misunderstand me. I have no interest in beheading an innocent man.”

“Buddhas have mercy,” Akiko said, “you don’t mean to defy the regent, do you? When she noticed the look she’d drawn from Katsushima, she glared right back. “Don’t you look at me like that. Do you think just because I’m a woman I can’t understand affairs of state?”

Katsushima snorted. “You’re a girl, not a woman. And the answer to your question is yes.”

Akiko was on her feet in an instant, fists on her hips. “If I am a girl, then my daddy is the most powerful spymaster between here and Kyoto.”

If Daigoro thought she had her hackles up before, that was nothing compared to now. She stood over him with all the tenacity of a she-wolf defending her cubs. Daigoro found he rather liked it.

And she wasn’t finished. “Do you think that sword of yours is the only kind of weapon? A precocious little girl can lower a man’s defenses in ways no sword ever could. I’ve served my father as a courier since I was old enough to count to ten.”

Katsushima wore an expression Daigoro had never seen in him before. He looked startled and chastised and bemused all at once, as if he’d knocked over a buzzing hornet’s nest only to release a swarm of angry butterflies. His look did not lessen Akiko’s temper.

“Aki,” Daigoro said, tugging her sleeve, “sit next to me, would you, please? I need you to tell me what you make of all this nonsense about the river and the flood.”

She gave Katsushima a defiant little squint and sat down, snatching the letter from Daigoro’s hand. He smiled and was glad she didn’t see it; her feistiness was adorable, but it wouldn’t do for her to know he felt that way. Not yet. “Here,” he told her, pointing to the passage in question. “Whatever is too heavy for the river to carry off is easily washed away by the floodwaters.”

“It sounds like His Lordship fancies himself a poet,” Katsushima said.

Akiko harrumphed. “It sounds to me like His Lordship offers you an ultimatum: either you take the abbot’s head or he’ll send a battalion to come and get it.”

“And perhaps conduct other business while they’re here,” Daigoro said, filling in the rest. “Like flooding the house of any upstart lordling who defied his will.”

“It makes no sense,” Akiko said. She studied the letter again, as if she hoped to find some explanation that hadn’t been written there before. “Why should a daimyo halfway across the empire want this man killed?”

“I don’t know,” Daigoro said, but in truth he had no attention to spare for that particular riddle. He had questions of his own to answer. How had so much gone so wrong in so little time? His father had managed the squabbling lords of Izu for decades without mishap. Now, just a year after his death, Izu was fraying at the edges and the Okumas had drawn the ire of the most powerful warlord the islands had ever seen. Daigoro cursed himself. This was not the path his father had laid out for him. If Glorious Victory Unsought was too heavy for him to wield, leadership of the clan was heavy enough to crush him like an insect.

He could almost feel his father’s mantle hanging on him, a stone yoke pressing down on his shoulders and straining his heart. His bones ached under the weight of it. His only goal was to protect his clan and preserve their honor, and his every decision had achieved just the opposite.

“I cannot understand your hesitation,” Katsushima said. “The right path is clear.”

“It’s anything but,” said Daigoro. “Do you really expect me to ride up the hill and murder an innocent man?”

“Of course.”

Akiko let out a little gasp. A tiny, distant part of Daigoro’s mind wondered at the difference between true samurai and those whose families maintained the station but not the code. Akiko had a fierce heart, to be sure, and Daigoro grew fonder and fonder of her by the day, but her father was a craven who hid behind his walls, just like his father before him. Inoue Shigekazu was a potent ally, but never on the battlefield. Clearly he’d never spoken of killing and dying as Katsushima spoke of it, or else Akiko would not have reacted as she did.

It was enough for Daigoro that her father had his spies and informants—and, of course, his topknot. Had the Inoues not been samurai, marrying Akiko would never have crossed Daigoro’s mind. As well marry a pine tree as marry a peasant. The very concept didn’t exist, at least not in the true samurai’s mind. Katsushima was one of those. Daigoro’s father had been too, and it was Daigoro’s sole aspiration to become one himself. But in this case he could not emulate his new mentor.

“Katsushima-san, this is not the honorable path. I cannot agree with you.”

“And I cannot fathom how your morality can prevent you from doing the right thing.” It was clear in his tone that his patience was fading fast. “Why are you afraid to do what is necessary?”

“And why are you so bold as to speak to my husband that way?” Akiko was back on her feet. “You are a servant of this house!”

For his part, Katsushima showed admirable reserve—or else Akiko’s outburst made his dwindling patience seem admirable by comparison. He only looked up at Akiko, who, since she stood on the veranda and he stood in the garden, loomed over him like a giant—but one made of flower petals, as far as Katsushima was concerned.

Daigoro touched Akiko gently on the hand. “He is no servant. He stays because he is welcome to stay, and because he chooses to. I count him as a friend and a counselor, but Katsushima-san has never sworn an oath to my banner.”

“Nor will I,” said Katsushima. “But if you ask me to, I will ride to Katto-ji and return before sundown with the old man’s head in a sack. If you would not have your own men spill his blood, send me.”

“And if I don’t send you? Will you do it of your own accord?”

Katsushima did not need to think about it for long. “No. The decision is yours. I will not make it for you.”

Daigoro nodded, relieved that he would not have to find a way to restrain a man he respected. “It’s wrong, Katsushima-san. He’s committed no crime.”

“Are you sure of that? Sure enough to kneel beside him before the kaishaku? Because that’s what you’ll be doing if you defy the regent: you’ll sentence yourself to execution.”

Once again that tiny, distant voice in Daigoro’s mind voiced its observations about the differences in social stations. Only a ronin would speak of being sentenced to death. Daigoro, lord of his house, would not wait for a higher lord’s sentencing; if he’d done wrong, he would already have plunged his sword into his belly.

But for all of that, Katsushima made a good point. Daigoro had no idea what history the regent and the abbot shared. For that matter, he didn’t even know the abbot’s name. How many conversations had he ever shared with the old man? Three? Four? The abbot had impressed Daigoro from their first meeting, and had offered him valuable spiritual guidance, but for all of that Daigoro didn’t really know anything about him. He had been samurai, yes, but for whom? He had seen battle, yes, and he’d even faced Daigoro’s own father, but how had he conducted himself on the battlefield? With honor? Without? Had he dishonored the great Toyotomi himself? How?

Daigoro could answer none of those questions. All he could do was order a horse to be saddled so he could pay a visit to Katto-ji.

10

“Okuma-dono,” the abbot said when he opened the gate in the temple’s garden wall. “What a surprise! It’s late.”

He held a thin taper; its flickering flame caused his many wrinkles to deepen with shadow. The evening had become quite chilly, but the bald abbot wore neither a hat nor an overrobe. “May I come in?” Daigoro said.

“Of course, of course.”

Upon stepping through Katto-ji’s gate, Daigoro saw the moonlight playing on the broken skin of the huge, twisted, ancient pine that dominated the courtyard. The rocks surrounding the pine had been raked to form concentric waves around the fat, gnarled roots, like ripples retreating from stomping feet in a shallow pool. Here and there a candle flame quivered behind paper windows, but for the most part the abbey was dark and still.

“Please, sit, Okuma-dono. What can I do for you on this beautiful night?”

The abbot sat down on a short staircase that ascended to the meditation hall. Daigoro lowered himself to sit beside him, his right knee wobbling as he did so, his right hand protesting loudly as he used it to balance himself as he sat. He looked at the abbot, whose unbroken hands rested on two good knees, and found himself envious of the old man’s health. And just how old was he? Sixty? Eighty? Daigoro couldn’t be sure. He only knew that he himself was just sixteen and this wizened abbot got around more easily than he did.

“I’ve received a missive,” said Daigoro. “From General Toyotomi, the new regent.”

Daigoro studied the abbot’s face as he delivered this news. The abbot’s eyebrows rose at the mention of Toyotomi. Then his face became even more serene than it was already—and that was saying something, for this was a man who could teach the moonlit stones in the rock garden about serenity.

“Do you know him?” said Daigoro.

“The answer to that depends on what you mean by ‘know.’ I’ve never met him face-to-face.”

“But you met him on the battlefield.”

Again the eyebrows rose. “Ah,” said the abbot. “Now, that’s an interesting insight. What led you to it?”

“He wants me to deliver your head in a sack.”

“Does he, now?”

Daigoro marveled at the abbot’s tranquility. Yes, the old man had been samurai, and yes, he had been practicing Zen for years, but even so, he might still have let slip a hint of distress upon learning that the most powerful man in the empire wanted him dead. Once again Daigoro found himself envious.

And yet he was frustrated too. The abbot had an annoying habit of not answering questions, and the answers to tonight’s questions might keep both of their heads firmly on their necks.

“So you met him in battle,” Daigoro said, prodding.

“Yes, you could say that. In a sense the battlefield is the only place where one can truly meet another man. There his true face is unmasked. But asking your question that way will cause my answer to mislead you.”

Daigoro didn’t feel misled, but neither could he ignore the abbot’s warning. He felt his frustration mounting and took a deep breath in an attempt to quell it. “Sir,” he said at last, “would you please enlighten me as to how you know Toyotomi Hideyoshi?”

“You asked whether I met him in battle. That can mean two things, neh? Did I fight him in battle? No. Did I see his true face in battle? Yes.”

“So you served under him.”

“Not under him. Under one of his commanders, a man named Shichio. You may not know of him, but I assure you, that letter you received was his, not Hideyoshi’s.”

“You say you’ve never met the regent face-to-face,” said Daigoro, “and yet you refer to him and his commander by their first names. Why?”

“Shichio is Shichio. Hideyoshi is not Hideyoshi, but he is not not-Hideyoshi.”

Again the frustration swelled in Daigoro’s belly. He felt it pulsing in his neck, hot enough to choke him. It pulsed in his broken fingers too, biting at their sore and swollen flesh. It was all he could do to retain the thinnest shell of politeness. “You’ll have to tell me what you mean by that.”

“Shichio is Shichio because he has no other name. He comes from peasant stock. Have you ever heard of a peasant with a surname?”

“Of course not.”

“And Hideyoshi has as many names as the sky has stars. ‘Hideyoshi’ is as good as any of them.”

Daigoro was ready to growl. More than anything he wanted to shout, Damn you, unclog your doddering ears and listen to me. Instead he said, “Perhaps I should be clearer. A man with hundreds of thousands of troops at his beck and call wants me to kill you. If I refuse, he’ll call for my head as well. I need for you not to speak in riddles anymore.”

“Oh, but I’m not,” said the abbot, his face as innocent as a newborn kitten. “The man you call ‘the regent’ changes names as often as most men change clothing. When I fought under him his name was Hideyoshi. Before that it was Hashiba, and before that the Bald Rat, and before that it was Kinoshita, and before that it was who-knows-what. Now it is the Monkey King, or Imperial Regent, or Chief Minister. Most recently it is Toyotomi Hideyoshi. Who knows what name his mother gave him? I call him by the name he had when I met him.”

“Very well,” said Daigoro. “I am grateful for your explanation, but you’ll forgive me if I feel I’m no closer to understanding why this man should want me to deliver your head.”

“I’ve explained that already, neh? He doesn’t. Shichio does.”

Daigoro closed his eyes. It was all he could do not to strangle the abbot. “All right,” he said through gritted teeth, “so why does Shichio want your head?”

“I expect he’s recently met a man with a scar across his forehead. Years ago I watched that man receive his scar. As a result, an army of ghosts handed Shichio a defeat, and because Shichio was routed, Hideyoshi lost the day as well. And if Hideyoshi were ever to learn of this story, I expect he would seek Shichio’s head, not mine.”

Daigoro pounded his knee with his fist. “Damn you and your bewildering words! Is this as plainly as you can speak?”

“My lord, if you’ll just wait one moment more—”

“I’m through with waiting. Don’t you understand? I could end this conversation with one stroke of my sword. And I’d be better off if I did it, too. I have only to deliver your head and life will suddenly become very easy—for me, for my family, for the whole damned peninsula. Yet you want to play more word games. Enough with these stories and fairy tales! I don’t want to hear another word of any ghost armies.”

“Not even if it was your father’s ghost army?”

Daigoro groaned, massaging his forehead with his left hand. He was ready to shout at the old monk again—how dare he play on Daigoro’s heartstrings by dredging up memories of his father?—but then he remembered: his father and the abbot once faced each other in war.

Daigoro knew virtually nothing of that encounter, nor of any of his father’s battlefield exploits. His father had never spoken much of war; he’d always been careful not to glorify it overmuch for his sons. He’d never been one to test his mettle by entering into needless combat—or so was Daigoro’s impression anyway. Daigoro’s guesses vastly outweighed what he knew for certain.

And with the pressures of running the clan pushing in on him from every side, now more than ever Daigoro needed to know what his father was like. His father had always known what to do. The right path had always been clear to him, and so what Daigoro needed was to know his father’s mind.

“Very well,” Daigoro said. He pushed himself to his feet because he’d burned up what little tolerance he had left for sitting still. “Tell me about my father. But on the Buddha’s mercy, I beg you, be brief and be clear.”

The abbot bowed his head. “What do you know of Hideyoshi?”

“He is a master tactician. A master manipulator too, they say, more likely to win a battle with words than with swords. He is said to be uncommonly ugly, uncommonly canny, and uncommonly fond of both drinking and pillowing. And now that Oda Nobunaga is dead, he is the greatest general this side of China.”

“The greatest? I think not. Better to call him the mightiest. But let us begin where you began. Do you know where he garnered his reputation of being a master tactician?”

“Of course. He conquered the whole of Shikoku in a matter of months. Kyushu in a matter of weeks.”

The abbot shrugged. “Unimpressive. Swift victories come easily against unprepared enemies, and more easily still when enemies decide to become allies instead. One does not become a great general by bribing greedy men.”

“What of his battle at Takamatsu Castle? As I heard it, he was trapped between the fortress and an incoming force of superior numbers. Survival would have been an admirable goal in and of itself, yet Toyotomi outmaneuvered both sides and claimed victory on the day. There are other examples. The list goes on and on.”

“So it does. But those who compose the list tend to leave out his defeats. I was witness to one of them.”

“I asked you to be brief,” said Daigoro.

“Yes, yes. We were camped at Gakuden, in Owari. Not far south lay a hill called Komaki, where Tokugawa Ieyasu had just established a garrison and headquarters. Do you know Tokugawa?”

“Of course. My father fought with him in the Battle of Mikatagahara. The Tokugawas have looked favorably on us ever since.”

The abbot nodded and smiled. “If ever you get the chance, ask Lord Tokugawa what your father did to earn House Okuma such special favor. But that story is for another time. For now, Tokugawa is at Komaki and Hideyoshi is in Gakuden—as am I, serving as a scout under his commander, Shichio. Neh?”

“Go on.”

“You mentioned that Hideyoshi is a master manipulator. His man Shichio makes him look like a deaf mute. Shichio knew that Tokugawa harbored a great love for his homeland of Mikawa, and that with so many Tokugawa divisions in Komaki, Mikawa was relatively undefended.”

Daigoro nodded. “He attacked Mikawa?”

“No, but he enticed another general into doing so. Shichio is not the type to stretch out his neck where others might take a swipe at it. He finds it safer to voice his ideas through others, taking credit when they succeed and laying the fault with them when they fail.”

“This story does not seem to be getting any shorter.”

“Forgive me. Shichio manipulated a general named Ikeda Nobuteru into attacking Mikawa. Hideyoshi approved, and sent Ikeda, his sons, and Shichio to spearhead the assault. We rode out expecting little resistance. Little did we know that one of Tokugawa’s minor allies, an unknown daimyo named Okuma Tetsuro, had anticipated a move against Mikawa. He placed informants weeks in advance, in every village surrounding Mikawa, and he received word of our sortie almost as soon as we set out. So there we were, the hammer’s head, expecting to strike an overripe melon and finding an anvil instead.” The abbot dropped a fist into his palm.

Daigoro nodded. “So instead of striking directly at the enemy’s heart . . .”

“We marched straight into a Tokugawa slaughterhouse. Ikeda, his son, and his son-in-law were killed before we knew it. But Shichio is not one to lead the charge. He remained in the rearguard, and deployed me and four other riders to scout out a flanking option. To our right we found only a swollen river. To the left a forest of banner poles, all bearing the bear claw of Okuma.”

“So you retreated?”

“Oh no. I don’t wish to cause offense, my young Bear Cub, but yours was a minor house in this war. Tokugawa’s advance was the one we had to fear. If the little house of Okuma were the only one guarding his flank, we thought we might press through.”

“But Father anticipated that too, didn’t he?”

The abbot gave a wry chuckle. “He was just getting started. All of a sudden we were surrounded on all sides, a hundred arrows trained on our throats. He stripped us, dressed two of his men in our armor, and mounted them on our horses. They rode back to tell Shichio their comrades had been slain and the Tokugawas could not be flanked. Shichio fled with what little remained of his column. He reported to Hideyoshi, who made a hasty retreat. Hideyoshi is embarrassed by it to this day.”

Daigoro smiled. Never before had he heard a tale in which the name Okuma loomed as large as names like Tokugawa and Toyotomi. Those were the houses that defined the shape of the empire. To think a little-known horseman from Izu had lent his banners to the cause! Daigoro had never felt such pride.

But now that he thought about it, he saw the story had holes. “You know too much for a common cavalryman. You must have had Hideyoshi’s ear, or Shichio’s at the very least.”

“I was Shichio’s top-ranking scout. Of course I had his ear.”

“Then how could he mistake my father’s rider for you?”

“Aha,” said the abbot, as proud as Daigoro’s own father had been when one of his sons tamed his first horse. “Very good, my lord. How many head wounds have you seen?”

“What?”

“The forehead bleeds terribly when cut. A slice above the eyebrows masks a man’s face so completely that even his own brother might not recognize him.”

“Hm,” Daigoro said. At first it sounded like the utmost betrayal: his father had bloodied his own men. Worse, he did it for the sake of deceit. Daigoro wondered what it would feel like to draw a sharp knife across his own forehead, and worse yet, what it would feel like to order another man to do the same. But then he saw the truth: any one of his samurai would do it without hesitation. It was the samurai’s duty to obey, and the lord’s duty never to give an order unworthy of obeisance.

Still, Daigoro wondered how desperate a situation would have to be to order his men to mutilate their own faces. Was such an order ever just? Yes. He had to admit it was conceivable. But could he live with giving the order? Daigoro hoped he would never have to find out.

“I’m disappointed,” Daigoro said.

“In your father?”

“Never. My disappointment is with you. You’ve left out the army of ghosts you promised me.”

The abbot’s cheeks crinkled in a smile. “Begging your pardon, Okuma-dono, but I haven’t. The ghosts were critical to the story.”

Daigoro thought for a moment. Then he said, “To your right was the river, and to the left . . .”

“Precisely. Imagine my shame when I learned the forest of Okuma banner poles was just that: banner poles, with no battalions beneath them. Your father dedicated nearly all of his men to the ambush, with just a handful deployed over the next rise to give the illusion of an army.”

“His ghost army.”

The abbot chuckled and shook his head. “As I say, imagine my shame. My own master routed, not by Tokugawa’s legions but by the imaginary army of an insignificant house. Bested without a single sword being drawn. Your father showed me what it truly meant to be samurai. Well, I couldn’t very well keep my topknot after that.”

“So what happened?”

“I asked him permission to shave my head. He did me the greatest honor of my life: he cut off my topknot with Glorious Victory Unsought, the very sword you carry today. I joined the monastery. My four comrades were taken as prisoners. The two samurai who cut their own foreheads at your father’s command were rewarded handsomely for their bravery and selflessness. And one of them, it seems, has been dwelling too much on the old days.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some years ago your father released his four prisoners. Hideyoshi had become too powerful for your father to risk his ire, and the prisoners could no longer do any harm—at least not to the house of Okuma. But Shichio had them crucified anyway. All of them. Why?”

“Because they knew the truth,” Daigoro guessed. Thinking aloud, he said, “But that would only matter if . . . no. It can’t be. Are you suggesting that Shichio still hasn’t told his master what happened that day?”

“Never forget, Okuma-dono, Hideyoshi and Shichio are both the sons of farmers. They were not raised as you were, born to a code. Shichio tells the truth only when it suits him.”

“So even to this day Hideyoshi thinks he was routed by Tokugawa Ieyasu?”

“A name great enough to rival his own,” said the abbot. “Even that must vex him terribly. Imagine Shichio’s fate if Hideyoshi were ever to learn exactly how he was defeated. Imagine his wrath if he ever learned his most embarrassing defeat should have been a victory.”

Daigoro thought about it and felt his heart swell with pride. One of the regent’s top generals, living in fear of execution simply because he was outfoxed by Okuma Tetsuro. Execution was no way for a samurai to die, but this Shichio deserved no better. If he were truly samurai, he would have opened his own belly years ago, in the very hour that he failed.

“Be careful what you take joy in, young Bear Cub.” Daigoro looked up and saw the abbot studying his face. “The Red Bear of Izu earned an enemy in Hideyoshi’s court. Now you have inherited that enemy. One of your father’s men has been telling tales of the old days.”

“No. Our men are loyal.”

“What else explains my death warrant? Shichio has learned that I am still alive. I attended to your father’s funeral and your brother’s; any one of your men could have seen me there.”

“I won’t believe it.”

“Then you are in need of another explanation. Your father’s scouts were young men when they deceived Shichio. Unless some accident has befallen them, there is no reason to doubt they still live.”

“No.” Daigoro searched his memory, trying to envision an Okuma samurai with a scar across his forehead. No faces came to mind—but then, Daigoro did not know his every vassal. He knew every man at his own compound, but the Okumas had lesser houses too, scattered across southern Izu.

“Perhaps one of them was drunk,” the abbot said. “Perhaps he felt you slighted him somehow. Perhaps he felt House Okuma has somehow become unworthy of his loyalty.”

Oh no, Daigoro thought. Mother.

The debacle with the Soras had cost Daigoro the most, but it was hardly the first of its kind. Her outbursts were becoming more frequent, more acute, and all too often they happened in public. Could that have been enough to turn a loyal samurai astray? Daigoro hated to think so. But after losing his father and his brother, House Okuma was undoubtedly weaker. Now its matriarch was a madwoman, its lord her crippled teenage son.

No. Loyalty was loyalty. It if failed even once, it did not exist at all. Father had trained his men better than that. Hadn’t he?

“Somehow Shichio knows I am alive,” the abbot said, as if he read Daigoro’s thoughts. “How else might he have discovered this?”

“Augury,” said Daigoro. “Divination. A kami speaking to him in his dreams.”

“Perhaps. But the more likely explanation is one of this world. A loyal man uttering one word too many after drink loosened his tongue. One of Shichio’s own men, crossing paths with yours by happenstance, recognizing a scar.”

“What does it have to do with you? You took on the cloth. A man’s old crimes are cut away when he shaves his head.”

“Among the honorable, yes.”

“Well, then, this is easy,” said Daigoro. “Hideyoshi was named regent. Perhaps he wasn’t born samurai, but he is certainly samurai now. He has no choice but to live up to it. I’ll tell Hideyoshi the truth, he’ll take Shichio’s head, and this ridiculous drama will come to an end.”

“You are more than welcome to try. But do remember, Shichio manipulates men as deftly as a potter shapes clay. If you tell Hideyoshi the truth, you will also have to tell him it was your father who bested him in his most public defeat. And more than bested: duped. What will Shichio be able to shape out of your story?”

“Nothing. The emperor bestowed Hideyoshi with name and title. Let Shichio weave his webs; Hideyoshi will cut through them with a sword. He is samurai now.”

“And yet you’ve taken to calling him Hideyoshi rather than General Toyotomi.”

Daigoro grunted and stared at the pebbles in the rock garden. The abbot had a point. Even the emperor could not change what a man was in his heart. The world might regard Hideyoshi as a trueborn samurai, but Daigoro doubted whether one who was born a peasant could ever walk the bushido path.

“So what am I to do?”

“Behead me. Save your family and yourself. Buy peace.”

“No. You’ve committed no sin.”

“Oh, but I have.”

“I won’t accept that. Yes, all of us have done wrong in our lives, but you’ve done no wrong by Shichio—and even if you had, all your crimes were absolved when you took on the tonsure.”

The abbot shrugged. “That’s as may be. But if the price of peace is the head of one innocent man, I think any daimyo in the land would consider it a bargain.”

“No. It’s wrong.” But even as he heard himself say it, Daigoro knew it was the easiest path. The abbot had no family, nor even any fear of death. He had embraced his own impermanence. Outside the walls of Katto-ji, the world would scarcely notice his passing. And in taking his head, Daigoro could appease this Shichio, a man with the might of a warlord but the conscience of a petty thief. Who knew what he might do if he felt slighted? Daigoro couldn’t even guess. All his life Daigoro had striven to live up to his name, his birth, his father’s image. He had no idea what went on in the minds of dishonorable men.

Daigoro took his leave, and allowed his mare to set her own slow pace on the ride back down to the Okuma compound. He was thankful to be alone in making this decision. Tomo was a good servant and a better friend, but he was lowborn. And Katsushima had strayed from the path as soon as he dedicated himself to his sword over his master. Neither of them could fully understand what bushido demanded.

If it were as simple as delivering his own head to Hideyoshi, Daigoro would have known what to do. Self-sacrifice in the name of family came as naturally to him as breathing. But killing an innocent man in the name of family smacked of cowardice, not selflessness. And yet the abbot was right. Usually peace was bought with the blood of thousands. Heroes died for it. Why could a monk not be as heroic as any samurai? The abbot had offered his own neck and offered it freely. He’d neither insisted nor shied away. Daigoro could ask no more of any soldier in his command.

But the abbot was no soldier. He’d renounced the sword, and in so doing he’d put himself on the opposite side of a line Daigoro was loath to cross. Peace, at the cost of moral compromise. Principle, at the cost of endangering his family.

Daigoro knew what he had to do. He just didn’t know what to do with the fear. Too often doing the right thing had made him suffer. This time it made him tremble.

11

Shichio’s favorite room in the Jurakudai was the highest deck of the moon tower. Hashiba liked it too, but for very different reasons. Hashiba enjoyed the view of the city; the lofty perspective made him feel more powerful, and the quiet made him feel more at peace. Shichio liked the moon tower for its austerity. It was one of the only places in the entire palace that hadn’t yet been gilded and painted and overdone. Hashiba was oddly embarrassed by that fact; he seemed to equate ostentation with wealth, and, by extension, tastefulness with poverty. That meant the upper deck of the moon tower was an intimate place for him, a good place for dalliances and for private meetings with his closest advisers.

Shichio was content to serve in both capacities. At the moment that meant wiping Hashiba clean after they’d finished. The demon mask seemed suddenly heavier—or rather, Shichio suddenly felt its weight on his neck muscles, now that he wasn’t otherwise distracted—and so he shifted it to sit atop his head. Moonlight streamed in through the open walls, and a cool breeze raised goose bumps all up and down Shichio’s naked, sweat-slicked body. Hashiba never seemed to feel the cold. He was tougher than Shichio, in that way and many others.

“Look at you,” Hashiba said, chuckling. He bunched Shichio’s silken kimono in his fist and threw it at him. “Why do you carry on this way? I’ve concubines enough. Why not invite a few of them up here to warm you?”

Shichio understood the subtext well enough. Hashiba didn’t understand that sex might be like the moon tower for them: enjoyable for two very different reasons. For him, real men did the penetrating, not the receiving, and so he found their liaisons shameful—not for himself, but for Shichio. That was why he wanted a consort to join them: so that Shichio could be the conqueror for once. But there were two ways of conquering too. That was something else Hashiba didn’t understand.

“Tell me,” Shichio said, “has there been any word from that Okuma boy?”

Hashiba laughed. “Him again? We can bring some of our own boys up here some night if you like.”

Shichio’s hand slipped down to the inside of Hashiba’s upper thigh. “Come on. Tell me.”

Hashiba sighed. “He married. I can only assume it was to forge an alliance with that Inoue clan. That’s good. I can use one to apply leverage against the other.”

“I don’t care who some bumpkin boy shares his bed with. I want to know about my present.”

“Ah. That.” Hashiba folded a pillow under his head and settled back in. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any monk’s heads for you. Don’t we have enough monks around here? Go march on Mount Hiei. Collecting a few heads up there will help keep the rest of the monasteries in line.”

Shichio made a pouting face. “I don’t want a head, I want his head.”

“Well, you can’t have it.”

Shichio slipped the mask off his head. “You’re certain of that?”

“What is it with that mask of yours?” Hashiba pushed Shichio’s hand away, got to his feet, and strode forward to look down at his capital city. His shadow bisected a broad rectangle of moonlight on the floor. “You’re too fond of that thing,” he said. “You pet it like a house cat.”

Shichio was surprised to discover it was true. His thumb was running over the tips of the mask’s teeth, over and over, wholly independently of his will. It was an unconscious habit, but now that Hashiba had drawn his attention to it, Shichio recognized that caressing the mask and speaking of violence were two faces of one coin. Visions of swords, of stabbing and being stabbed, of penetrating and being penetrated. The mask inspired these things in him. That was why he wore it during their liaisons, and why all this talk of beheading had aroused similar feelings. Shichio felt himself begin to stiffen.

“It’s the craftsmanship,” he said, still stroking the mask. “Come back here. Look at how expressive it is. In gold, this kind of detail is pedestrian, but in iron? Never. It’s as rare as anything. It’s the most rugged sort of beauty, don’t you think?”

Just like you, Shichio thought to himself, but Hashiba’s musings went in a different direction. “I think I should have buried it right beside the assassin you took it from.”

Shichio remembered that night all too well. It was the first time he’d killed a man. It was the night he made himself valuable to Hashiba, the night his fortunes started changing for the better. Rightly or wrongly, Shichio attributed his success to the mask. He often wondered what would be different if he’d purchased it instead of killed for it. Might its touch bring thoughts of money to his mind instead? Perhaps the obsession with swords was innate to its iron, or perhaps the mask just gave focus to Shichio’s hatred of the samurai caste. It was impossible to know for certain.

“You should throw away that demon of yours,” Hashiba said. “And throw away thoughts of this northern monk as well. He’s no threat to anyone.”

“So you have heard from the Okuma boy. And not just a wedding announcement.”

Hashiba sighed, dropped back among the silken pillows, and surrendered. “Yes.”

Shichio only had to think about it for a second. “You received a letter, didn’t you? You brought it here? Tonight?”

Hashiba’s only answer was to glance in the direction of the door. Shichio walked saucily to the entryway and found a large, carefully folded page among Hashiba’s other things. Smiling, Shichio sauntered back, sitting next to Hashiba again and opening the letter.

As he began to read, Hashiba took hold of Shichio’s hand and guided it back down to his crotch. Shichio skipped over the standard salutations and looked for mention of the monk. “I respectfully recommend against beheading our abbot of Katto-ji,” he read. “He is an old man who does harm to no one, but more than this, he has taken the tonsure. I fear I may bring bad karma upon you by fulfilling your order to execute one such as him, and it is every samurai’s sworn duty not to harm his lord.”

Shichio felt his heart race, but he kept reading. “Given the choice between obeying and harming the emperor’s chosen regent on the one hand and disobeying to protect his interests on the other, I must choose disobedience. Can you believe the impudence of this boy?”

Hashiba laughed. “I thought him rather clever.”

“He disobeys a direct order from his regent!”

“He’s the only samurai in the land who vows to protect me even in my future lives. Think of it! A bodyguard for my next reincarnation. Shichio, can you not just laugh this off and let it pass?”

“I tell you, that monk is a threat to you and your house. Kill him.”

“The boy has done as much already. Read the next paragraph.”

Shichio glanced down at the Okuma brat’s scribblings. What he read there made him angry enough to stand up and start pacing. “A garrison? That’s all? Just a garrison outside the monastery?”

“It is more than enough. That old man won’t leave until he floats out on the smoke rising from his pyre.”

Shichio crumpled the letter and flung it at the floor. “He can still talk. He can still teach. He wouldn’t be the first monk to turn his order against you.”

“That again?” Hashiba dropped his head heavily back on his pillow. “How many times have I told you? The Ikko sect is no more. Oda and I wiped them out years ago. The only ones to escape the sword did it by swearing their eternal loyalty to me.”

“This one is in the north. You never got any loyalty oaths from the north.”

“That’s because they’re all dead. Tokugawa saw to that. He was as scared of them as you are.”

Shichio sat heavily and laid his head on Hashiba’s belly. His hand wandered back down to Hashiba’s cock. “I want his head.”

“You can’t have it and you’d best get used to it. That old man is worth a lot more to me alive. Killing him would only cost me a future allegiance with this Okuma, and the rest of the Izu daimyo will be harder to get without him.”

Shichio’s hand quickened its pace. Hashiba’s pulse did too. “Are you sure?”

“Oh no, you don’t.”

“Absolutely certain? No doubt in your mind?”

“Shichio, I’m not killing that old monk for you and that’s that.”

His heart beating in Shichio’s ear told a different story. Shichio resituated himself between Hashiba’s knees. The demon mask had two long, sharp fangs that framed either side of his mouth. If he angled his head just so, he could trace the pointed tip of a fang along Hashiba’s skin. Done roughly, it could puncture. Done in just the right spot with just the right pressure, it was heavenly.

“Maybe we don’t have to kill him,” said Shichio, swaying the mask back and forth. “Maybe we can just go and pay him a visit.”

Hashiba took in a long quivering breath.

“It’s a long way. Lots of time at sea. Hours a day with nothing to do.”

Hashiba clenched two silk pillows in his fists.

“Do any of your wives care for sailing? No, they don’t, do they?”

Hashiba’s fists tightened.

“Maybe I’ll just go by myself. You don’t want to come, do you?”

“Yes.”

“You do? You want to come?”

“Yes, yes, yesss.”

“All right, then. You can come.”

12

The Okuma compound had received a messenger from Toyotomi Hideyoshi once before. Almost a year had passed since then, and the experience still left an indelible impression on Daigoro’s young mind. Shiramatsu Shozaemon, Hideyoshi’s emissary, had come with a battalion at his back to chastise Daigoro’s brother, Ichiro, for showing hubris in his duels. It was not far wrong to say Ichiro died because he had failed to heed that advice.

Daigoro had always assumed that Shiramatsu arrived with a show of force in order to cow House Okuma into submission. The daimyo of Izu sometimes rode with an honor guard, but only on special occasions; usually a few bodyguards were protection enough. Shiramatsu Shozaemon had arrived with an entire battalion as his escort. At the time Daigoro had been duly impressed, but he’d never guessed at what the imperial regent himself might consider to be an appropriate bodyguard.

When Daigoro saw the first junk, he feared the worst. She was twice the size of any Izu fishing vessel. The kiri flowers on her enormous sails were as unmistakable as the samurai standing in formation on the deck or their spearheads glinting in the sun. There were dozens of them, and Daigoro had no illusions about whether they came in peace. Surely they’ve come for the abbot, he thought, and maybe for my head as well.

Little had Daigoro imagined that this was a small ship, little more than a sloop. The next ship to appear was one of the famed turtle ships. Daigoro had never seen one before, but there was no mistaking what it was. Scores of interlocking metal shields covered the entire deck in a gleaming shell. The fact that Daigoro could not see the deck only gave his imagination room to wander. How many troops were aboard? A hundred? More?

Izu was a land of high, blocky sea cliffs, stabbing out into the waves like huge black fingers. They made it impossible to see any real distance up or down the coast, and when the surf was high, pale clouds of spray hovered perpetually along the cliffs, further obscuring visibility. As such, a fleet that sailed near the coast appeared out of nowhere. Two turtle ships, then four, then eight. And then came the actual warship.

It was a floating castle. Her hull was like any other ship’s, save for its enormous size. But her decks were no decks at all. Instead, sheer wooden walls ascended from the hull, no less than five stories tall. Another two-story donjon towered above the main structure. The ship’s oars were like a centipede’s legs: spindly, moving in unison, impossible to count. Portholes formed a grid of dark squares on the castle walls, and Daigoro feared every last one of them might harbor one of the southern barbarians’ fabled cannons behind it. If so, she bore hundreds upon hundreds of cannon. Daigoro wondered whether there was enough iron in the world to cast that many.

As the castle ship drew nearer, it loomed so large that Daigoro wondered which was bigger, the ship or the entire Okuma compound. It took four anchors to moor her, each one the size of a warhorse. The launch she lowered to take her commander ashore looked like a pea pod compared to the warship herself, yet Daigoro counted no less than thirty-three armored men boarding the launch.

He wondered which one was Hideyoshi. Only one man was clearly visible from Daigoro’s vantage high up on the compound’s wall: a giant in glittering black yoroi, his topknot as white as snow. Too old to be a bodyguard, Daigoro thought. And too big to be the regent; rumor held him to be quite slight. Daigoro wondered whether the giant was one of the regent’s generals. He might even be this Shichio that was calling for the abbot’s head.

Daigoro watched as his own commanders greeted the landing party. He hadn’t gone down himself, for the regent’s arrival had come as a surprise. It would have taken Daigoro the better part of the morning to limp all the way down to the beach, and he hadn’t the time to gather a palanquin and crew to carry him down there. He’d sent his best officers instead, along with a platoon of spearmen. Even they must have been sweating in their armor after running down the whole way. Daigoro sympathized. The sweat was already running down his back and he hadn’t done anything but watch.

His anger felt like a wild animal trapped inside his body. It twitched frenetically in his neck and made it hard to speak. Why had he married his house to the Inoues if not to gain the benefit of their spy network? And how had the ubiquitous eyes and ears of House Inoue failed to notice a ship the size of an island, in the midst of an entire war fleet? Daigoro was going to have a talk with his father-in-law, and soon.

Akiko primped him as he set everyone else about their tasks: the cooks to their fires; the maids to their stations; runners into town to gather food for a welcome feast; still more runners to hire musicians and geisha; manservants to clear every last room in the compound save the audience chamber, in case the regent and his troops decided to spend the night; Tomo to oversee the entire operation. Finally and most importantly, he released Akiko to go and deal with his mother.

Daigoro wished he’d had more time; with a little advance notice he might have sent her to stay with Lord Yasuda or some other neighbor. As it was, the best idea he could come up with was to order Tomo to restrain her using any means shy of lethal force. But Akiko had a better idea. The lady of House Okuma was quite taken with her new daughter-in-law, and Akiko seemed to get on with her quite well. Akiko gave Daigoro a broad smile and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t worry,” she told him. “I’ve got ribbons and balls for temari, hairpins and combs, everything two girls need to have fun.”

He watched her go, then looked back down to the beach. A second launch had landed with a bevy of palanquins aboard. The white-haired giant stepped into one of them. Two slender men stepped into another. Three more were occupied by quartets of men in varying uniforms, some armored, some not. Daigoro’s own commanders were offered the other four. Daigoro’s mind boggled at the thought of having four spare palanquins and four extra teams of bearers—and these on Toyotomi’s shipboard crew, to say nothing of his palace.

In no time at all the guests had arrived. Every last Okuma samurai had been marshaled into the honor guard. They lined the main courtyard, as still as the walls themselves. Daigoro recognized Shiramatsu Shozaemon when he emerged from his sedan chair along with three samurai in Toyotomi gold. He wore a silver kimono to match his silver hair, with a thin beard and a thinner mustache. His topknot was immaculate and his movements precise. He approached the center palanquin with short, measured steps, slid its door aside, and said, “You shall bow before the Imperial Regent, His Highness, the Chief Minister and great Lord General Toyotomi no Hideyoshi.”

All the Okuma samurai went to their knees, as did the regent’s own. Daigoro’s leg never allowed him to kneel easily, so instead he bowed deeply at the waist. “You will kneel now,” he heard Shiramatsu say, and looking up he saw the man’s withering glare. This was a very different Shiramatsu from the one who had come a year before. That man was unflappable. This one actually bared his teeth when he repeated his command.

“At ease,” said the little goggle-eyed man who hopped out of the palanquin. His armor was black, orange, and gold, and he was so skinny that it hung on him as if on a wooden armor stand. His cheekbones were too high, his chin too long. Against his willing it, Daigoro thought of the macaques one sometimes found in the mountains. It shamed him to liken this man to a monkey, but at least now the nickname Monkey King made sense. This could only be Toyotomi Hideyoshi.

“It’s his house,” said Hideyoshi. “Let him bow if he likes.” He shot Daigoro a conspiratorial smile. His teeth were sharp, misaligned, haphazardly spaced, like a seer’s chicken bones tossed on the ground and pointing in all different directions.

“Yes, my lord regent,” said Shiramatsu. “Most gracious of you. You may stand, Okuma-san.”

Hideyoshi paid Shiramatsu no mind at all. Instead he looked at the assembled Okuma samurai and then around the compound. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

Daigoro’s thoughts stumbled over each other like drunks. All his associations and inferences had missed the mark. When Shiramatsu had first come almost a year ago, Daigoro thought him to be a high-ranking emissary, one so important that he warranted a legion of bodyguards. Now he could see the truth, reflected in Hideyoshi’s relaxed stance and in his emissary’s obsequious gaze toward him. Shiramatsu was nothing more than a lickspittle. Hideyoshi had sent him with a battalion for the same reason he himself had come on the wings of an invasion fleet: to cow the Okumas into submission. And yet Hideyoshi was anything but intimidating. Now Daigoro thought not of mountain monkeys but of his father: approachable, even gentle, but a master at deploying his forces for just the right effect. Psychologically speaking, Hideyoshi had put Daigoro on his heels before he’d even set foot on shore.

Even so, Daigoro immediately understood why the abbot had referred to him as Hideyoshi, not as General Toyotomi. There was nothing lordly about this man. His shoulders were relaxed, his gait bouncy. He’d done a sloppy job of tying his topknot. He couldn’t have been much taller than Daigoro, who by anyone’s account was a pipsqueak. He was the imperial regent, the highest-ranking military officer in the land, and yet the cording on his katana looked as if it had never been touched, to say nothing of having been drawn in battle. His hands were smooth and uncallused. His armor was surely crafted to evoke images of a tiger—orange and black for its stripes, gold for its gleaming, ferocious eyes—but it only called attention to the fact that Hideyoshi was the living antithesis of a tiger. His colors were garish, not subtle, his armor hard, not supple, his movements common, not majestic.

The man behind him was the regal one. He was thin like Hideyoshi, but tall, stately, with handsome features and a graceful air. Even as he stepped out of the palanquin, he preened his hair. He took in his surroundings with the practiced affectation of the highborn, cocking a disdainful eyebrow when his gaze finally fell on Daigoro. In truth he noted Glorious Victory first, studying her as an object of art rather than a weapon. He made a tiny adjustment to his golden kimono before dipping his chin toward Daigoro in an almost imperceptible bow.

He was a peacock, in short, and Daigoro wondered who he was.

The last to emerge from the palanquins was the giant Daigoro had seen in the launch. He was head and shoulders taller than the peacock, and the katana sheathed at his hip was almost as long as Glorious Victory. It seemed like a sword of no great length in comparison to his enormous belly. Despite his age he was not balding; it was clear that he still had to shave his pate. His white topknot and little white point of a beard were both well groomed. His black armor was polished to a gleaming sheen, with horse motifs embossed into the leather. He was the very embodiment of nobility and lordliness.

And yet in the company of the giant and the peacock, it was Hideyoshi that the emperor had named regent, Hideyoshi who had brought a thousand daimyo to heel, Hideyoshi who commanded the attention of everyone in the courtyard. Daigoro could not help it: his eyes followed the man wherever he went. He wondered what Hideyoshi’s secret was. He and Daigoro were both puny. Both fell short of what it meant to be a man. From birth neither of them was cut out to be samurai—Daigoro because of his disfigurement, Hideyoshi because of his parentage—and yet both had to play the role. And while Daigoro had trouble commanding even the loyalty of his own father-in-law, Hideyoshi had the emperor himself at his back.

The imperial regent walked up to Daigoro and bowed. “Good morning. I’m Toyotomi Hideyoshi. Let’s have a seat and chat.”

Soldiers and servants scurried like leaves before a typhoon. Soon enough all the required parties were seated in the Okuma audience chamber: Hideyoshi on the dais, the giant on his left, and the peacock on his right, a dozen Toyotomi samurai on either side of them, still as statues. Daigoro was seated before the regent, Katsushima on his right, his lieutenants in a row behind them, the rest of his officers ranked and filed in the back. Shiramatsu, Tomo, and a few other attendants were kneeling at the door, all of them duly submissive and subdued. Sixty men in the room all told, and of all of them only Hideyoshi was relaxed.

“Shichio here tells me we’ve got a problem,” he said, nodding his head toward the peacock. “Something about a monk.”

So this is Shichio, Daigoro thought. The man put him on edge. Ever since his arrival, his eyes repeatedly drifted to Glorious Victory Unsought. He seemed drawn to it somehow. Daigoro had seen that obsession before, and he knew it never ended well.

But he could not afford to ruminate on that now. The island’s most powerful warlord had asked him a question. “Yes, the abbot of Katto-ji,” Daigoro said. “He is under house arrest. His temple is on the next peak north of here.”

“Is he of the Ikko sect?”

“No, my lord regent. His is a Zen order.”

“Was he ever?”

“Of the Ikko Ikki? No, my lord regent.”

“Does he harbor any Ikko monks? Does he preach insurrection? Does he keep a hidden arsenal in the monastery?”

“No, my lord regent.”

Hideyoshi looked over his shoulder to the peacock—no, Daigoro thought, correcting himself: to General Shichio. He could almost hear Katsushima chiding him. Make the slightest misstep and this man will have your head. Best be careful.

“You see?” the regent told Shichio. “The monk is no threat.”

“We’ve come an awfully long way just to take this boy’s word for it,” Shichio said with a sneer. His voice was so soft that he could barely be heard past the dais, yet Daigoro noticed he used none of the honorifics one would expect in speaking to a man second only to the emperor in rank. Was it because Hideyoshi was so informal that he didn’t require such niceties? Or was it the pride of a preening peacock?

Hideyoshi shrugged. “Lord Okuma,” he said, “I’m sure you understand my concerns. I’ve given an execution order. You haven’t followed it. Even a common platoon sergeant cannot abide disobedience from his troops. In my office insubordination looms larger still.”

“Yes, my lord regent.”

“But I respect your title, your name, and your authority. It does me no good to strip a daimyo’s sovereignty over his fief. I have no use for your anger; what I want is your loyalty. And there’s my problem. The easy solution is to kill you, kill this monk, and sail back home. I’ve killed disobedient daimyo before. So remind me, Lord Okuma, how is it that you show me loyalty by refusing to carry out my will?”

“My lord regent has no desire for enemies in Izu,” Daigoro said, then stopped himself. The abbot’s warning about General Shichio echoed in his mind: this was a man who reshaped words like clay. Daigoro’s answer could already be reinterpreted as a veiled threat; he chose his next words more carefully.

“The abbot is a very popular man. He presides over the funerals of every family within three days’ ride of here. Parents are known to travel twenty ri just to have him bless their babies. Killing him is certain to raise the farmers’ ire, my lord regent; any daimyo who killed him would have a hard time collecting taxes.”

“I see,” said Hideyoshi, but Shichio leaned forward and whispered something in his ear.

“Sir, I agree with Lord Okuma,” said the giant. He shifted to face his liege lord. “It is no secret that you plan to move against the Hojos. Create a disturbance among the northern daimyo and you only create allies for the enemy.”

“And yet disobedience is disobedience,” said Hideyoshi. Shichio gave a little nod. Daigoro wondered whose words had just come from the regent’s mouth.

“Sir,” said the giant, “there is disobedience and then there is obeying the spirit of a command without obeying it to the letter.”

“Why, General Mio,” Shichio said, “I hadn’t expected hairsplitting from you.”

“And I hadn’t expected you to sail the command fleet halfway across the empire to indulge a petty grudge. Someday you’ll have to tell me why this monk is so important to you.”

The peacock glowered. The giant, Mio, shifted again where he sat, rotating to face Daigoro. “Lord Okuma, we have your word that no one outside this Katto-ji will ever see the abbot in question again?”

“On my own life, Mio-dono, you have my word.”

“He will speak with no one outside his monastery?”

“Yes, Mio-dono.”

“And what of visitors to the monastery? Will he speak with them?”

Daigoro bowed low. “My lord regent has only to tell me his preference and I will make it law. Toyotomi-dono, please understand, the abbot had the utmost respect for my departed father. He could have taken the tonsure anywhere, and chose to do it at Katto-ji in order to be close to my father and learn from him. If I command him to a lifetime of silence, he will obey.”

General Mio opened his mouth to ask another question, but Shichio cut him off. Speaking loudly for the first time, he said, “It seems to me that if this man is so beloved by the people, then confining him to his monastery will be no more popular than having him killed. In fact, it may be worse; force him into a vow of silence and he will either violate it or else anger the people further by being present yet refusing to speak to them. So what benefit is it to leave him alive?”

Daigoro’s stomach clenched. He had no answer to that. Outfoxed by a peacock, he thought.

But Mio answered for him. “General Shichio speaks directly to my point,” said the giant. “For all intents and purposes, the abbot is dead to the world. Lord Okuma was not disobedient. He fulfilled the spirit of the regent’s command as fully as anyone could ask of him.”

“No,” said Shichio. “To carry it out fully would be to deliver a bald head in a box.”

“My lord regent,” Daigoro said, his heart pounding; he’d never interrupted commanders of this station before. “The abbot himself offered me just that solution. I turned him down.”

Hideyoshi fixed his overlarge eyes on Daigoro. “Did you? Well, look at the balls on this one.” He laughed and said, “Explain yourself, Lord Okuma.”

“My lord regent, my father told me many times that when we are faced with choosing between taking an easy path and taking a hard one, the path of bushido is almost never the easy path.”

A knowing smile touched Hideyoshi’s lips. “I remember him. I met him only briefly, but I remember thinking, ‘Now this one is a samurai.’”

“He was the best,” said Daigoro.

“You misunderstand me,” said Hideyoshi. “He was an impressive man, your father. The consummate samurai. But this honor of his—this honor of yours—never made the slightest bit of sense to me.”

Daigoro was confused. He was sure his ears had deceived him. He could not have heard the regent, a man the emperor himself had raised to the station of samurai, admit he didn’t believe in honor. It was impossible. Wasn’t it?

Hideyoshi went on. “I’ll grant you, I wasn’t born into all this honor nonsense, but even if I had been, I’m still not sure I would understand it any better. How did it become fashionable to prefer death to disloyalty? Why not praise self-interest? Why not ambition? Aren’t people better suited to pursue their own interests anyhow?”

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” Daigoro said honestly. To him the dictates of honor were as indisputable as the stars in the heavens. They were not something one questioned; they simply were. Those who navigated without them did so at their peril. But Hideyoshi had it right as well: left to their own devices, human beings would surely pursue their own selfish interests, wouldn’t they?

“Think on it,” said Hideyoshi. “I defy you to explain why I should live within the straits of this thing you call honor. Wouldn’t your life be easier without it? Here you are, right in the dragon’s den, and yet if you had killed that monk as I ordered, you and I would never have met. In fact, if you weren’t so damned honor-bound, you could have sent along any old head, neh? You could have lied and saved your skin. Yet here you are. I can kill you at whim. Your honor makes you weaker than me, doesn’t it?”

Daigoro could almost feel the energy bristling from General Mio—and not just from Mio, but from Katsushima too. Both of them were born samurai and both were too incensed to speak. They gave off heat like a pair of volcanoes. Was Hideyoshi goading them? Was he goading Daigoro? Or was he really so ignorant of what it meant to be samurai?

“My lord, I think I am weaker than you,” Daigoro said at last. “But not because of my honor. I am weaker because my influence is smaller. I have a few hundred warriors at my command; you have hundreds of thousands. And yes, I believe you have it right: I think men are naturally inclined not to be honorable but to be selfish. But that is precisely why honor is important; it bids us to transcend ourselves. Without it, we are only clever animals. With it, we can be better than our animal instincts allow us to be.”

“Is that what you think of peasants?” said Hideyoshi. “That we’re animals?”

“No, my lord, I—”

“Let me ask you this: would you agree that the peasants of our country—the clever little animals—would like to see an end to war?”

“Of course, my lord regent.”

“And would you agree that as long as there have been samurai, there has been war?”

“We are born out of war. That is what it means to be a warrior.”

“Don’t you see what that means? As long as there are warriors, war will never end. What we need is an end to it. When every last province is brought under the reign of one man, that man can stop being a warlord. He can simply be a ruler.”

Hideyoshi smiled. It was an ugly thing, his sharp teeth not so different from the sharp rocks jumbled along the coastline. But ugly as it was, there was legitimate kindness in the smile. “Tell me, Lord Okuma, wouldn’t your father have preferred to see the end of all wars?”

“Yes, my lord regent. Without a doubt.”

“Then what good is this honor of yours if it always leads to more fighting? Would it not be better if all samurai abandoned their honor and started thinking more like peasants?”

“Begging your pardon, my lord regent, but I respect my father above all other men. It was his unfailing adherence to bushido that I admired most. If he were still alive, if he were in this room and you commanded me to behead him, I would do it in a heartbeat and I believe he would be proud of me for doing so. To sacrifice family for one’s liege is the hardest path, and it leads to the highest height of honor. But to sacrifice an innocent is the easy path. To sacrifice an innocent to benefit oneself is even worse. And to do so at the expense of one’s liege lord is unforgivable.”

“Who gave you the right to decide what is unforgivable?” said Shichio, his voice loud and sharp, verging on a snarl. His angry outburst was totally at odds with his genteel appearance. “Are you the regent now? Has the emperor given you his blessing?”

Daigoro bowed his forehead to the floor. “My most abject apologies, Shichio-dono. I chose my words poorly.” And you didn’t wait long to capitalize on that, he thought.

Hearing no further objection, Daigoro continued. “My lord regent, you are correct: I could have sent you the head of any bald man. I could have shaved a common criminal. And I could have sent you the head you requested—”

“The imperial regent does not request anything,” Shichio hissed. “He speaks and his underlings obey.”

Again Daigoro’s forehead touched the floor. “As you say, Shichio-dono. A thousand apologies, my lords. A thousand times thousand.”

“Go on,” said Hideyoshi.

“My lord regent, I could have beheaded the abbot as you ordered and all of this business would be over. But to do so would be to kill an innocent for no other reason than to make life easier for my family and myself. Worse yet, I believe it would have been a disservice to you. I believe General Mio is correct, Toyotomi-dono: if I were to kill this abbot, it would strengthen your enemies and drive the northern territories further from your grasp.”

“The regent’s arm extends everywhere,” said Shichio. “Nothing is beyond his grasp. And even if it were, is someone of your station powerful enough to deny him? I think not.”

“And I think you talk more than you should,” said General Mio. “Shut your mouth and let your superior make his own decision in peace.”

Shichio scowled across the dais at Mio but kept his mouth shut. Yet Daigoro noticed a change in Hideyoshi. He sat somewhat taller than before; he’d squared his shoulders and ever so slightly lowered his chin. All this talk of his own power seemed to make him feel more powerful, and in hindsight Daigoro realized that Shichio’s words were aimed not just at Daigoro but at Hideyoshi too. It was as if he’d been inflating the man, puffing him up, stiffening his resolve, yet all the while drawing Hideyoshi’s position closer toward his own, like iron filings shifting their alignment toward a magnet. Daigoro wondered how many others in the room had even noticed. Mio was oblivious, as was Hideyoshi himself. The peacock truly was a master manipulator.

Hideyoshi was quiet for a long time. “Sir,” General Mio said at last, “you must see the logic of the boy’s argument.”

But Daigoro wasn’t so sure. Shichio’s hypnotic song still held sway over him. If the regent were to pass judgment now, it could go either way, and Daigoro was certain that once Hideyoshi made a pronouncement, it would stand as fast as Mount Fuji itself. Shichio had overfed his ego; there was no longer any room for backing down.

Would it be so bad? Suppose the abbot were to die, Daigoro thought. Suppose he died on a Toyotomi sword, or even an Okuma sword at Hideyoshi’s command. One man would go willingly to his death and the Okumas would escape the regent’s wrath. Better still, they would escape the wrath of the regent’s right-hand man, who was not only touched by madness but clearly held greater sway than the more reasonable General Mio. Was that such a bad alternative? Be quiet, a voice in his mind told him. Let the regent pass judgment however he likes.

Katsushima’s voice spoke in Daigoro’s mind too. Patience. Say nothing. You are already poised on the razor’s edge; do not compromise your balance.

And there was a third voice too: his father’s. There is the easy path and the hard path. You know which one to choose.

“My lord regent,” Daigoro said, “there is another way to resolve this dilemma.”

Hideyoshi blinked at him as if he’d just snapped out of a dream. “Oh?”

Daigoro swallowed. He felt his heart plunge down a cold, dark well. He willed his hand to remain steady as he withdrew his wakizashi from his waistband and laid it ceremoniously on the floor in front of him. Then he moved to take off his overrobe and bare his chest.

A samurai always had one final method of protest: seppuku. By all accounts there were few deaths more painful than ritual disembowelment, but no one could question the sincerity of a man who was willing to plunge a knife into his own belly. By sacrificing his own life—something he was certain Shichio would never do—Daigoro could prove his cause was right. Seppuku was a time-honored tradition, one that even Hideyoshi could understand.

Daigoro found his arms had frozen. He could only commit seppuku by first removing his robe, and now his very muscles would not let him do it.

“Yes,” said Shichio. “There is another solution, isn’t there?”

Of course, Daigoro thought. How could he expect Shichio to make this easier? How could he even expect the man to appreciate the gravity of the situation? He was no samurai. He would relish every moment of Daigoro’s suicide. And now Daigoro’s own body threatened to taint the solemnity of seppuku. This was not a moment to lose his resolve.

Daigoro closed his eyes and willed life back into his petrified arms. If suicide was his only recourse, he would face it without fear.

13

“Trial by combat,” said Shichio.

Daigoro opened his eyes in surprise. Shichio was supposed to relish watching him die. He wasn’t supposed to prevent Daigoro from falling on his sword.

“The boy is right,” said Shichio. “Men’s words are proved by steel. If argument cannot settle this, let it be settled by swords.”

“You’re joking,” said General Mio. “You? Fight?”

“Of course not,” said Shichio. “I have no more interest in fighting this child than he has in fighting me. But surely he has a champion. And surely one of our brave samurai will step up to champion our cause.”

“Your cause,” said Mio.

Daigoro’s whole body began to quiver. He’d come so close to death. In his mind he’d already willed his death, and now it would not come—or at least not by seppuku. If this trial-by-combat nonsense played itself through, he might still be killed, but in that case the abbot’s death would come next. Shichio had anticipated Daigoro’s suicide and the effect it would have on Hideyoshi’s mind. He’d anticipated it and nipped it in the bud. Once again Daigoro had been outfoxed by a peacock.

And yet Shichio had a point. The duel was first invented to settle questions of honor. The tradition of proving one’s word with the sword was as old as the sword itself. If Daigoro refused to duel, it would be tantamount to admitting disloyalty. If refusing to kill the abbot was truly the right course, Daigoro had no choice but to defend it with steel.

But how much blood had been shed needlessly in the name of honor? Daigoro had witnessed his share of duels, including the one that claimed his brother’s life. He’d seen men bloodied and maimed and killed, all in the name of a concept that he had always taken for granted, a concept that he’d never examined in any real depth until Hideyoshi called it into question.

And the duels Daigoro had seen were the best of their kind. How many duels ended in a mutual slaying? Half? More? Often as not, two experts would cut each other down. Two neophytes would do the same, out of sheer inexperience rather than skill. Survival itself was often a grim prospect; the samurai caste was full of men who had defended their honor at the cost of a limb. Daigoro had no taste for it.

Even so, a single word of protest would mark him as a traitor and a coward. There was only one path left to him.

• • •

“I will not risk one of my men over so trivial a cause,” the Okuma whelp said. “I will face your champion myself.”

“Trivial?”

Shichio surprised himself with the sharpness of his tone. Did the boy have no shame? There was nothing trivial about this at all. Shichio would have loved nothing more than to watch the boy eviscerate himself, but if that happened, then Hashiba would relent on the monk. From there, Mio’s curiosity would only grow, and perhaps the giant oaf would send men to ask questions. If Mio were ever to learn the truth, Hashiba would be the next to learn of it, and that would be the end of everything. No, this was far from trivial.

Even for the boy this was no trifling matter. The regent’s own fleet had stormed his lands and filled his home with troops. At any moment Hashiba could have him executed for sheer insolence. Perhaps Shichio should already have done so himself. His thoughts flitted momentarily to his demon mask, and to stabbing this boy through the neck. In his most imperious tone he said, “What part of the regent’s business is trivial to you?”

“The correct way to handle this matter is clear,” said the boy. “I have already placed a permanent garrison at the monastery at my expense. I have already suggested that killing the abbot would unsettle the region and bring bad karma upon the regent. The correct path is clear. All other paths are trivial.”

“Sir, I must agree,” said Mio, his voice deep and booming. He shifted his hulking, armored body to face Hashiba, making a point of ignoring Shichio completely. “Lord Okuma has your best interests at heart. I believe your best course is to forgive an old man for whatever sins he may once have committed. Please, Hideyoshi-dono, let this go.”

Shichio couldn’t decide which one he hated more, Mio Yasumasa or the Okuma brat. He was sure of one thing only: he could not allow Hashiba to dismiss the question of the abbot. Shameful acts of the past were like ghosts, growing ever hungrier as time went on. And Hashiba was not known for his forgiveness. Better to deal with a little peasant uprising in Izu than to risk waking the ghosts, and then see how Hashiba would respond to them.

“Give me a garrison here,” Shichio said. “Let me show these rubes what good it will do them if they protest the killing of a single backwater monk. Let me show them your power. Let this boy feel the swift stroke of Hideyoshi’s justice.”

“Justice will weigh in where it sees fit,” said Hashiba. “Lord Okuma, we will elect a champion for you to fight. General Mio, assemble the troops.”

Mio bowed as low as his enormous belly would let him. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I won’t. If the young Lord Okuma will not risk one of his own men for this, then neither will I. I will face him.”

Shichio glanced at the boy and wondered if that was a trace of fear in his eyes. Moments earlier Okuma had seemed wholly oblivious to death, speaking his mind as if Hashiba were no loftier than a common maidservant. But Mio was four times the boy’s size. He was the veteran of countless battles, and he’d never lost in single combat. The boy might just as well have challenged a tsunami to a sumo bout.

For a fleeting instant Shichio wondered whether Mio was trying to double-cross him. The fat man had agreed with Okuma all along; perhaps he meant to throw the fight. But then Shichio thought better of it. Guile and craft were not in Mio’s character. He barged through life like a boulder rolling downhill.

Then an even brighter thought alighted in Shichio’s mind: what if the fat man does betray me? He’s samurai, after all; it’s hardly beyond him to kill himself to prove a point. If Mio means to die on the boy’s sword, at least I’m free of him.

The boy’s sword. Shichio’s eyes had been drawn to it from the moment he stepped out of the palanquin. Apart from his demon mask, it was the finest piece of craftsmanship he’d ever seen. It was rumored to be an Inazuma blade—not an easy rumor to believe of some backwater bumpkin’s sword, but one look dismissed all doubts. This was truly a thing of beauty.

And the mask showed a stronger affinity for this sword than any other. He’d had no choice but to leave the mask in the palanquin, because for the first time he could hardly bear to touch it—or rather, touching it inspired a craving so powerful that Shichio actually feared he might lose control of his body. So long as he held the mask, he needed that sword. The thought of such a masterpiece being used in battle was anathema to him. What if it were nicked? What if it were stained with blood?

On the other hand, what if it gutted the fat man?

Shichio restrained a grin. Yes, he thought; if Okuma wins, Mio will be out of my life forever. All I’ll have to do is find another way to kill the monk. And if the duel goes the other way, I’m free of the Okuma brat and the monk is mine. No matter who loses this fight, victory belongs to me—as will that Inazuma sword, as soon as I can figure out how.

He watched on happily as the brat made one last plea for Hashiba to do the right thing. Then came the fat man’s pretensions of grandeur, which were enough to make Shichio giddy; since the boy was unarmored, Mio summoned attendants to remove his armor as well. For a lummox his size it was a three-man job. When they’d finished, Mio and Okuma took their positions in the courtyard, their shadows short and dark under the high noon sun. Mio drew his massive blade, and a tall, gray-haired, shabby-looking man presented Okuma with his sword.

Once again Shichio was struck by the beauty of it. The weapon was nearly as long as the boy was tall, and much too large for him to wield. Were it any other blade, it would have gleamed in the sun, but the Inazuma steel seemed to glow with its own glorious light. Shichio had never been so thankful not to have his mask. With it, he might well have run onto the battlefield to take the sword for his own.

Okuma’s steps had become short, shuffling movements under the weight of the sword, and for the first time Shichio noticed the brat must have injured his leg somehow. He limped off the right foot, and though Shichio was no master, he knew enough to understand that the right leg was all-important in swordsmanship. It was the root leg, the primary source of balance, power, and movement. And Okuma’s was lame.

So Mio will win this one, he thought. I’ll have to rid myself of him some other way. But at least I’ll have the pleasure of watching this Okuma brat die, and once he’s dead I’ll claim that big, beautiful sword of his.

Shichio settled himself next to Hashiba on the veranda overlooking the courtyard. He couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

14

Sweat ran down into Daigoro’s eyes and he could not afford to wipe it away. Glorious Victory Unsought was far too heavy for him to remove a hand from her grip. His right hand was weak enough already; it was all he could do just to steady the tip of his blade.

It was hot, damnably hot, and though Daigoro’s throat was dry he was sure it wasn’t from the heat. Mio was a giant. His sword was nearly as long as Daigoro’s and his arms were considerably longer. Daigoro’s first tactic had always been to rely on Glorious Victory’s greater reach, but that would not save him today.

They circled each other and the sun beat down on them like a hammer. More than a hundred people looked on. Daigoro had never dueled in front of so many before. They made him nervous. His sweating, aching hands tightened their grip on his weapon.

He knew he did not want to fight this man, and he knew of Glorious Victory’s power to see him through whenever he wanted not to fight, but this time he was not so sure. This was a duel he could have avoided. He could have overruled Shichio’s twisting words with one stroke of the sword. If he’d had the courage to plunge his wakizashi into his belly, he could have ended all the arguments. And yet here he was, squaring off against a living mountain.

Their blades met. Mio thrust at his throat. Daigoro shoved the thrust aside and chopped down at the wrists. Mio batted Glorious Victory aside, his parry so powerful that it almost sent Daigoro spinning.

Daigoro pulled Glorious Victory back to center and managed to fend off Mio’s next attack. He stumbled but caught himself before he fell.

Daigoro had never faced so powerful a fighter. Yet Mio had more than size in his favor: he was far more experienced. In any other match his age might have counted against him, but the advantages of youth were strength and speed, and because of his leg Daigoro had neither. His brother Ichiro might have made short work of this giant. Katsushima too; he constantly surprised Daigoro with his quickness. But Daigoro had always relied on pacing a fight slowly, taking the measure of his opponent, allowing his adversary to grow frustrated and impatient.

Mio showed no signs of impatience. He advanced, not out of frustration but from sheer dominance. Daigoro moved in, exactly the opposite of what the smaller fighter should do, hoping to catch the big man off his guard. Mio gave him a shove, sword against sword, and Daigoro felt his feet leave the ground.

Horses didn’t kick that hard. Daigoro couldn’t say how far he flew before landing. He crunched into the gravel, rolled to his feet, and Mio was already on top of him. He showed Daigoro exactly how long his reach was, cutting Daigoro’s sleeve while a thrust from Glorious Victory fell well short of Mio’s throat. Only sheer luck had spared Daigoro’s arm.

Mio pressed the attack. Daigoro dived, rolled, came up behind him. Mio continued his charge, taking himself out of Daigoro’s reach. Daigoro had no counterattack, but at least he had a moment’s respite.

The fingers ached in Daigoro’s right hand. His lips and mouth were as dry as hot sand. His heart pounded in his ears like a taiko drum, so loud and so fast that he could hear nothing else. The cold, serene, paralyzing fear of seppuku was long gone. Now it was a burning panic that gripped him, a need to escape this titan and his titanic sword. Swordsmen the size of Mio usually fought demons or tengu; they were the warriors of myth, not reality. Daigoro had no desire to be killed by a walking nightmare.

General Mio turned on him and advanced again. Daigoro saw just one hope of victory. Mio was fat enough that he could not see his feet. Men that big usually had poor balance. If Daigoro could make him fall, Mio could not capitalize on his superior strength and speed.

Glorious Victory Unsought was made for mounted combat. It was long enough to cut down foot soldiers from the saddle, long enough to unseat a cavalryman, long enough for the horse-cutting technique Daigoro tried next. Against the legs of a charging warhorse, only the strongest steel was of any use. Mio would be no different.

Mio charged. Daigoro stepped aside, dropped low, and cut for the ankles.

Mio’s sword sank to parry, just as Daigoro thought it would.

Parried or not, Glorious Victory was heavy enough to trip him, just as it was heavy enough to fell a horse. But Mio jumped over instead.

He should have fallen. But Mio had the balance of a dancer—no, of a rikishi, a sumo wrestler, for sumo required not balance but balance with unthinkable power. Mio landed on one foot, whirled on Daigoro, stomped down hard. Daigoro shrank away. Mio chopped down with terrifying force, a blow that could behead an ox.

Desperately, hopelessly, knowing the fight was over, Daigoro raised his weapon to parry.

Glorious Victory Unsought cut Mio’s sword neatly in two.

Against anyone else the fight would have been over. Daigoro was in striking range and Mio’s katana was useless. But Mio had fought under Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi. He’d faced a thousand men in battle before Daigoro was old enough to hold a sword. He threw the butchered sword haft at Daigoro and drew his wakizashi.

The haft cut Daigoro across the cheek. The wakizashi came next, stabbing at his gut. Daigoro parried, took the sword through fabric instead of flesh. The blade entangled itself in his clothing.

Mio’s chest slammed into his face. Daigoro reeled backward. Mio continued his charge, trying to yank his sword free. Daigoro set his feet, pointed Glorious Victory straight at the sky, and put his shoulder into it.

Mio slammed right into the sword.

He toppled backward, dragging Daigoro with him. Daigoro would have landed on him face-first, but at the last instant he stepped up with his flimsy right foot, planting it on Mio’s stomach.

A line of blood ran straight up the center of Mio’s torso. Yellow fat bubbled forth from his belly, blood mixing with it in scribbling red lines. Mio must have turned his head aside at the last instant, for his left ear was missing but otherwise his face and neck were unharmed.

Only then did Daigoro notice that his sword had stopped just a hairsbreadth from Mio’s throat. By luck, by training, by reflex, or by whatever glamer Master Inazuma had hammered into the steel, his sword had stopped just shy of a killing blow.

Daigoro looked to the dais. Hideyoshi was wide-eyed, slack-jawed, with an awed smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Shichio was so furious that Daigoro thought he might draw steel at any moment. Katsushima looked the proud father, chest swelling with pride, hands pressing his thighs as if to restrain himself from leaping to Daigoro’s side. Daigoro gave his audience a small bow. Then all eyes turned to General Mio.

Flat on his back, Mio roared with laughter. He touched two fingers to his missing ear, laughed harder, and rolled his head back onto the sand to look at his liege lord. “Now that’s a fighter! My lord, find me a hundred men like this and I’ll bring those Hojos to heel by the end of the week.”

Daigoro looked at Mio, at Glorious Victory, and at his own foot, which was still planted on Mio’s belly as if the general were a ship’s bow and Daigoro were a sea captain. Without meaning to, he’d effectively claimed Mio as a prize.

Hideyoshi clapped and rose to his feet. “Most impressive! Now we see why he’s called the Bear Cub of Izu.”

Daigoro stepped off his fallen foe, whose laughter now mixed with tiny grunts of pain as his hands prodded his belly wound. “You must understand,” Daigoro said softly, “it was not my intention to embarrass you.”

“Embarrass me? Master Bear Cub, you’ve honored me. People will talk about this duel for a hundred years. Think of it! The little cub who knocked down the mountain! Come, help me up. Let’s find something to eat.”

15

Daigoro awoke with a start. The night was silent—or as silent as it ever was this close to the coast. Frogs chirped; cicadas sang; the surf breathed in and out, in and out. These were his lullabies ever since childhood, but tonight something was amiss.

He slipped out of bed, shivering at the transition from Akiko’s warmth under the bedcovers. He found his robe and belt, and automatically tucked his swords into his belt as he looked around for something to tie back his hair. Then he stepped into his sandals and drew the shoji aside to get some fresh air.

A lone figure stood in the middle of the courtyard.

His shadow seemed blue against the white gravel, and his footsteps crunched audibly as he paced slowly toward Daigoro’s bedchamber. Another figure approached Daigoro as well: Tomo, running as silently as he could, his stockings making muted thumps against the wooden planks of the veranda. He all but slid to a stop at Daigoro’s feet, already kneeling. After a deep bow he looked back up with a worried smile. Out of breath, he said, “Your guest, Okuma-dono. He requests an audience.”

Daigoro’s bodyguards had not bestirred themselves. They recognized Tomo on sight, and the sword-armed man in the courtyard was still too far away to be any threat. They were right not to have woken Daigoro, but he saw that they’d made that subtle transition from awareness to readiness.

“Stand down,” Daigoro told them. “Tomo, tell the rest of our sentries not to interfere.”

He limped stiffly down the stairs, sore from the gymnastics in facing Mio, and crossed the courtyard to meet Shichio—for the dark, stalking figure could only be Shichio. His silhouette was tall and thin, his shadow a long needle on the stones, but more than this, only one man in the compound was drawn inexorably to Glorious Victory Unsought.

But as Daigoro drew near, he did not see Shichio’s face. His skin went cold at the sight of a demonic visage. Short, wicked horns curled up from Shichio’s forehead, and long iron fangs framed his mouth. A row of sharp teeth hid his upper lip, and his expression was unreadable behind a fierce iron scowl.

Daigoro had no idea what to do with this. He’d never faced a madman. His mother teetered on the verge of madness, but even she didn’t stalk the house at night wearing swords and masks. Daigoro could measure the reach of Shichio’s sword arm with a glance, but he couldn’t begin to guess whether Shichio would draw on him. He knew what a sane man would do, but a lunatic? There was no telling what would provoke him.

And do I care? he asked himself. Shichio had given him all the pretext he needed. No one, not even an aide to the regent, had the right to go sneaking through another man’s house.

“What are you doing out here?” Daigoro said.

“I wanted to see your sword,” Shichio said, his voice distant, even ghostly.

“You might get a closer look than you’d like.” Daigoro kept his tone deliberately brusque. If he could tempt the peacock to draw on him, he could cut the man down with impunity. “Take one step closer and I’ll take your head.”

Shichio seemed not to have heard him. “All this time, I thought I’d understood this mask of mine,” he said. “I’d always thought it awakened visions of swords. But they’re not, are they? They’re visions of your sword.”

“No. You’re wrong.”

“I’m not. I felt the change as soon as we set foot on shore. The need . . . it grew stronger, almost like a living creature. I could feel it under my skin. I did not understand it then, but I do now. Your sword and my mask, they are kin somehow. The closer they come together, the greater my need becomes. That sword—what did they say it was called? Glorious Victory Unsought? Yes. It’s as if my mask can see it. It needs it. I must have it.”

“Your mask has nothing to do with it. This is Inazuma steel. Men have gone mad in pursuit of it. Some have killed for it.”

That seemed to snap Shichio out of his reverie. He almost seemed hurt. “Is that how you think of me? A madman come to murder you for your weapon?”

“You’re welcome to try. Draw your blade, or else go back to bed. One way or the other, I will not abide a man going masked and armed in my home.”

Shichio scoffed. “What do you take me for? A common burglar?”

“An assassin,” Daigoro said. “You and your master have accepted my hospitality. A hundred of your clansmen sleep under my roofs. And here you are, skulking around wearing the face of a demon. Do you fancy yourself a shinobi? Did you think to pass through walls to kill me in my sleep?”

The eyes behind that mask shifted from Glorious Victory to meet Daigoro’s stare. “You are a rude, impudent boy,” Shichio said. “You do not deserve to carry such artistry at your hip. I should take it from you and put it in a place of honor, far away from this hovel and its salty air.”

“Say it louder,” Daigoro said. “Let everyone hear you insult your host and his home. Or else go back to bed. I have no interest in treating with a lunatic.”

“Nor I with an insolent cub.”

Daigoro felt his temper surging in his veins. Katsushima would have advised patience. Daigoro’s father would have reminded him of Glorious Victory’s curse. But this arrogant peacock had brought the regent’s own fury to rain down on House Okuma, and he would do so again if given half a chance. Daigoro was sure of it. He’d given serious thought to murdering an innocent monk just to make this peacock go away. Why not take the peacock’s head instead?

Somehow Glorious Victory Unsought had cleared her scabbard. Daigoro could not remember unsheathing her. There was no pain in his right hand. The stiffness in his muscles was gone, though he’d felt it only moments ago. Shichio looked at the blade and even raised a hand as if to touch it. “So beautiful,” he said.

• • •

It was so beautiful. The sight of the boy drawing a weapon on him should have terrified Shichio—indeed, it did terrify him, but his fright was no match for his desire for the sword. He had never felt such overwhelming need to have something for his own. Even his beloved mask paled in comparison. In fact, the mask itself wanted him to take the sword. His right hand reached out without his even willing it, desperate to touch the gleaming steel. So beautiful, he thought. He might even have said it aloud. It was hard to be sure; the sword held all of his attention.

“If you want it, you can have it,” the Bear Cub said. “All you have to do is take it from me.”

He lowered his weapon. Shichio’s gaze followed it. The sword could be his. He needed it. He’d seen it in thousands of visions. His mask wanted him to take it. The vile boy had left himself exposed. Vulnerable. Shichio reached for his katana.

A voice in his mind cried out in protest. This whelp had bested Mio, and Mio was more than a match for Shichio even if the giant were only armed with a chopstick. Shichio knew it—hated it, but knew it. He stood no chance against the Bear Cub, and yet the mask bent all his will toward that massive, magnificent sword. He was not one to believe in sorcery, but there was no doubting it now: the mask held some power over him. It was bewitched, and though Shichio did not understand the nature of its enchantment, he knew his need for the Bear Cub’s Inazuma blade was irresistible. It might well kill him, and yet he could only obey.

He hurled himself at the sword. The boy anticipated the move and stepped back. Shichio clawed out with both hands, reaching for the sword’s hilt but finding only air. The Bear Cub’s weapon soared upward, fast as an arrow. Shichio knew his head was soon to leave his shoulders.

But the boy missed. His cut fell short.

It did not strike flesh, but it did find iron. The Inazuma blade sheared off one of the mask’s fangs—just the tip of it, but it felt like it cut Shichio’s own tooth, right down to the root.

The world began to spin. The Bear Cub lost his balance and stumbled out of reach. Shichio clutched at his face. The mask bit into his palm, just where the Bear Cub’s sword had cut. The fang ended in sharp right angles now, its beautiful curves spoiled forever. And through the broken fang, Shichio could feel new power leaking into the mask.

The barest caress of the mask had always made him think of swords. Today was the first time it had ever made him crave a sword so strongly. It hungered for Inazuma steel—and now, because the boy had damaged it, he felt that hunger changing. He could not say how. He knew no more than a wave knows the shape it is destined to take when it hits the shore, but he felt the surging power of transformation.

Still huddled and clutching his face, somehow he could sense the huge Inazuma blade coming toward him. His own sword was still in its scabbard. Even if the mask hadn’t distracted him, sheer fright made him forget to draw his weapon. The Bear Cub lunged with a broad, two-handed swipe strong enough to cut a man in half. All Shichio could do was duck and hope.

• • •

Daigoro’s cut should have chopped Shichio in half. He had the reach. Shichio’s blade was still in its sheath. He was defenseless. And once again, Daigoro missed.

His blade sailed over Shichio’s head and sent Daigoro spinning. The blade had taken him off balance. Again. And he knew why. He wanted Shichio dead. He wanted to claim victory over this cocky son of a bitch and make House Okuma safe once and for all. Hideyoshi could not be angry: Shichio had broken every law of hospitality. If General Mio had anything to say about it, killing Shichio might earn Daigoro a general’s rank. Daigoro could outshine even his father, his greatest role model, his hero.

And for that reason, Glorious Victory Unsought would see him dead.

That was his sword’s curse: it ensured victory, but only to those who did not seek it. Daigoro had never lost a duel with live steel because he never wanted to fight. The day he wanted to win would be the day his father’s sword would make him lose. Daigoro had seen it before. Ichiro died because of it, slain in the snow on a moonlit night just like this one. Now Daigoro, standing under the moon on snow-white gravel, finally understood.

He sheathed Glorious Victory—no small feat, given her length—and it rendered him vulnerable. If Shichio were to draw on him now, Daigoro had no chance to counterstrike. But Shichio did not draw his weapon. He stumbled backward, clutching that sinister mask as if it pained him. Blood dripped from his hands, giving Daigoro the eerie impression that the mask itself was bleeding.

“It was a mistake for you to threaten me in my own home,” Daigoro said, wishing to hell that he could just cut this peacock down and be done with it. “I am well within my rights to kill you. But I won’t.”

Just saying it aloud made his heart sink. This man was a lunatic. Letting him live was dangerous. But he was also cowering and unarmed, and Daigoro had already stretched the bounds of honor by attacking him. Failing to kill him was the worst kind of embarrassment: every sentry in earshot would have moved to see what transpired in the courtyard, and none of them understood the curse and blessing of Glorious Victory Unsought. They would only see a crippled boy try to kill an unarmed man and fail.

“Go back to the safety of your regent,” he said. The words were so heavy that he thought they might crush him. “Hide under his wing, and remember the Bear Cub of Izu showed you mercy tonight.”

And with that he watched Shichio walk away, knowing full well that this was his family’s worst enemy, and that he might never have another chance to kill him.