Disciple of the Wind (33 page)

The woman stood her ground, but only for the moment. Whalebelly clutched his weapon, trying desperately to keep his feet, so between the dying giant and the huge sheaf of sticks, Daigoro had adequate cover against her knives. Every missed throw would arm her quarry with another blade. “I’ll go,” she said, “but only if you let me take his wineskin.”

“It’s all yours.”

She crept up cautiously, expecting a double cross. Then, quick as a cat, she sliced it free of her dying leader’s body and fled along the nearest game trail. In moments she vanished into the bamboo. Just like that, Daigoro was alone again.

Not for the first time, he wondered what the gods of good fortune meant for him. He was unlucky to encounter these
yamabushi
, but lucky that Whalebelly hadn’t bled much. Daigoro’s disguise would be useless if it were doused in human blood. He was lucky to have survived the battle, short though it was. On the other hand, was it lucky to send two survivors into the back hills? Sooner or later, tales would spread of the skinny little boy who killed Whalebelly in a single blow. Once Shichio’s hunters heard the stories, they would know Daigoro had been here.

Luck and unluck. He was lucky that Whalebelly’s lot didn’t answer to Shichio, lucky that there were three of them and not six, but supremely unlucky to have to run into them at all. He was sure to run across more
yamabushi
so long as he traveled the back country, but he could not ride the roads so long as Shichio’s patrols were abroad. Life would have been so much easier if that damned peacock could just choke to death on a piece of sushi. “Give me that,” Daigoro said, looking up to the gods. “Give me bad fortune too if you must, but give me this one good thing.”

He looked himself over once more. Then, satisfied that he wasn’t a
bloody mess, he shouldered his burden once again and headed downhill.

When he reached the road, he found himself on the outskirts of the growing city of Yoshiwara. Rice paddies sprawled to his left and right, and before him the little lane sloped down to the checkpoint he and Katsushima had been trying to avoid. They’d met with success, because Daigoro was now west of the checkpoint; to get back to Izu, he’d have to go back through and follow the Tokaido east. That was good. The Yoshiwara checkpoint was the safest one for him to cross, for it lay firmly within Yasuda territory, but that did not mean it was unwatched. Shichio was sure to have spies there. If they were smart, they would be looking east, not west.

Daigoro took shelter under his bulky load and limped for the little castle bearing the white-on-green centipede banners of House Yasuda.

Fuji-no-tenka was no Green Cliff. It did not have to be. The Green Cliff was the last bastion of House Yasuda, while Fuji-no-tenka was its forwardmost observation tower. The Yasuda forefathers knew their Sun Tzu as well as Daigoro did: the linchpin of a strong defense was knowledge of the enemy’s disposition. House Yasuda’s stables were renowned for their fast, hardy, intelligent horses. That reputation was founded in Fuji-no-tenka, where swift-footed messenger mounts were bred for rapid relays. The castle was built as much for horses as for men; its donjon was modest, its keep vast.

Daigoro had come to think of it as a relay station of his own. It was his first safe haven on the way to Kiyosu, which was where he decided to start his hunt for Streaming Dawn. The town of Kiyosu held the only advantage Daigoro had over Nene, whose resources vastly outstripped Daigoro’s in every conceivable respect. He could only assume she’d already gone to great lengths to find Streaming Dawn; beseeching Daigoro for help smacked of desperation. But Nene lacked one thing: the bedtime stories Daigoro had grown up with. How well he remembered his father’s tale of the
tanto
that cursed the bearer with a ghoulish, twisted form of eternal life. That tale always began in Kiyosu.

But Fuji-no-tenka came first, because with any luck, it would be in
Fuji-no-tenka that Daigoro would solve the conundrum of giving Streaming Dawn to two people at once. Yasuda Jinichi, eldest son of Lord Yasuda Jinbei, was lord of Fuji-no-tenka and eldest brother of the miserly, petty-minded Yasuda Kenbei. If Jinichi commanded it, Kenbei would have to end this ridiculous war of coins. There would be no more murdered pigeons, nor any reason for Kenbei to seek Sora Nobushige’s backing. Sora would lose his bargaining position, and Daigoro could give Streaming Dawn to Lady Nene with no fear of jeopardizing his family.

Everything depended on whether Jinichi was more like his father, a noble and honorable man, or more like his brother Kenbei, a spark that had flown a long way from the fire.

Despite the fact that Daigoro had spent his whole life with the Yasudas almost on his doorstep, he’d never met Jinichi in the flesh before. Jinichi was old enough to be Daigoro’s grandfather, and he’d served as lord of Fuji-no-tenka for forty years. He reminded Daigoro of nothing so much as a well-used walking stick. He was scrawny, almost knobbly, with skin like knotted, polished wood. Careworn but strong.

Though they’d never met, he recognized Daigoro on sight—not an especially difficult feat, once Daigoro cast off the farmer’s guise. Glorious Victory Unsought was unmistakable, and as close allies to House Okuma, the high-ranking Yasudas knew all about Daigoro’s weakling leg.

“So it’s true,” Jinichi said. His voice was thin and reedy, just like his father’s. “You no longer wear the Okuma bear paw.”

Daigoro bowed and tried not to blush. “I suppose you’ve heard why.”

“Oh, what haven’t we heard of you? If I believed all of it, I wouldn’t know whether you’re alive or dead. That’s what some folk are saying of you now: you’re a vengeful ghost. Have you heard that one?”

Daigoro felt his cheeks flush despite his best efforts. When Jinichi saw it, he reached out with a gnarled brown finger and gave Daigoro a poke, as if to be sure he was there. “There, you see? Not a ghost. Not
a traitor either, I think. Or a pirate. Or a ninja lord. Or a bear
kami
that can take human form. Now that’s something I’d like to see before I die. Tell me, can you turn into a bear?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Too bad.” He gave Daigoro a yellow-toothed smile. “Tell me, son, why are you here? And why on earth did you
walk
all this way? Judging by the state of your
hakama
, you must have been wading through mud.”

That, or I’ve been wearing the same
hakama
for four days, Daigoro thought. The same everything else too. By the gods, what I wouldn’t give for a bath.

But he said none of that. “I come to discuss House Okuma’s debts to House Yasuda.”

“Then send a pigeon next time. By the Buddha! You must have worn your feet down to nubs.”

Daigoro explained why he couldn’t do that, and why his family’s debts to the Yasudas had become a concern in the first place. With each new detail, Jinichi’s mood grew darker. At last he could take no more. “Stop. I hear you trying to speak gracefully of my brother, trying to avoid offense, but let me nip that in the bud. Kenbei was always the runt of the litter. That was his karma, and he should have learned to make peace with it a long time ago. How to cope with a grown man who acts like a child, I don’t know. If I were back home, I would bend him over my knee and spank him.”

Daigoro’s whole body sagged, and he realized that prior to that moment his every muscle had been tight with anticipation. He’d never been sure whether Jinichi would take his side or Kenbei’s. Now relief washed over him like cool rain on a hot summer’s day. “I’m relieved to hear you say that. I have the feeling your father might beat you to that spanking when he wakes up.”

“If he wakes up. And that’s the trouble, isn’t it? Father named Kenbei steward. It is not my place to countermand him. If it were up to me, we would handle House Okuma’s debts the way we always have:
as neighbors. As friends. As men of honor. But it is not up to me, Daigoro-san. My hands are tied.”

Daigoro deflated like a sail in a dead wind. He’d come to the conversation braced for disappointment, but Jinichi’s scorn for his brother had broken the braces down. Now that cool rain of relief became cloying and clammy. It chilled him to the bone.

“It’s not what you wanted to hear,” Jinichi said.

“No.” Daigoro could not think of a softer way to say it.

“Let me grant you a loan, at least. From my personal coffers, not from House Yasuda’s. Will that keep Kenbei’s claws away from your family’s purse strings?”

“For a while.” Daigoro should have softened that too, but he lacked the energy to come up with something more appropriate to say. They negotiated terms, but it was clear from the outset that Jinichi could not meet even a third of what Kenbei demanded. Daigoro could hardly turn down the coin, but even as he accepted it, he wondered how he would give Streaming Dawn to Lord Sora and Lady Nene at once.

As that thought struck him, he asked, “What do you know of Streaming Dawn?”

“The knife?” Jinichi’s lips pursed and his eyes widened. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long while.”

“Did you ever talk to my father about it?”

“How could I not? That was quite a story.”

“Would you tell me what you remember?”

“Of course, of course. Come, let’s have some tea.”

They had more than tea. Jinichi called servants to prepare a formal dinner, then sent a messenger into the foothills to fetch Katsushima. Daigoro had left his traveling companion with the horses in an abandoned logging camp. On the back roads they could ride together, but never in the public eye; Shichio’s mercenaries knew to look for a traveling pair, a crippled boy and his
ronin
companion. Daigoro’s mount was a giveaway too. With one leg heavier than the other, staying in an ordinary saddle was a constant struggle, so Daigoro rode with the
special saddle Old Yagyu had constructed for him. It was one of a kind, all too easy to spot.

When Katsushima reached Fuji-no-tenka after dark, he came with what looked like a packhorse in tow. From a distance, Daigoro didn’t recognize his own mount; Jinichi’s messenger had brought a pack harness with him, and crammed Daigoro’s unique saddle into one of the panniers. For that Daigoro was supremely grateful; it was a clever ruse, and it had allowed Katsushima and their horses to reach Fuji-no-tenka unseen.

Jinichi and Daigoro talked over dinner while Katsushima remained characteristically quiet. Afterward, Daigoro had expected Katsushima to go out and find himself a sporting woman, but evidently his friend had taken an interest in the dinner conversation. “Forgive me,” he said as a maidservant poured
sake
, “but I’ve not heard the entire story; I’ve only heard the two of you comparing memories. Let me be sure I understand: do you honestly believe Okuma Tetsuro fought a demon?”

“I do,” said Jinichi. And I can turn into a bear, thought Daigoro.

“You don’t mean this poetically? You mean an actual creature from hell?”

Jinichi nodded. “A horned fiend with skin like polished steel. They say it could travel in human form, in the guise of an old crone. Lord Okuma told me its barest touch could kill the body while trapping the living mind inside. In those days people called it the demon assassin.”

“‘Those days’ weren’t so long ago,” Daigoro said. “I think I was nine or ten when my father came home to tell us about it.”

“You’re missing the point, my boy. This creature was hundreds of years old. The first time it visited Izu, I wasn’t even your age. Scared me half to death, it did. They say
shinobi
spellcraft summoned the creature. No one knows what dark bargain its masters struck with it, but somehow they commanded it to serve them. For hundreds of years it reigned as the deadliest killer in the realm.”

Daigoro held his tongue and drank his
sake
. The version Okuma Tetsuro told his sons was quite different. The demon was a disguise,
not a creature. The wearer was indeed an assassin, and while it was true that some said the assassin was immortal, Daigoro’s father put the point rather differently: so long as the assassin goes masked, who can say whether it’s the same man? If ten men wore it over the span of a hundred years, did that make the assassin a hundred years old?

Of all his stories, this was the one Daigoro never asked him to repeat. It was the only one in which his father lost a fight. “But for an assassin’s mercy, I would be dead,” he’d said. Daigoro remembered little more than that; at the age of ten he had no interest in hearing about his valiant father’s vulnerability.

“So Lord Okuma fought this . . .
demon
,” Katsushima said. “Where?”

“In the shadow of Kiyosu Castle,” Jinichi said.

“And that’s how he got Streaming Dawn?”

“In a manner of speaking. He never kept it.”

Daigoro leaned forward, all ears now. “Did he tell you what he did with it?”

“He did what any wise man would do: he went straight to the nearest shrine that could wash its evil from him.”

Katsushima could not have said that sentence with a straight face. Yasuda Jinichi was gravely earnest. “I tell you, that blade was forged in the fires of hell,” Jinichi said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if every demon carries one. It may well be the key to their immortality.”

“Ah.” Katsushima drained his
sake
cup. He refilled Jinichi’s and Daigoro’s before topping off his own. In his most patient tone, he said, “Forgive me, Lord Yasuda, but I don’t believe in evil swords. They’re all made for killing. A
tanto
isn’t a whittling knife or a kitchen knife; it’s for spilling human blood and that’s that. Call it evil if you like—”

“Answer me this,” Jinichi said. “Was Okuma Tetsuro a superstitious man?”

“I regret that I never had the honor of meeting him.”

Jinichi turned to Daigoro. “Well?”

“No,” Daigoro said. “I never knew him to be superstitious.”

The old man nodded emphatically. “Nor did I. A most practical
fellow. Yet after he took Streaming Dawn from that demon, he went straight to Atsuta Shrine to have the evil
kami
purged from him.
Atsuta
, mind you. There were plenty of neighborhood shrines along the way. Buddhist temples too, but no, he went to the holiest site he could find. Now you tell me why a man like him does something like that. Hm?”