Year of the Demon

“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