Year of the Demon

“I might have guessed she’s your wife,” Shichio said with a smile, “but you don’t have a wife, do you? Not anymore. Not since you signed that decree.”

Daigoro did not take his eyes from Shichio’s face, but in his peripheral vision he noticed his enemy’s feet settling into the gravel, his thumb pushing that katana a little farther out of its scabbard.

Glorious Victory was sheathed across Daigoro’s back. She was too long to draw at this range. Shichio knew it. And if any Okuma stepped forward to his defense, the whole clan would be guilty of high treason against the regent’s adviser. Shichio knew that too.

“If she’s not your wife, then what is she?” said Shichio. “Just some girl you spilled your seed into, I suppose. But what does that make you? Certainly not a husband. Closer to the truth to call you an oath-breaker and a liar.”

It was more than any man should bear. Even as a ronin, Daigoro was ten times the samurai Shichio would ever be. The man was a viper. Deceit came as easily to him as breathing. And even if he were not, for a commoner to accuse a samurai of being a liar was more than provocation; in truth it was immoral for Daigoro not to kill him.

Shichio knew that too.

“You wouldn’t be trying to pick a fight, would you, Shichio-sama?” It was everything Daigoro could do to end that sentence with -sama and not you son of a bitch.

“I hardly need to. You’re a fugitive, aren’t you? Yes, you are. Come to think of it, the bare fact that you stand in this courtyard means the Okumas have harbored you. Ever so convenient, isn’t it? I have no need to marry your mother; I can kill her right after I kill you.”

“You might want to think twice about that,” said Daigoro.

Toyotomi samurai formed a rank behind Shichio, summoned as if they could hear his thoughts. “Seize the fugitive,” Shichio said, the very picture of nonchalance. “And his mother and girlfriend too while you’re at it.”

“Shichio!”

The shout came from Hideyoshi. “This is a wedding,” the regent barked. “By the gods, you idiot, you don’t threaten the bride.”

“Toyotomi-dono,” Shichio said, “she’s colluding with a fugitive—”

“And you’re violating every damned rule of civility ever written,” Hideyoshi said. “Have you forgotten the laws of hospitality?”

“I’m sure he hasn’t,” said Daigoro, “as your own General Mio cited them when last we met. The guest who instigates a fight under the roof of his host is to be punished with death.”

Shichio rammed his katana home with a loud snap. “Then face me in a duel,” he said, his voice dripping with acid. He stabbed one finger toward the open gate. “Outside the compound. Outside the bounds of your precious hospitality.”

Daigoro clenched his fists. Pain shot through them, broken bones in the right, deep cuts in the left. He hadn’t slept in three days. His right leg had twenty-nine fresh stitches in it. And yet he wanted nothing more in the world than to eviscerate this prideful peacock of a man.

Daigoro took a breath, eyeing the distance to the gate. It was not so far, perhaps twenty or thirty hobbling steps. In his current state, just walking there would leave him dizzy. He would have the advantage of reach, but with hands so battered that he could not hold his sword after the first exchange. His opponent was well rested and well fed. Daigoro had just enough strength to stand. And then there was Glorious Victory herself. She knew about his burning desire to kill Shichio; she could feel it in her steel. How much more satisfying would it be to kill him in front of Akiko, his mother, and his former clan? Daigoro’s mouth all but watered at the thought of such satisfaction. He would even seize glory and victory in front of the regent, who already held him in such high regard that he might well make Daigoro a general.

Indulging his need for vengeance was more than simple revenge. It would secure him victory and glory. And for that very reason his own sword would betray him.

Another breath, then another. He studied Shichio in every detail: the length of his sword, the hand he’d returned to its hilt, the tension in his forearm as if he were ready to strike.

Daigoro breathed again, trying to calm his racing heart. He knew he could not face Shichio with some other blade—or at least not face him and win. He was too accustomed to Glorious Victory’s weight and reach. Nor could he ask Katsushima to fight as his champion. If anything, Katsushima was even more exhausted than Daigoro; he was thirty years’ Daigoro’s senior, and he’d been riding day and night for a week, all the way from Kyoto.

Yet Daigoro knew the simple truth: Shichio had insulted him more than honor could bear. Daigoro took a deep breath and released it slowly. It was his sixth breath since Shichio had laid down his challenge. Daigoro knew the old maxim well, for his father had quoted it many times: the good samurai makes every decision in the space of seven breaths.

A silence fell over the courtyard, so that Daigoro felt the whole gathering could hear his pounding heartbeat. He took in his seventh breath. “If the Lady Okuma will allow it,” he said, “I will face my challenger here, on the spot where I bested General Mio.”

Shichio’s face blanched. In an instant Daigoro could tell he’d read the man correctly. He remembered his last conversation with General Mio—not the exchange of scribbles and questions while Mio was on his deathbed, but their conversation in the Jurakudai before Daigoro had gone on the run and Shichio had somehow tied Mio down and cut out his tongue. No, our Shichio’s no swordsman, Mio had said. He did all his generalship with an ink brush.

Daigoro could only guess how many times Shichio had fantasized about killing the hated Bear Cub. No doubt he’d rehearsed it in his mind: the cuts, the parries, the vainglorious pronouncements of victory. But between his obsession over the Inazuma and his flights of fancy, he’d forgotten that in all his years of warfare he’d never done any fighting. He’d made the mistake so many opponents had made: he thought of Daigoro as a cripple, not a warrior.

And then Daigoro reminded him of Mio. Mio, who was Shichio’s superior in in every aspect of swordsmanship. Mio, the giant that lame little Daigoro defeated in single combat.

Daigoro put his hand to Glorious Victory Unsought, knowing that if he drew her he could not support her weight for long. His hands hurt too much. He’d asked too much of them in the fighting the night before. His forearm twinged just from the effort of wrapping his fingers around his weapon’s hilt.

“After you, General Shichio,” he said, filling his voice with every drop of confidence he could muster, hoping it was enough to patch over the exhaustion that made his voice sound like a rasp. He motioned toward the other end of the courtyard, and the dispersing crowd opened a corridor to the very spot where Daigoro had propped his foot on the mountainous General Mio. “I’m tired of your nonsense; let’s get this over with.”

Shichio’s eyes narrowed. He took a single step toward Daigoro, just enough to put him in striking range. His slender katana would be faster on the draw. A good samurai could cut Daigoro down before Glorious Victory even cleared her scabbard. A good samurai, or even just a fast peasant.

“You’re bluffing,” said Shichio.

“The fifty up the road thought so too,” said Daigoro.

Shichio’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing him. No doubt they could read Daigoro’s exhaustion for what it was. No doubt they would note how heavily he favored his left foot, and therefore how badly hurt his right leg really was. But they would see more, too. Shichio was a liar and a cheat. That was how he thought, and men like him thought all other men were just as devious. More than once Daigoro had assumed Shichio would act like a samurai, but only because Daigoro himself thought and lived and breathed the code. Now, for the first time, Daigoro found the advantage in thinking like an ignoble backstabbing cur. Shichio thought everyone was a backstabber.

A muscle fluttered in Shichio’s cheek. He swallowed. A tiny tremor had settled into his right hand. Daigoro’s first instinct was to remain stone still. But that was samurai thinking. Instead, Daigoro said, “Do you plan to keep us waiting all day? Come on, make up your mind.”

He counted Shichio’s breaths, which came fast and shallow now. He wondered whether Shichio knew the old adage about the seven breaths.

“A duel to the death is too good for you,” Shichio said, loudly enough that everyone assembled could hear. He took a haughty step back and rammed his katana back home in its scabbard.