Year of the Demon

Japan. It was a new Sword Hunt, and in substance it was not much different than the one declared by Oda Nobunaga some years before. That one had been effective in disarming the peasantry, and like the last one, this one banned pole arms and firearms as well as swords. This one would no doubt be as effective as its predecessor; peasant revolts were much harder to stage if no one but samurai went armed. Hideyoshi’s own success was itself a peasant revolt, a fact he would not soon forget. Evidently he had no desire to be supplanted by some upstart with ambitions similar to his own.

Like the last one, this Sword Hunt applied countrywide too, but this one also specified three mountains by name: Koya, Tonomine, and Soshitake. Though Daigoro had never seen either of them, he knew Mount Koya and Mount Tonomine by reputation. They were monastic havens far off in the Kansai; Koya lay not far from Sakai, and Tonomine was quite close to Nara. Strategically, economically, and politically, Sakai and Nara were nearly as important as Kyoto itself. If the neighboring monks kept arsenals, it was reasonable for the regent to see them as a threat.

But Soshitake was nowhere near the Kansai. Daigoro’s own home sat on it. So did Katto-ji, home to the abbot who inspired such hate and fear in Hideyoshi’s peacock, Shichio.

So that’s what this is about, he thought. A new Sword Hunt as a masquerade for attacking the abbot—and me too, I suppose. He read the rest quickly. Accompanying this hunt was an order for national census, a ban on relocating during the term of the census, an expulsion edict against the southern barbarians, and a promise to melt down all weapons seized in the Sword Hunt into bolts and nails for a massive statue of the Buddha. True to form, Hideyoshi was nothing if not grandiose. But Daigoro saw an easy escape from this extravagant trap.

“Commander,” he said, “I’m sure you’ve noticed that my home sits on Soshitake. But the regent’s Sword Hunt is a ban on peasants owning weapons. You’ll find no armed peasants in this house.”

“My orders were most specific, sir.” The commander’s tone was stiff without being gruff. Daigoro sensed some hesitation in him. “Most specific. We are to disarm all residents on Soshitake.”

Daigoro forced a smile and did his best to include some warmth in it. “Surely the regent can’t have ordered you to disarm samurai. A samurai without his swords is no samurai at all.”

“Understood, sir. But the edict stands.”

“Of course it does. Come, won’t you sit down? You and your men have marched a long way. And I’ve learned just this morning that I’m to be a father. Let us open a few casks of sake for your men and we officers can sit in the shade for a while.”

“No, sir. My orders were most specific. Most specific. We’re to move from here to the next compound as quickly as may be, sir.”

The next compound. So they hadn’t been to Katto-ji yet; they’d marched right past it to come here. And there wasn’t a second company deployed there either; this one was tasked with disarming both compounds. What was Hideyoshi thinking? Or, closer to it, what was Shichio thinking? Daigoro had no doubt it was Shichio whose orders were “most specific.” The man had an ax to grind, plain and simple. But his motivation wasn’t yet clear. These men could easily have overwhelmed the tiny garrison Daigoro had stationed at Katto-ji. They could have been marching back home with the abbot’s head in a sack before Daigoro could ever have marshaled his troops to stop them.

Shichio couldn’t possibly expect Daigoro and all his men to simply hand over their weapons. Better to ask them all to commit suicide; at least there would be some honor in that. So, Daigoro wondered, if he was never really after our swords, what did he want?

Only two answers were possible. One: he hoped Daigoro would resist. He hadn’t sent enough men to overwhelm House Okuma. In fact, Daigoro had no doubt that his own commanders had already reached the same conclusion, and deployed their troops in every room facing the courtyard. Daigoro had only to give the order and scores of samurai would burst out from every building. The company arrayed before him would be dead in minutes—taking some of Daigoro’s own men with them, to be sure, but if Shichio’s goal was Toyotomi blood on Okuma blades, he had certainly set the stage for it. And if Daigoro’s current predicament degenerated into combat, Shichio could convince Hideyoshi to wage war on the Okumas.

Two: he wanted not the Okumas’ swords but Daigoro’s sword. A sudden vision flashed in Daigoro’s mind: Shichio’s demonic mask, its angry scowl cut with deep shadows in the moonlight, and Daigoro’s own shadow running parallel to Shichio’s across the snow-white stones of the Okuma family courtyard. Then came another vision: his brother facedown in the snow, slain in a duel after claiming Glorious Victory for his own. It was Ichiro’s unrelenting desire for the sword that had killed him. Shichio felt the same hunger. He believed it was his sinister mask that made him need the blade; Daigoro thought otherwise, but he supposed the truth didn’t matter. One way or the other, that haughty peacock was willing to destroy House Okuma to acquire Glorious Victory, and Daigoro wasn’t sure how much more punishment his family could take.

Yet there he was with fifty hostile samurai in his own home. They were all trained killers, and no doubt they’d all seen more combat than Daigoro’s own men. These warriors had come up from the west country, where the fighting was hardest. Yes, the Okumas outnumbered these men, and yes, the Okumas would carry the day, but not without bitter losses.

But Daigoro could not give up his sword—the sword his father had bequeathed to him as his last act in life—and he certainly couldn’t disarm his entire clan. He read the edict once more.

“See here,” he told Hideyoshi’s commander, “your orders are to disarm the residents of Soshi- take, not Soshi-san. San means mountain, as in Koya-san. Take means peak. And Mount Soshi has two peaks. You just came up the saddle between them. Katto-ji, that monastery you passed on the way here, sits on Zensoshi-take. My home is on Gososhi-take. So which of the two Soshitakes are you to disarm?”

“My orders were most specific,” the commander said, but now doubt crept into his voice.

“Not specific enough, I’m afraid.” Daigoro motioned toward his sitting room. “Come, let’s have a seat and I’ll have Tomo here fetch us a map. Your men look weary; let’s give them a bit of a rest, shall we?”

As soon as Daigoro saw the commander’s shoulders relax, he knew he’d won. He’d given the man a way to keep his honor, fulfill his orders to the letter, and not disgrace a samurai family by asking them to give up the unthinkable. In short, he’d given the commander a way out. The man wasn’t stupid, and clearly he was uncomfortable with the orders foisted upon him. Did he know of Shichio’s madness? If Daigoro had noticed it, surely an officer under Shichio’s command must have seen it. The commander’s permanent frown had not left his face, but up until a few seconds ago he’d been visibly on edge. Daigoro felt his own muscles loosen too, and a cool wave of relief washed over him. “Tomo,” he said, “send a few girls for sake, and then bring my chest of maps.”

Then a Toyotomi soldier drew his katana and leveled it at Tomo’s throat. “This boy isn’t going to fetch any maps,” the swordsman said. “He’s not going anywhere.”

33

“Sir, we have our orders,” the soldier said, the tip of his sword a handsbreadth from Tomo’s jugular. “We’re to disarm this house.”

Armor clattered like a thousand metal birds taking flight. All the Toyotomi samurai sprang to the ready. None drew swords, but all were tensed, crouching, ready to attack. Their commander rounded on Tomo’s captor, furious. “You’ll sheathe your weapon this instant,” he said. “Stand down or I’ll have your head.”

“No, sir,” said the samurai. He had a lean, quick, runner’s body and a face like a mouse. He was just out of striking range; if the commander drew on him, Tomo would die.

Daigoro’s feeling of relief evaporated instantly. He studied Tomo’s face, which had gone utterly white. He studied the commander and the rest of his troops, their hands on their hilts, knees bent to pounce. No eyes were on Daigoro.

Tomo and his captor were out of reach for the commander, but not for Glorious Victory. “Patience,” Katsushima whispered.

Had he read Daigoro’s mind? Glorious Victory was long and heavy, very slow on the draw. But with no eyes