Year of the Demon

predictably, needlessly—right before his eyes. That had been in the winter, when Hakone was cloaked in heavy snow and there was little of the town to see. The north road had been nothing more than a thin track of mud and slush, but now, in the height of summer, Daigoro found it had become an entirely different entity.

It seemed Hideyoshi’s military exploits had been good for business; the dusty streets around the Mishima checkpoint were bustling with activity. Horse trains and baggage carriers marched in their lines; hawkers proclaimed the virtues of their products while farmers and peddlers sold their wares more quietly; palanquin bearers jogged here and there, slithering between packhorses and jugglers and white-faced geisha.

“There’s a good brothel just up here,” Katsushima said as they reached the heart of town. “It’ll be a good place to bed down for the night.”

“No,” said Daigoro.

“Why not?”

“I have no interest in those women.”

“So ask them to bring you a boy.”

“No!”

Katsushima gave him a quizzical frown. “I did not think you to be a prude in such matters. Perhaps it’s your . . . well, your upbringing in the hinterlands, if you’ll pardon my saying so. Among city folk there is no shame in saying boys and girls both have their uses in a pleasure house.”

“You misunderstand me.” Daigoro reined his mare in closer so he didn’t have to speak up. “Have you no eyes? I’m a cripple.”

“What of it? You got Akiko pregnant, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So your cock works.”

“Yes.”

“All right, then. Which will it be: a boy or a girl?”

Daigoro kept himself from blushing, from rolling his eyes, from giving Katsushima a good backhand. “Do you still not see? My leg is unsightly. I don’t care to disrobe in the company of others.”

“If it’s a woman with discretion you’re concerned about, believe me, there’s no need to worry—”

“No,” Daigoro said with finality. “I have no taste for consorts. My Akiko is more than enough for me.”

“Spoken like a true newlywed.” Katsushima sighed, sincerely heartbroken. “Very well, then. As you like. I must tell you, though, my chances of finding a sporting woman fall dramatically once we pass beyond city limits. And one of these nights we’ll have to stay at a brothel, even if you only want to pay to sleep there.”

“Why?”

“Are you joking? They’re the traveling man’s greatest asset! Where else can you gather reliable information about the road? Pubs? Inns? No one there is paid to give you small talk.”

Daigoro hadn’t thought of it that way. And Katsushima wasn’t through. “Never forget the value of a whore’s discretion, Daigoro. It’s their livelihood. A good madam will never reveal who stays under her roof. If you’re a hunted man, there’s no better refuge than a high-class whorehouse.”

“Spoken like a hunted man,” said Daigoro.

Katsushima shrugged. “It’s a ronin’s lot. But even those who never run afoul of the law can still acquire enemies—a fact you of all people ought not to forget.”

Daigoro shifted the shoulder straps of his Sora yoroi, which he’d worn ever since leaving the Okuma compound. His father had died at the hands of a paid assassin, and a breastplate like this one might have saved his life. Now that he thought about it, Ichiro had died on the road too. Was that to be Daigoro’s fate as well? Did Okuma men live under a curse?

“All right,” he said with a resigned sigh. “We visit your brothels. But not every night. And not tonight.”

•   •   •

The next nine days held sights Daigoro had never seen before. Mount Fuji peeking out from its ever-present cloak of clouds. Huge square fields of white along the coast, dotted with salt farmers collecting their crop. A thousand fishing boats on a single beach, arrayed before the sunset like troops standing for inspection. Mountains so sheer and so variegated that they looked like they could exist only in woodblock prints. Rivers wider than any in Izu. Lanterns bobbing on the water like foxfires, suspended from the bowsprits of cormorant boats. Bridges as steeply arched as rainbows; bridges with tollhouses and armed guards; missing bridges whose absence was only told by the line of spindly trestles crossing the water.

He passed rice farmers clutching their broad sugegasa to their heads in a driving rainstorm. He saw towering temples boxed in by tall bamboo frames, with workers clambering about the frames like monkeys as they replaced roof tiles and patched crumbling walls. He watched the wind batter gnarled pine trees, the trees themselves already permanently bowed over like old crones. He rode under tall orange torii, under pines and maples and bamboo and ginkgo, under fog so dense that he could not even see Katsushima beside him. He crossed paths with armed companies from a dozen major houses and was thankful that none of them stopped him, lest one of them have an alliance with Shichio.

At the Arai checkpoint they tethered their horses on a ferry and sailed across the placid waters of Lake Hamana. Once again Daigoro gave thought to the Sora breastplate he’d worn ever since leaving the Okuma compound. It was heavy, and with his mare’s every step its weight had plowed furrows into his flesh, each sore the exact width of a shoulder strap. He did his best not to scratch at them by night in the hopes that the skin would callus, but now the breastplate posed an entirely different threat. What if the ferry should capsize? Daigoro knew how to swim—he’d grown up in Izu, after all—but in the water his breastplate was not armor but an anchor.

But the ferry did not keel over, and once he was on dry land again he found nagging fears still plagued him. When they rode before dawn or after dusk, he imagined how he might fall if his beautiful chestnut mare should falter and break a leg. By night he had horrible dreams of waking to find someone had stolen their horses, or even just their tack and harness. Daigoro’s saddle was one of a kind. Old Yagyu, the Okumas’ healer, had designed it to brace Daigoro’s right leg so he could ride. This was the largest of the saddles, but Daigoro still owned the smallest and all those in between, racked on a shelf in the stable. They charted Daigoro’s growth over the years, as well as Old Yagyu’s growing understanding of Daigoro’s affliction. Apart from his sword, Daigoro’s saddle was the most precious thing in the world. He could not ride without it, and he did not know what he would do if it were stolen.

At length he could contain himself no more, and at the inn in Okazaki he finally asked Katsushima about his fears. “It’s natural,” Katsushima said through a mouthful of grilled squid. “It’s nothing to do with horses and armor. You fear what happens once we get to Kyoto.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so. You talk about it in your sleep.”

Daigoro frowned. “I don’t talk in my sleep.”

“Oh no? Then how do I know about your plans to become a monk?”

Daigoro’s frown deepened. “What?”

“It took me a few nights to put it together. The greatest threat to House Okuma isn’t Shichio. It’s you, neh? If there were no Okuma Daigoro, there would be no vendetta. If you take on the tonsure, you give up your name and all your worldly possessions. Glorious Victory could go to Shichio. Any duty you ever felt to protect that abbot would be lifted. You could even stay in Katto-ji and watch your child grow up, if only from afar. I congratulate you. It’s an elegant solution.”

Daigoro looked at him in shock. “I said that in my sleep?”

“Not just like that, no. I told you, it took me a few nights to sort it all out.” He chuckled when he saw Daigoro’s jaw drop. “You don’t like it? Just think: if we’d slept in brothels every night, we’d never have shared a room, and then I’d never hear you talk in your sleep.”

Daigoro rolled his eyes. “I wonder if Akiko hears me talking too.”

“Ask her when we get back. Do tell me you’ve put this seppuku nonsense out of your mind. In your heart you know it’s not the right way.”

Or else I wouldn’t be fretting about it in my sleep, Daigoro thought. But there would be no returning home. Even if Daigoro survived Kyoto, the Okuma compound could never be home to him again. He would have