Year of the Demon

Shinobi. You’d best be careful.”

“You too.”

“Me? He doesn’t have the balls to come after me. He never was one for bloodshed. No, our Shichio is no swordsman. He did all his generalship with an ink brush.”

Daigoro nodded. “I’ll take your word for it. You know him better than I do.”

“More’s the pity.”

The three of them exchanged bows and farewells; then Daigoro and Katsushima mounted up and were on their way.

Their horses trotted across the bridge into the light of the setting sun. Behind them the Jurakudai gleamed so brightly that they could see their own shadows cast before them. The noises and smells of the city returned: sweat and horse droppings, hawkers hawking and prostitutes cooing, sandalwood incense from a nearby temple, hoofbeats on cobblestone.

The low angle of the sun cast deep shadows too, these ones pointing in the right direction, pooling behind every barrel and handcart. Daigoro thought of Mio and his warning about shinobi. As a child he’d always imagined black-clad ninja warriors hiding in the shadows, but now that he understood more about tactics, he knew it was better to hide in plain sight. Shichio’s shinobi would not come to Daigoro in black masks; they would come in the guise of an innkeep, a beggar, a farmhand. Daigoro looked down the street that stretched before him and could not tell if he saw a thousand people or five thousand. He had no acquaintance with people in such masses. He knew only that it was impossible to keep an eye on every one of them, and any one of them might be an assassin.

“By the buddhas,” Daigoro said, “Katsushima, what are we going to do?”

“You hadn’t given thought to that already?”

Daigoro realized he hadn’t. He’d thought as far ahead as keeping his family safe and staying alive himself, to protect them if need be. He had no plan for getting back to Izu, nor any idea of where else to go or what he might do when he got there.

He was glad his mother was tucked safely away in some corner of the Okuma compound. He was relieved to know Aki was safe too, though he could not imagine how he could ever earn her forgiveness. The news that he’d renounced his name would reach home before the week was out. He realized now that he’d given too little thought to how his mother and wife would take it. Would they see how much he’d sacrificed, or would they focus only on how he’d abandoned them? Would they understand that he’d saved their lives? Would Akiko think he’d fled as soon as he learned he was to become a father? They hadn’t known each other long; could she guess how sorely he longed to be with her, to meet his child?

He wanted to book passage on the fastest ship bound north and east. He wanted to put his heels to his mare and ride all night. And he knew that Shichio would expect exactly this reaction. He would have people watching the ports, and every entrance to the city as well. Daigoro had already seen him place his own agents within Hideyoshi’s troops, and Hideyoshi’s troops patrolled every road in the Kansai.

There would be covert threats too. Assassins would come. Daigoro did not doubt Mio’s word on that. For the time being, Daigoro had to be unpredictable. He had to vanish—for a while, he told himself. Until Shichio finds someone else to fixate on. Soon enough someone else will anger him, he thought. Soon he will find some other treasure he wants, maybe even another Inazuma blade. Glorious Victory is not the only one. Yes, Daigoro told himself, soon there would be someone else to hate, something else to need, and then Daigoro could go back and reclaim his rightful place at the head of his clan.

He envisioned that day, riding past the kudzu-covered peaks of Izu on his triumphant return home. Then he remembered the abbot of Katto-ji, whose temple sat on one of those peaks—the abbot of Katto-ji, who remained the object of Shichio’s petty, vindictive spite even after all these years. Suddenly Daigoro’s dreams of returning home became nightmares.

There was only one solution. Until he brought it to fruition, he had no choice but to remain hidden. But sooner or later, he would ride back home—right after testing Glorious Victory’s steel on Shichio’s throat.

38

“General Mio! I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you awake.”

Shichio watched the fat man’s eyelids flutter. Mio tried to sit up, but only succeeded in causing the rope across his forehead to pull tighter. His skin went white where his skull pressed against the rough hempen rope, then flushed again when he relaxed.

Shichio watched the arms next, which, with all the coils of rope digging into them, looked like stacked balls of mochi. The fat bulged up between the tight coils, and as Mio’s entire body was enrobed in a layer of fat, the bulges stood out everywhere, like massive worms lying in rows. The candles in their wall sconces cast a hundred dark valleys of shadow across Mio’s body, making the bonds seem tighter and the bulges seem larger. The biggest rolls stood up between the ropes across the belly; the smallest curved across the tops of the feet and the backs of the hands.

The table he lay on was specially constructed for this purpose. It was vaguely human in shape, sloping downward at the head, its armlike protrusions pointing at the molding where the ceiling met the wall. Each hand was bound to the table with a single coil, making the back of the hand look like two puffy loaves of bread.

The eyes rolled wide and white in Mio’s head. Shichio followed their gaze to the stout rafters, the white plaster between them, the elegant golden wood grain of the walls. “Ah,” Shichio said, “wondering where you are, neh? Shall I give you a hint? This is the least beautiful room of the Jurakudai—and I say that even considering Hashiba’s hideous taste in decorating.”

Shichio gently ran his fingertips over Mio’s swollen right hand. “I must confess my ignorance,” he said. “I never knew a man could grow so large that his feet and hands were fat. But then I took another look at the rikishi painting that Hashiba commissioned from Kano Eitoku. Do you know Kano?”

Mio strained against his bonds, causing his skin to go white in a hundred places. “Shichio?”

“At your service.” Shichio smiled, causing the iron mask to push against his cheeks. “You’re slurring your words, General. Best to wait until the sleeping poison wears off, don’t you think?”

Mio’s eyes rolled this way and that, reddening as he strained to turn his head. “What is this?”

“I’ll be asking the questions tonight,” Shichio said, stuffing a wad of silk into Mio’s mouth. “Now, Kano: do you know his work? He’s quite the fashion in the Imperial Court. And do you know what? In Hashiba’s painting, the rikishi’s hands and feet are fat. Isn’t that something? It takes a Kano to devote that much attention to detail, neh? I swear to you, I never noticed it before tonight.”

Mio managed to spit out the silk. “Have you stripped me naked? Damn you, untie me this instant!”

Shichio would not be yelled at like a little boy. He whipped out his knife and sliced off one of the fat rolls on the back of Mio’s hand. The giant roared like a bull.

“Oh, that is a shame,” Shichio said. “And to think all this time I’d planned on making the first cut with your sword.”

The bright red wound on Mio’s hand looked like a mouth. The sight of it made Shichio want to retch, but the mask wanted him to take off another slice. Yet its power was not so complete that it overwhelmed his moral sensibilities. Once a man was tied down and helpless, even to threaten him was morally despicable. Shichio knew that in his bones. That was what made the samurai caste so tyrannical: the peasantry lived in fear of them, every hour of every day, with no hope of defense or reprisal. Shichio had lived his entire life in fear, until Hashiba showed him a higher path. If the Toyotomi flag flew over every last province and territory, if everyone bowed to one man, then there would be no more need for samurai. It was war that necessitated warriors, and it was the existence of the warrior caste—a caste with exclusive rights to arms and armor and vengeance—that made every commoner live in terror.

And yet here he was, behaving like a samurai, exerting his might over a defenseless man.

No. Not a defenseless man. A defenseless samurai. Mio deserved this. All of them did.