Year of the Demon

of the lanterns. “Daigoro!” he said. “Are you—?”

He choked on his words when he saw Mio’s body. “What is this?”

The madam rounded on him, and if she had them she would have bared claws. The smell of incense flooded the room—which, Daigoro thought, could only mean that the reek of the enormous corpse was flooding out of the room. The madam looked angry enough to burst into flame.

Before she could say anything, Daigoro spoke. “Make yourself decent, Katsushima. We need to lay plans.”

40

By the time Daigoro had a minute’s respite to think, he was utterly exhausted. Their only reason for staying at the brothel was that it was supposed to be the sort of place a man could go discreetly. They needed to lie low; smashing through walls and stinking up the place was hardly the way to do that. Every man in the house must have heard the racket; rumors would spread, and Daigoro’s height and limp were distinctive. Word would reach Shichio in no time. Yet he and Katsushima could hardly flee; they needed to help the madam set her rooms back in order, or else it was all but guaranteed that she would betray them to Shichio herself.

So they had a corpulent, putrefying corpse to get rid of, and since it was Mio’s, Daigoro felt obligated to see him laid to rest properly. They could not give the general the stately funeral he deserved, but neither could they simply roll him off a bridge into the Kamo. Then there were repairs to see to, and silence to be paid for, and all the rest. It was sunrise before Daigoro had a moment’s peace.

“We must be away,” Katsushima said, though he too looked as exhausted as Daigoro felt. His unkempt hair seemed grayer than ever. Neither of them was in any condition to ride. Even so, Daigoro managed to sling himself into his saddle, Glorious Victory clattering on his back. Her weight threatened to pull him to the ground. Even at this hour the Kyoto streets were growing crowded, and Daigoro worried about how many eyes lingered on his chestnut mare and Katsushima’s blood bay gelding.

They rode back to the Sanjo Ohashi under Daigoro’s lead. More than once he drifted off in the saddle, and every time the feeling of falling jarred him awake. He never fell off his horse, but each time he gripped his saddle horn tighter and did not easily let go.

It was late into the hour of the dragon by the time the road had cleared enough that they could speak without being overheard. It was hot and Daigoro was sweating in his armor. Exhausted as he was, he knew he had to explain everything Mio had told him.

“It’s damned clever,” Katsushima said when Daigoro had finished. “Assuming it’s true.”

“I cannot make sense of it,” said Daigoro. His eyes felt sandy and he found it difficult to link two thoughts together. “Why should he suddenly want to marry my mother?”

“To weaken you. Think about it. Any Okuma samurai who remained loyal to you would be guilty of treason. Shichio would be the rightful head of the clan.”

“No. Shichio? The next Lord Okuma? He’d be taking on his wife’s name, Goemon. No man could bear the shame.”

“No samurai could bear the shame. But what of a farmer’s son?”

Daigoro hadn’t thought of it that way. Shichio had no name of his own. He had no estate, no station, and no respect at court. Hideyoshi had once been in the same stead, until the emperor himself raised him up. Shichio would never receive such favors. There could only be one regent.

Of course Hideyoshi had the power to give Shichio nearly anything he wanted, but he also owed a great many favors. He was renowned for his battlefield cunning, but known better for his skill at parley. He’d conquered whole territories with nothing more than promises, granting this or that to every daimyo that would oppose him. Rumor had it that he paid his newly conquered enemies better than he paid those who were already close to him—as well he should, if his purpose was to buy allegiance. Hideyoshi had secured everything west of the Nobi plain, but even he could not grant land endlessly.

And there were those things even Hideyoshi could not grant. Glorious Victory Unsought. The esteem of others. A samurai’s birthright. An estate acquired through conquest, not granted as a gift. A surname and a house of his own. Shichio thought himself superior to the likes of Mio Yasumasa, the consummate samurai. It only spoke to his delusion—a peacock was a peacock—but at least he could play make-believe by taking on the name of Okuma and having warriors of his own to order about.

“You may be right,” Daigoro said at last. “He probably thinks even Glorious Victory would be his, as the rightful property of the Okuma clan.”

“He might,” said Katsushima. “But the more pressing question is what you will do to stop him. You’re no longer the head of the Okumas. You have no say in whether your mother marries.”

“And she hardly has a say herself. . . .”

Daigoro could already see it in his mind’s eye. Shichio the honey-tongued. Shichio the pretty, preening songbird. In all likelihood he was already composing a serenade to the fair Lady Yumiko. In her current state she had no defense against him. He would insinuate himself in her mind until she could not help but say yes to him.

And worse yet, Hideyoshi no longer had a sober voice to counsel him. If anyone could have talked Hideyoshi into forbidding the marriage, it was General Mio. He had promised to keep an eye on Shichio—and, now that Daigoro thought of it, he’d also promised that Shichio would find a way to worm his way out of the truce. This was it. Marrying Daigoro’s mother was the most complete victory imaginable. Far worse than simply razing House Okuma to the ground, this would see House Okuma rise to prominence with its worst enemy seated at its head. The Okumas would become Shichio’s slaves. He could even order them to hunt down Daigoro and Katsushima. Daigoro’s family would become a monster, a hideous ghoul of its former self.

“Maybe you were right,” Daigoro said. “Calling on the Wind seemed desperate to me before, but now —”

Katsushima shook his head. “I’ve thought on that too. Shinobi were never the best option. For one thing, I’m no longer sure you can afford them. For another, we cannot be certain they would take your coin. The Wind are the best in the world, but they will not have forgotten what happens when they take aim at people in high office and miss.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oda Nobunaga. Toyotomi’s predecessor. His enemies tried sending shinobi against him. When they failed, Oda did not stop at killing the assassins, nor even the enemies who hired them; he destroyed the conspirators’ families, and the families of the assassins too. Whole clans vanished overnight.”

“But Shichio is just a general—and a lowborn one at that. He’s no Oda Nobunaga.”

Katsushima shrugged. “He doesn’t need to be. Hideyoshi has risen higher than Oda ever did, and Shichio stands in Hideyoshi’s shadow.”

Daigoro hung his head, and with his gaze downcast he saw his hands armored in their white kote. Now that the plates on the backs of the hands had been lacquered white, he could hardly make out the bear paws worked into the steel. “The Wind! I can hardly believe I’ve uttered the thought aloud. Who am I, Goemon? What am I doing?”

“You know perfectly well what you do. You strive to keep to your father’s road.”

“Do I?” Suddenly Daigoro felt weighed down by his armor. Glorious Victory pulled at him more heavily still, threatening to pull him right out of the saddle. “I walked that road once. But do I still? Or have I wandered off onto some other path?”

Katsushima was silent for a while. At length he said, “There was a time when I knew, Daigoro. No longer.”

“I’ve surrendered my name. I’ve surrendered my family. I am an enemy of the throne. I’ve even surrendered the right to wear the topknot. How can I say my life has anything at all to do with bushido?”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t.”

Daigoro had hoped Katsushima would say something like that, but now that he heard it, it made his heart