Year of the Demon

But his rooms were comfortable, the food was warm and filling, and the very walls were redolent with perfume and incense and spice. He almost nodded off while drinking his tea.

It was the sensation of slipping into sleep that caused him to snap back, wakeful and wary. He’d escaped the sprawling capital, but Minakuchi and the Other Shore were still in the heart of the Kansai, and visions of General Mio’s mutilated body left Daigoro feeling cold. He would not feel safe until he was well clear of Shichio’s hunting grounds.

He called for the madam and asked for a girl who was skilled in conversation. It was one of the geisha arts, and an expensive one at that. Daigoro wasn’t sure what he’d do when his money ran out—he’d never been paid to work in his entire life, and hadn’t the slightest idea of how to go about seeking employment—but he needed to gather information and he remembered Katsushima mentioning on their long ride from Izu that this was the best way to do that. Daigoro wished he had Katsushima with him now.

The girl’s name was Hanako and her kimono was of the palest blue silk, tastefully embroidered with parasols the color of cherry blossoms. She was tiny, not as pretty as Aki but shapely enough to make Daigoro remember how long he’d been away from home. They talked about trivia first, but only long enough for Daigoro to steer the conversation toward politics. “I hear the regent has been beset by something of a storm,” he said. “One of his chief advisers retired or was sent away, I’m told.”

“Oh yes, quite the to-do,” said Hanako. “Only the adviser did not take his leave; Toyotomi-sama executed his adviser on grounds of treason. Can you believe it? It was one of his generals as I recall, a man called Mio.”

“Is that so?”

“Neh?” Hanako clearly found the whole affair terribly scandalous, and all the more delicious for that. “They say Mio-sama was caught with letters to Tokugawa Ieyasu. You know who he is, of course. Well, the regent couldn’t very well have the likes of Tokugawa killed, neh? Think of the message that would send to all the other great houses! So he ordered Mio-sama to open his belly.” She giggled. “And it was quite a belly. As I heard it, this General Mio could have swallowed a whale.”

“I heard something similar.” Daigoro forced a smile, but his mind recalled images of Mio’s terrible, gaping wounds.

“Can you imagine the mess, Daigoro-sama? A big, disgusting man like that. Not like you, my lord.”

So it’s back to bantering, Daigoro thought. He said just enough to keep the conversation going. His mind was elsewhere, trying to get the measure of Shichio. The man was as comfortable with deceit as Daigoro was with breathing. He used his lies as deftly as a sword, cutting down his enemies while defending himself. Katsushima’s suggestion of resorting to shinobi no longer seemed desperate at all. Shichio was a foe unlike any Daigoro had ever faced. Squaring off against an enemy with a sword was simple— terrifying, yes, but simple. But Shichio didn’t square off with his enemies; he maneuvered and manipulated, always from the shadows, and if a steadfast retainer was sometimes killed in the process, so be it.

Daigoro didn’t know how to fight an enemy who wouldn’t come out of the shadows. The only recourse he could see was to hire shadow warriors to fight in his stead. It shamed him even to think of it—his father would never have allowed someone else to do his fighting for him—but Daigoro didn’t see what else he could do.

“Tell me, Hanako, have you ever heard of the Wind?”

She giggled. “Have I ever heard the wind? Silly man. What kind of question is that?”

“Magic men. Shinobi. You’ve heard of them?”

More giggling. “Of course. And tengu and kappa and snow-women too. What do bedtime stories have to do with hearing the wind?”

“Shinobi are more than bedtime stories. Many daimyo hire them, especially in the Kansai.”

Now Hanako laughed out loud. “Ah! And now I understand. You aren’t from around here, are you? I knew it! It’s your accent.”

“Be serious.”

“How can I, with you toying with me like this?” She giggled, or at least pretended to in order to take the focus away from Daigoro’s hinterland gullibility. “You’ve heard about our local legends and you’re trying to scare me. The wind! Honestly, Daigoro-sama, you’re too much.”

Daigoro swallowed his frustration along with the last of the sake. Pointless, he thought; it’s all pointless. Maybe back in Izu he might have known which ears he ought to whisper to if he wanted to hire shinobi, but finding them here was like finding a snowflake in a waterfall.

He dismissed Hanako and doused the lantern. As tired as he was, he found he couldn’t sleep, which only added to his frustration. It was shameful enough that he’d resorted to hiring someone else to fight his battles for him. Simply attempting it already betrayed his father’s principles. Worse still was the fact that he’d betrayed his principles and hadn’t accomplished anything by it. He’d compromised his conscience, and his reward was exactly what his father would have said it would be: nothing. Nothing but guilt and disappointment.

He lay in bed for an eternity before the weight of his shame lifted enough that he could sleep.

•   •   •

When he woke he saw a man sitting at the foot of his bed.

Daigoro recoiled, his heart a ball of ice. The man did not react. He was barely visible, a presence felt as much as seen, for although the moon was three-quarters full, she shed little light through the room’s only window. The door had not opened. Daigoro was certain of that. And the window was nothing more than a long, narrow transom running along the top of the back wall; nothing bigger than a finch could get through it. Yet there the man sat, cross-legged, looking at him.

Daigoro reached for Glorious Victory and could not find her. His wakizashi was missing as well. He carried no knife and his armor was bundled in the corner. He was naked, defenseless, and alone.

“You seek the Wind,” the man said.

His voice was low and gravelly, the voice a boulder might have. Daigoro found it eerie that even when he spoke his body did not move at all. Daigoro could not even see him breathing.

“I do,” Daigoro said, and the pleading tone in his voice shamed him.

“For what purpose?”

“I have an enemy. I want him dead.”

“Then kill him.”

Daigoro swallowed. “He is beyond my reach.”

“Name him.”

“Shichio.”

Daigoro’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. He could just make out the whites of his visitor’s eyes, though he could discern no other features. The man did not blink. Ever.

He stared at Daigoro, silent for so long that Daigoro wondered whether he’d actually managed to say Shichio’s name, or whether he’d heard himself in his mind but hadn’t mustered enough self-control to voice it aloud. “General Shichio,” he said. “He is Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s man.”

“He is known to us.”

“Us?”

Those eyes shifted to a point beyond Daigoro’s right shoulder. Daigoro twisted where he sat, straining in the dark to see what his visitor might have been looking at.

More eyes stared back at him.

Daigoro all but leaped out of his skin. Three more figures sat behind him, silent as statues. He could only make out their eyes. A chill washed over him, goose bumps too, despite the heat of the night. He scrambled away from his futon, crab-walking until his shoulder blades struck a wall panel. Not one of the four figures moved. Only their eyes followed him.

“Expensive,” said the only one who had spoken.

“But you can do it?”

“There is no place the Wind cannot reach.”

Daigoro’s eyes strained against the dark, trying to make out something, anything, of his interlocutor’s face. It was not lost on him that there were four shinobi, and that four was the number of