Year of the Demon

“Well, thank you anyway,” Daigoro said, choosing not to add, you stubborn son of a bitch. “For saving my life.”

“Too early to be thankful. Now matters are worse.”

“Why?”

The shinobi looked at him as if Daigoro were holding his sword backward. “Well?” Daigoro said. “Am I wrong to think I’m better off now that my assassin is dead? Does that make me an idiot?”

“We do not know how many Shichio has in our company. We do not know whether this one prearranged a second message to Shichio. We know nothing.”

“Second message?”

Even over the storm, Daigoro heard the ninja grumble. “No fool, your assassin. Must have anticipated a false report to Shichio. True confirmation of your death would be followed by a second message, verifying the authenticity of the first. A code phrase, something no one else could guess. I could have extracted it from him. You killed him too soon.”

Daigoro didn’t like the way he said extracted. He didn’t like being blamed for defending himself either. What was he supposed to do, lie back and let his assassin go about his business?

Even as these irritations crossed his mind, he also felt ashamed. Not only had he killed their only source of intelligence on the enemy, but he’d even managed to poison himself while doing it. He squeezed his left hand into a fist, mashing the open cuts in his palm. Let this be a reminder, he thought. You’re alone now. Self-pity and impetuous action are luxuries you can no longer afford.

In his mind he could hear the same warning, the same lesson, summed up in a single word: patience. He missed Katsushima more than ever.

“So what now?” he said.

“You already know.”

There was that look again, as if Daigoro were a wayward schoolboy. “All right,” Daigoro said, “I’ll work that one out for myself. You said Shichio was happy to hear I’m dead. That means the one you sent to confirm my death must have reported back to you already. When?”

“Last night.”

A rush of righteous anger hit Daigoro like a slap. This man—his hireling, bought and paid for—had let an entire day slip by with no mention of the threat on his master’s life. No samurai should brook such an offense; Daigoro had the right to behead a servant just for spilling his tea.

But Daigoro had given up his station. His highborn instincts would not serve him anymore, and in any case, this shinobi had taken heroic efforts to keep Daigoro alive. Had the man slept last night, or had he kept a vigil just like tonight, waiting for the assassin to strike? Daigoro assumed the latter—and if he was right, then this hireling of his was forged out of pure steel. As the company’s outrider he would have covered twice the distance of the palanquin bearers he scouted for. He’d been riding hard for three days in a row, he hadn’t slept in two nights, and not only did he show no sign of tiring, but he was the one saving Daigoro’s life, not the other way around.

“Last night,” Daigoro muttered absently, working out the logistics in his head. Traveling by palanquin was cumbersome. As of last night they’d been two days on the road—less than a day’s ride on a fast horse. If the shinobi’s messenger could report from Kyoto in that time, then Shichio’s second message, the one confirming Daigoro’s death, could have reached him in the same time. That meant the second message was already at least a day overdue, and maybe two. “Oh, hell,” Daigoro said. “Shichio already knows his assassin failed.”

A mute nod.

“And that means more assassins are already on our heels.”

“Amateurs. The Wind would already have killed you.”

Daigoro found it hard to take comfort in that. He was a novice at this game himself. Shichio wasn’t. If he knew his newest henchmen were not up to the task, he had only to send them in greater numbers.

“We’ll have to abandon the palanquin,” Daigoro said. It was too slow, and even if it were not, Shichio’s informants might have told him of it already. Shichio was no simpleton; as soon as he learned Daigoro rode not a horse but a sedan chair, he would understand why. It wasn’t enough for Daigoro to travel disguised; he needed complete invisibility. He was a runt who walked with a distinctive limp. His odachi was famous, and even those who knew nothing of swords could see it was too big for him. His tack alone was enough to give him away: Daigoro could not ride without the special saddle crafted by Old Yagyu, the one that accommodated his lame, wasted leg.

The only way for Daigoro to conceal his size, his leg, his saddle, and his father’s sword was to box them up and keep them out of sight. A sedan chair was the perfect solution, and traveling under Tokugawa insignia afforded an extra degree of protection. To leave it behind was to abandon his best chance for speed and secrecy, but Daigoro could see no other choice.

“To hell with it,” he said, trying to sound confident. “It was hot enough in that palanquin to boil noodles. And my mare never cared for you anyway; she’ll be happy to have me back in the saddle.”

He beckoned the shinobi into his rooms and closed the shoji behind them. It did nothing to silence the raging storm, but at least they wouldn’t get any wetter. They sat in the center of the bedchamber, farthest from the walls, where prying ears couldn’t hear them over the weather. “I wanted us to sail from the beginning. You overruled me. Why?”

The shinobi said nothing; he only nodded toward the dead man lying on the floor.

“You knew Shichio had an agent in your ranks?”

“Knew it was possible. That was enough.”

Daigoro looked at the body and shuddered. He’d contracted six men to deliver him to Izu in secret. At present he only could trust two of them. One had just saved his life. The other lay staring at the ceiling, his throat ripped open, proof positive that the other four could also be Shichio’s. Daigoro’s savior had anticipated that possibility, and that was why he’d refused to sail. Maybe the palanquin allowed him to keep his charge boxed up and safe, or maybe being trapped aboard a ship would have left him fewer avenues of escape if fortune turned against him. Daigoro didn’t need to understand his reasoning. It was enough to know that his last remaining shinobi was trustworthy, and that Shichio’s knives might be in the very next room.

But if the other four ninja were Shichio’s men, wouldn’t they have struck by now? Daigoro almost voiced the question, but then thought better of it. He was not like Shichio. Deceit did not come naturally to him, and that left him defenseless. Better to trust no one than to risk another attack. “We must leave the rest of your clansmen behind,” he said.

“At last your mind is clear.”

Daigoro was hardly accustomed to being spoken to in this way, least of all by a hired hand, but in this case he was proud he’d finally gotten something right. “Like it or not, you’re the one man I have to trust. And since neither of us is a traitor, we can travel by sea again. Unless . . . no. It’s too late for that, isn’t it?”

The shinobi made a grunting noise that Daigoro took for assent. It made sense. Ships were faster than horses. If Shichio’s riders were already on Daigoro’s heels, then his sea captains might well have reached Izu by now. Daigoro had no doubt that Shichio would send ships. He had the might of Toyotomi Hideyoshi behind him, and a fleet to rival the Mongol hordes of old. Daigoro could not set sail until this storm blew itself out, and by then, the swiftest sloop ever put to sea would not be fast enough for him.

“But where do we go now?” he said. “If the sea and the Tokaido are barred to us, the only paths I can see are to travel overland or to sprout wings—and I’m not sure the former is any more realistic than the latter.”

“You overlook the obvious.”

“Do I?” Daigoro scrunched his eyebrows and thought about it. The back roads were laid not by the great houses but by farmers. They connected villages, not cities or ports. Some ran nowhere at all; they tapered out halfway up a mountain, for reasons only the local grandfathers could remember. Few were charted, all were winding, and none were well maintained. A night like tonight would wash many of them out of existence.

“I give up,” he said. “What is so ‘obvious’ here? Where the Tokaido has bridges, the lesser roads have fords. If this storm topples trees, they’ll be cleared from the Tokaido. Not so for the other roads. Shichio will