Disciple of the Wind (24 page)

“But you do not deny that Glorious Victory Unsought has uncanny power.”

“No, my lady.”

“What of the
tanto
known as Streaming Dawn? Do you know of it?”

That earned her a quizzical look. The boy exchanged a glance with Katsushima, too quick for Nene to read it. Did one of them carry
Streaming Dawn? It was plain to see that in addition to their twin swords, both
ronin
wore curved knives in their belts. Could one of those have been the blade that promised eternal life?

Nene wanted to laugh at herself simply for having the thought. Ordinarily she was not one for such fantastic tales, but this case was different. She alone knew the lofty heights Hideyoshi’s dreams could reach. Her husband had risen from the lowliest sandal bearer to the mightiest daimyo the world had ever known. Soon he would bring every last corner of the empire under his rule, and already he had his eyes on the mainland. Joseon would be the first to fall. From there he would march on China, or so he said after
sake
put a fire in his belly. And why not? If Kublai Khan could conquer half the world, why should Hideyoshi aspire to anything less? After all, the only people to repel Kublai Khan were the Japanese. Even the mighty Mongols were no match for the samurai spirit.

The only limit to Hideyoshi’s ambition was time. He had accomplished more in his fifty-two years than any man alive, but he did not have another fifty-two years to complete his vision—not unless he had Streaming Dawn. The blade of eternal life was almost certainly a myth. Then again, so was the blade that guaranteed glory and victory. The Bear Cub was modest, but Nene could see the truth in Katsushima’s paternal pride. One crippled boy stood no chance against fifty men. He didn’t even stand a chance against General Mio, who was four times his size. Only the sword could explain his victories. If that one was real, then why not the other?

That furtive glance between Daigoro and Katsushima told her one thing: they knew of Streaming Dawn. They believed it existed. Whether they believed in its magic was of no consequence; that was up to Nene to prove. More important was for them to see that Nene believed in it. She needed them to see it as a worthy prize, one that Nene might buy with Shichio’s blood.

“If you want Shichio’s head, there are two paths you can take,” she said. “You already know a direct assault will not avail you. Your only other option is to parley. My husband is a consummate tactician; offer
him something more valuable than Shichio and he will not be so foolish as to let lust or friendship spoil the exchange.”

“Why Streaming Dawn?”

It was impertinent for him to question his betters, but as she did with his earlier faux pas, Nene chose to let it pass. “When we married, an astrologer gave us a reading. She said that my husband would rule the world or die in the attempt. That was almost thirty years ago, but I have never forgotten it. Now my husband comes closer and closer to ruling the world—or to dying in the attempt. I would not see him fall before his time. If Streaming Dawn can prevent that, then I must have it.”

The boy spent a long, mute moment thinking about what she’d said. During his silence, Nene became acutely aware of the cold. It made her feel vulnerable. She had risked much in coming here, and now everything hung on this young boy’s next decision.

At last Daigoro said, “So who is it that wants the blade? You or your husband?”

Nene’s captain of the guard sprang to his feet. His hands moved to his katana, ready to draw. “Who are you to question the Lady in the North? Know your place,
ronin
.”

“It’s all right, Captain.” Nene said it calmly, though in truth her captain wasn’t wrong. It was not a samurai’s lot in life to question nobility. How different these eastern provinces are from Kyoto, Nene thought. Had the boy asked the same question at court—or
any
question, for that matter—he might well have been crucified for it. But this wasn’t Kyoto, and the wise swimmer aligned herself with the current. “Does it matter which one of us wants it?”

“I think it does, my lady.” Nene was glad to hear the contrition in Daigoro’s tone. “If your husband has forgotten your astrologer’s soothsaying, then he is not the one who wants Streaming Dawn. And if you’re the one who wants to exchange Shichio’s life for the blade, then it’s already in your power to deliver Shichio to me.”

“Is it now?” He was bold, that was certain. Nene could see what Hideyoshi liked about him, and also what Shichio hated about him.

“I believe so, my lady. If I am right, then . . . well, I must ask, Nene-dono: why have you not betrayed him to me already?”

Nene’s captain drew his katana halfway out of its sheath before Nene raised a staying hand. Bold and then some, she thought. Daigoro’s duty was to answer, not to inquire. “Is it so wrong for me to want payment in return? Or do you presume to tell me Shichio is a gift I should give you freely?”

“No, my lady. It’s just . . .” She could almost see him choosing his words, as if he had to paint each one in his mind before speaking it. “I had not thought of Shichio as a prize or a gift. He is vermin. The fly is not a gift for the whisk; the whisk is made to destroy the fly. So my question was not, why does my lady not offer me this gift, but rather, why does my lady tolerate the fly any longer than she must? I can be your whisk, Nene-dono. Please, do me the honor of using me to kill this pest.”

Much better, Nene thought. The poor boy had the wrong idea about his station, though. He was just another fly. Nene would trap them in the same jar. After that, it would be up to karma to decide which would die and which would escape the jar alive.

“I will do you that honor,” she said, “but I will not do it for nothing. I told you already: my husband is a consummate tactician. We can take his plaything away from him, but only by offering him something of greater value in exchange. Kill Shichio without his blessing and my husband’s wrath will be swift and terrible. Vermin he may be, but at the moment he is my husband’s favorite vermin.”

The Bear Cub did not like her answer, but he was wise enough to hold his tongue. “Find Streaming Dawn,” she said. “Give it to me and I will deliver Shichio to you.”

The boy nodded, deep in thought. At last he said, “May I ask one more question?”

He begins to learn his place, Nene thought. “You may.”

“Why me? My lady must have countless men at her disposal. Why
not send one of them to find Streaming Dawn? For that matter, why not send them to kill Shichio?”

Her captain bristled, but Nene stayed him with a look. “You have met my husband,” she said. “He is fearsome when roused. Suffice it to say that there would be consequences if I were to deploy one of my own people against one of his. As for the blade, the simple truth is that you are expedient. My own agents have been unable to find this weapon; now I leave it to you to do better. But you must act quickly. Shichio is most vulnerable while he is here in the north. Once his plots and intrigues return him to my husband’s side, he will cling to him like a tick. I will not be able to pry him free a second time.”

Doubt played across the Bear Cub’s face like the clouds scudding over the moon. Nene wondered whether he meant to play her false, or whether his honor code denied him that possibility. Hideyoshi would assure her it was the latter; he had marveled aloud at this boy’s obsession with
bushido
. Nene didn’t know Daigoro well enough to make her own judgment, but she knew her husband was an exceptional judge of character. For now she would assume the boy would not double-cross her.

“I will find the blade if I can,” Daigoro said at last, “and I will give it to you if I can.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” said Nene, though she did not fail to note the conditions he’d placed on his promise. Now that she thought about it, the fact that he’d phrased it so carefully made it all the more likely that he was being honest. If he meant to lie, he could have promised her anything in the world.

“How shall I send word to you once I have it?”

“My husband rules everything from Echigo in the north to Satsuma in the south. You’re a clever young man. You will find someone who can get through to me.”

“With all due respect to your husband, my lady, not all of his daimyo are true. How am I to know that the person I reach out to will not immediately reach out to Shichio?”

Nene chided him with a look. “Believe me, Shichio is not well loved among the generals.”

“They need not love him; they need only know of him. Shichio has placed quite a price on my head. Can you say all of them are immune to greed? Are all of them so well-heeled that Shichio’s gold cannot tempt them?”

“Hm.” That gave Nene pause. “There is something to what you say. So let us take another path. Prior to my husband, rule belonged to my friend Oda Nobunaga. His relations still hold power, and none of them is so destitute as to find Shichio’s bounty worth pursuing. Through them, you can reach me. Will that suit you?”

“Yes,” said the boy, though Nene had meant it as a rhetorical question. She did not much care what suited him. His boldness was wearing thin. But she had to admit he’d impressed her, and in any case she had few options left. None of her other spies had ever laid eyes on Streaming Dawn. If the blade existed, then Daigoro was the one to find it. If it did not, then she would find some other prize worthy of Shichio’s head.

One way or the other, he was just the bait she needed to trap Shichio. One of these days she would have to sit down and write that haiku about the bear trap.

20

D
aigoro watched as Nene took her leave. Her soldiers did not bother to collect the dead archers in the shrine. Daigoro supposed she meant to leave him to clean up the mess, since he and Katsushima were the ones who killed them.

He wished that hadn’t been necessary, but even in hindsight he could see no way around it. In fairness, the only reason she’d hidden them there was to kill Daigoro if need be. Katsushima said he’d killed them out of prudence, even if he couldn’t quite call it self-defense. How he’d known they would be there, and how he killed all four without raising the alarm, was beyond Daigoro’s ken. Daigoro only knew that he himself had arrived just in the nick of time, with Nene and her bodyguard practically on his heels. Katsushima told him to hide in the shrine—among four dead men whose presence he hadn’t bothered to explain—and then hid himself among the trees.

Now he and Daigoro sat outside the shrine, on a cold stone bench between statues of two lion-dogs, watching Lady Nene and her bodyguard take their leave. “How did you fare in your meeting with Lord Sora?” Katsushima asked.

“I survived. Which is to say I didn’t grow tired of his ranting, run my sword through his bloated heart, and get cut down by his honor guard.”

“You know what I’d have told you had I been there.”

Patience, Daigoro thought. A thousand times patience. He didn’t need to say it aloud.

“So tell me,” Katsushima asked, “what did he have to say?”

“He thinks I have Streaming Dawn. He kept insisting that nothing else could have saved Ichiro’s life after the duel with Oda Yoshitomo.”

That was an awful memory. First was the terror of watching Oda’s sword slice through Ichiro’s neck. Oda called it his “Diving Hawk” technique. He boasted that it had won him nearly forty duels, and slain just as many opponents. In fact, Ichiro was the only man to survive it, and just barely at that. Old Yagyu had stitched him shut with silk thread and a thick smear of pine resin, then buried him up to his neck in rice so he could not move. For three months Ichiro languished in that pit, flea-bitten and sunburned, mired in his own filth. No privy had ever smelled half so bad. In the end he survived, only to square off against Oda Yoshitomo once more. Both of them died that night, Ichiro on Oda’s blade, Oda on Glorious Victory Unsought. That was Daigoro’s first duel and his first kill. Since then he’d seen far too many of both.

It was Yagyu, not Streaming Dawn, that had saved Ichiro’s life. The old healer was as talented as they came; he’d trained with southern barbarian doctors in Nagasaki and Chinese masters in Nanyang. But Lord Sora had no way of knowing that. He’d heard what everyone else had heard: that young Lord Okuma had his head chopped halfway off and lived to tell the tale.

“He is a swollen, red-faced fool,” Katsushima said. “But in this case the more foolish, the better. If he is willing to undermine Kenbei
and
give up the Green Cliff, all in exchange for this silly knife, then he’ll serve our purposes perfectly.”

“That’s assuming we can find the knife. Sora insists I’ve loaned it to the Yasudas. He thinks that’s why Lord Yasuda has held on this long.”

Katsushima shook his head and rolled his eyes. Rising from the bench, he ambled slowly down the footpath toward the shore. Daigoro joined him. When they reached the beach, black crabs skittered away
from them, vanishing into their holes or taking refuge in the surf. “You don’t believe in the power of the knife, do you, Goemon?”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

“No. The only thing that matters here is that very powerful, very gullible people are willing to give you what you want.”

Tiny orange pinpricks marked watch fires and paper lanterns on the far side of the bay. The wind had calmed a bit and the waves were flat enough to skip stones. Daigoro and Katsushima did just that. Daigoro absently wondered why such a childish pastime should still have the power to entertain him as an adult. He wondered if he would live long enough to see his child grow up to walk on the beach and skip stones.

“Why should you care what I believe?” Katsushima asked. “You’re your own man; keep your own counsel.”

“Well, you’ve got to earn your keep somehow. You haven’t taught me any
kenjutsu
in weeks. So if you’re not going to be my sword master, you may as well give me
some
kind of advice. Otherwise, what are you good for?”

Katsushima laughed out loud and Daigoro joined in. It felt good. There was too much gloom in his life these days.