Disciple of the Wind (47 page)

He said as much. “Aren’t you a choosy one?” Nezumi replied. “Heh heh. Go ahead, walk right up to the teahouse and announce yourself at the door. See how far your honor gets you then.”

I may have to, Daigoro thought. If Nezumi instructed Shichio to hide on this unseen ledge, then that was the one place Shichio wouldn’t be. He didn’t have it in him to trust people, least of all Nene’s own servant. He wouldn’t place himself in a predictable position, and he certainly wouldn’t box himself in. Looking at Nezumi’s map, Daigoro saw that the teahouse itself was the only spot that offered an escape route back out of the valley. That was where Shichio would be. But that ledge would still be crawling with assassins.

“These Mongol grenades,” he said reluctantly, “I don’t suppose you happen to know anyone who’s selling them.”

“Clever boy. I have a crate of them for you, and the price is low: just one look at whatever it is you carry for my lady.”

“No. Tell her to meet me at the Sora compound in Izu. She can see it there.”

Nezumi huffed and threw his hands up. “No. She rides for Obyo Falls even as we speak.”

“Then she won’t have to ride much farther to reach the Soras. I will meet her there, nowhere else.”

He returned Nezumi’s defiant stare with one of his own. Daigoro had no intention of walking into a trap, and although he knew he and Lady Nene had a common enemy, there was a limit to his trust. Besides, he had to make good on his word to Lord Sora. Yasuda Kenbei and that she-wolf Azami still had a financial stranglehold on House Okuma, and they were relying on Sora’s support to tighten it. With luck, Sora would see Streaming Dawn as not a gift but a curse; then Daigoro could give the knife to Nene and still retain Sora’s loyalty.

In the end Nezumi was the one to break eye contact, and Daigoro knew he’d won. “Have it your own way,” Nezumi said. “I’ll find my lady on the road and tell her to meet you at the Sora compound. Then you’ll see how she reacts to taking orders from the likes of you.”

39

L
ord Sora’s prisoner was a stringy, flea-bitten wretch. He was as pallid as a cave-dwelling creature, pinching his eyes tight against the sun. Daigoro wondered how long it had been since he’d seen daylight.

The prisoner hung limply from his bonds, a portrait of defeat. Not that struggle would have done him much good; the ropes that held him were thick and sure. His jailer had bound him wrist and ankle to a stout length of pine that was planted into the ground in the center of Lord Sora’s courtyard. A considerable crowd had amassed around him, some out of duty, others out of curiosity. Rumors had spread of Streaming Dawn’s power. Gruesome as it was, many of these people wanted to see it for themselves.

There were orange-clad Sora samurai, servants in faded blues and grays, Daigoro and Katsushima in their armor of white, Lady Nene in resplendent purple, her honor guard in Toyotomi red and gold, her handmaids dressed to complement their mistress in shades of lavender, lilac, and plum. The colors were radiant in the bright noon sun, which warmed the dwarf pines surrounding the courtyard and filled the air with their scent.

Even such a beautiful day could not lighten Daigoro’s mood. “Lord Sora,” he whispered, “is there no other way?”

Sora Izu-no-kami Nobushige stood with his guests not two paces from the poor soul bound to the stake. He dwarfed Daigoro and Nene, and the broad yellow shoulders of his
haori
made him seem all the larger. Even in his winter years he had strong, heavy arms. He wore the armor that had made him famous, impervious steel lacquered in the colors of sunset. His white eyebrows stood out starkly against his red face, and he arched one of them skeptically at Daigoro. “Are you so delicate that you can’t stand the sight of blood? I had thought as much of Lady Nene, but not of you.”

Lady Nene replied with a cold, superior smile. “Have you ever seen a man crucified, Lord Sora? It is a ghastly sight, and also one of my honored husband’s latest fancies. I assure you, a little bloodshed will not trouble my sleep.”

“It is honor, not blood, that concerns me,” Daigoro said. “What were this man’s crimes?”

“He broke a blacksmith’s arm in a fight,” Sora said. He spoke too loudly; a lifetime of hammering steel in the forge had dulled his hearing. “He cost a good man his livelihood.”

That was hardly true; a broken arm would heal quickly enough. But Lord Sora was partial to blacksmiths. Armoring had been his highest martial art. Because the prisoner and the smith had fought on his lands, Sora was sovereign to give any punishment he saw fit. Daigoro saw no need to kill this man, much less to torture him in full public view, but he had no say in the matter.

“I will not have a
ronin
lecture me on questions of honor,” Sora said. He strode forward, slid Streaming Dawn from its sheath, and pushed it slowly into the prisoner’s gut.

Gasps and whispers filled the courtyard, barely audible over the prisoner’s agony. He wailed and cursed but did not bleed.

“Well, now,” Sora boomed. “I will confess this is something I did not expect.”

“Nor I,” said Lady Nene. Daigoro could hear the wonder in her voice. He was awestruck himself, unable to take his eyes from the bloodless wound even though this was not the first time he’d seen its witchery.

The prisoner pulled mightily at his bonds, perhaps in the hope of drawing the knife from his gut. But the cords held fast. He could only kick at the ground and howl.

“Young Daigoro-san tells me he suffered the blade’s bite himself,” Lord Sora said. “It was quite painful,
neh
?”

“More painful coming out,” Daigoro muttered. He was accustomed to a
sama
from Sora Nobushige, but that was before he’d surrendered his name and station.

“What of subsequent wounds? Does Streaming Dawn make them any easier to bear?”

Sora drew his
wakizashi
and traced a shallow, experimental cut across the prisoner’s throat. It cut veins, tendons, arteries, but not so deep as the vocal cords. The prisoner cried louder than ever, but impossibly he still lived.

This raised another chorus of astonished gasps. It drew one from Lady Nene as well. “My, my,” she said. “Your weapon is most extraordinary.”

“Mine? No. If this is the cost of immortality, then I will pass it by.” He looked at the bloodless prisoner and did not suppress a shudder. “Take the dagger if you wish, my lady, but take it far from here.”

With that Sora yanked Streaming Dawn from the doomed man’s flesh. It loosed two hot red torrents, spurting at once from neck and belly. The prisoner died almost instantly.

Sora raised a finger and two serving men dashed forward to kneel in the dust. “Clean this,” he said, handing one of them Streaming Dawn. “And find something to wrap it in—something beautiful, mind you. Her ladyship deserves our finest silk.”

Nene graced him with a smile. “You are too kind, Lord Sora.”

That was sufficient indication for the gathered host that the excitement was over. Servants hurried about their duties and soldiers returned to their posts. Lord Sora made use of the commotion as a rare opportunity to lower his voice. “It is no kindness, my lady. Unless young Daigoro is mistaken, this blade comes with more than a curse. He took it from a
shinobi
, which means somewhere a
shinobi
clan knows it is missing. They will come for it. I make this gift to you because Daigoro-san asked it of me, but if you take my advice you will cast this weapon into the sea. You may keep the silk.”

Daigoro studied him with a suspicious eye. In all their dealings together, he’d only known Lord Sora to make matters needlessly difficult. This was going far too smoothly.

Sora noticed he was under scrutiny. “I haven’t forgotten you, Daigoro-san. You’ve made good on your word. Despite your earlier insult, you will find I am a man of honor. Since you delivered the blade, I will support you against that money-grubbing rat in the south.”

Daigoro hated to raise the question he knew he must ask. “If I may, Lord Sora, what do you mean by ‘support’?”

“Hmph! Trust a renegade to drink of a man’s
sake
and then question its quality! I mean just what I said, boy. Yasuda Kenbei wants me to call in all my debts with you. I pledge not to. What more could you require?”

You might actually take my side, Daigoro thought, instead of walking away from the field of battle. But that was too much to ask. “A thousand pardons, Sora-sama. You are most generous.”

“Hmph.”

The awkward moment was broken by the return of one of the manservants, who came bearing an elegant box of polished Chinese rosewood. The servant kneeled before Lady Nene, raising up the box with both hands and bowing his head as low as it would go. Lord Sora rose to the occasion, overcoming his righteous indignation long enough to show courtesy to his guest. “Streaming Dawn,” he said, opening the box for her. “In my wife’s calligraphy case, I see. There will be hell to
pay when she finds it missing, but I will happily give you the case if you will cast that evil knife away. My forges are stoked and ready; you have only to throw it in.”

“Your chivalry is admirable,” Nene said, “but no. I thank you for your gift. Daigoro-san, I thank you as well, for negotiating this exchange. . . .”

Daigoro scarcely heard her. His attention was fixed on Lord Sora, who was far happier than he should have been. A petty man did not easily part with such a lordly prize. There was only one explanation, but Daigoro dared not voice it aloud—not in Sora’s own home, right in front of the most honored guest he’d ever received. He’d already seen how Sora punished those who offended him.

“My lady,” Daigoro said, thinking quickly, “do you know the story of Prince Yamato?”

Nene regarded him with puzzlement. “Of course. Everyone does.”

“I was just thinking of how he defeated the bandit kings. Their armies were so dense that he could not march against them, so instead he went on his own, disguising himself as a woman.” Daigoro felt silly saying it aloud. Nene was quite right to say everyone knew the tale, but he was not retelling it for her benefit. It was Lord Sora’s reaction that mattered most.

“In Prince Yamato’s day it was a cunning tactic,” Daigoro went on, “but today . . . today I am not so sure. We are no longer plagued by bandit kings; these are nobler times. Is it still in the way of
bushido
to resort to such blatant deceit?”

Sora’s face grew redder with every word; he seemed angry enough to burst into flame. “What do you mean to imply, boy?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I was just thinking of what I should have done from the beginning, as soon as I took Streaming Dawn. Since
shinobi
are certain to come for it, perhaps I should have disguised it. If I had a second
tanto
forged in its image, I could have passed off the counterfeit and kept the genuine Inazuma for myself. But no, what am I thinking? I am no weaponsmith, and I have no forge.”

Nene’s gaze rolled slowly toward Lord Sora’s smithy. Sora himself
had eyes only for Daigoro. “Speak carefully, Bear Cub. I can arrange for you to become intimately familiar with the forge.”

“I mean no offense, Sora-sama. I was only thinking of what I might do in your stead. My Akiko has a jewelry box to rival your wife’s calligraphy case. Suppose I had placed Streaming Dawn in it, and offered it to Lady Nene just as you did. If I had been wiser . . . well, if I’d fashioned a false Inazuma, I could keep the true blade for myself. It’s what Prince Yamato would have done, but is it what
bushido
would have me do?”

Lord Sora studiously avoided looking at the rosewood case. That by itself told Daigoro everything he needed to know. Sora glared at him, red-faced, breathing loudly through his nose. Daigoro wondered whether the two of them would come to blows then and there. He released all the tension in his arms; looser muscles made for a faster draw.

It was Lady Nene who intervened. She calmed both of them just by clearing her throat. “Daigoro-san, shame on you: you’ve offended your host. Lord Sora, I apologize on the young man’s behalf. Sometimes we must forgive the youth; they have not the wisdom of our years.”

“They certainly don’t,” Sora grumbled.

“And sometimes men must forgive women for their pettiness,” Nene said. “I am ashamed to have accepted your generous offer of this beautiful calligraphy case. It belongs with your wife. Please, forgive me for being so selfish. Take it back, I beg you. I should be happy to carry Streaming Dawn in a rice sack.”

Daigoro could hardly contain his astonishment. He’d never had close dealings with the aristocracy; this was the first time he’d seen their weapons deployed so artfully. She could have ordered Lord Sora to prove the knife he’d given her was the genuine article—by stabbing himself, for instance. Daigoro was certain he’d bleed. Instead, she caught him in the act and she still found a way for him to retain his honor. He bowed, thanked her on behalf of his wife, and returned
with the manservant to the house. “To find some other vessel worthy of Streaming Dawn,” he insisted.

That left Daigoro and Katsushima alone with Lady Nene—or rather, as close to alone as anyone was allowed to be with a woman of her station. Her honor guard and ladies-in-waiting were ever-present walls behind her. She approached Daigoro in her small, shuffling steps. He hadn’t seen her in the daylight before; she was quite beautiful in her white face paint. She smelled of flowers, and her cloth-of-gold kimono glinted in the sun. It spoke volumes of her trust in him that she was willing to stand within sword’s reach.

“That was cleverly done, Daigoro-san. You have impressed me, and not for the first time. I believe my envoy promised you a gift? From Mongolia?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“You shall have it. Is there anything else you require of me to complete our pact?”

Daigoro glanced around, a little nervous about what he was about to ask. But he had given it considerable thought. “Well, yes. Your . . . your kimono is most beautiful, my lady. I wonder if you might be willing to give me one.”

Nene tittered like a child. “Oh, my dear boy. Even now you have the presence of mind to think of gifts for your wife?”