Year of the Demon fb-2 Read online

  A triumphant light gleamed in Lord Sora’s beady black eyes. “Samanosuke,” he called, not even bothering to look back, “ready your katana.”

  Daigoro limped back to the veranda where Tomo and Glorious Victory stood waiting. Tomo regarded him with a smile that conveyed more worry than gladness. His hair was disheveled and he was wringing something in his hands, something too small and slender for Daigoro to see.

  “Tomo, I’ll need you to do something more for these fingers. There’s no way I can hold—”

  “It’s all well in hand, sir.” Now Tomo’s smile was boyish again, widening as he presented Daigoro with a closed fist. He opened his hand with a flourish, revealing a short, curved length of copper.

  “Tomo, is that your hairpin?”

  “No longer, sir. It’s your splint. May I see your hand?”

  The metal matched the length of Daigoro’s middle finger precisely. How Tomo had managed that was beyond Daigoro’s ken. It hurt like hellfire when Tomo unwrapped the bandage he’d laid before, and when he bent misshapen fingers to match the curve of the copper, it was everything Daigoro could do not to wail like a little child. But the metal was a lot stronger than broken bone—maybe even strong enough to hold the weight of an odachi, Daigoro thought. If I don’t pass out first.

  A few quick wraps with the cotton bandage and Daigoro’s broken fingers vanished, replaced by a fat, swollen, pain-ridden tongue, curled in just the shape needed to grip a sword. “By the Buddha, that stings,” said Daigoro. He wiped the last unbidden tears from his eyes and willed his clenching jaws to relax. “You’re a miracle worker, Tomo.”

  “If you’re lucky, he’ll kill you, sir. And if not, I’m going to have to reset those fingers after the duel.”

  Daigoro pushed himself to his feet, babying his right hand. He needed Tomo’s help to draw Glorious Victory, whose blade was nearly twice the length of his arm. He saw Samanosuke’s eyes widen as the two of them came to the center of the courtyard.

  “Take your stance,” Katsushima said, and Daigoro’s right thigh quivered as he centered his sword. He found himself overgripping with his left hand, the better to take weight out of the right. The pain coming from those two fingers was blinding. Daigoro raised Glorious Victory to a high guard, the blade pointing straight at the sun, leaving his vitals wide open in an effort to take more weight off his maimed right hand.

  Samanosuke hovered like a bee, well out of range. His katana was scarcely half the length of Daigoro’s odachi, and he was too crafty a fighter to simply wade in looking to score a quick kill. Had he ever faced a horseman’s sword before? Did he know Daigoro’s high guard sacrificed most of his reach? Daigoro couldn’t be sure.

  Samanosuke ventured in closer. Daigoro held his stance. Another step and Samanosuke was close enough to strike. Their eyes met. Samanosuke lunged.

  Daigoro had been so focused on Samanosuke’s blade that he never saw his mother rush onto the battlefield.

  She looked like a madwoman, her hair billowing smokelike in every direction, and she grabbed Samanosuke from behind. “No no no no no,” she shrieked, her hands digging into Samanosuke’s elbows like iron hooks. Samanosuke had to struggle just to keep his footing.

  Daigoro was paralyzed. He couldn’t lower his blade lest Samanosuke think he was attacking him. Nor could he simply toss his father’s sword aside like an old chicken bone. His scabbard was a good ten paces away. “Mother!” he shouted, his sword standing uselessly in his high guard.

  “Not my baby,” she wailed. “Not my baby mybabymybaby—”

  At last Katsushima took a hold of her, prying her hands off Samanosuke one by one. Moments later Tomo was on her too, and together they wrestled her back into the house.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Lord Sora bellowed. Daigoro and Samanosuke still had their swords in hand. Formally speaking, their duel was still in progress, but any other semblance of formality had scattered to the winds. Now Lord Sora was shuffling into the fray, blustering as only he could. “Is this how you come to be undefeated? Do you Okumas allow your women to do your fighting?”

  Daigoro lowered his weapon, taking care to point it away from everyone else so that no one could mistake it for an attack. “My lords,” he said, “you must accept our most abject apologies. Within the past year my mother lost her husband and her firstborn. No doubt you’ve heard how my brother Ichiro died, neh?”

  Still visibly shaken, Samanosuke gave a nervous nod. “In a duel.”

  “A duel just like this one.”

  The truth was worse, though Daigoro had no mind to share family secrets. Ichiro’s name meant “firstborn son.” Daigoro’s meant “fifth son.” Their mother had miscarried two boys in between, but of course no woman could have named her next child “fourth son.” Four was the number of death. Daigoro’s mother had wanted to give her fourth son a girl’s name instead, for clearly some curse hung like a pall over the boys of House Okuma. Perhaps a girl’s name might deceive the evil gods and spirits. But her husband would not allow it, and so she’d named her next child Daigoro, despite the fact that he was not the fifth. The curse had already disfigured his leg; she would not hang the number of death on her newborn as well.

  The thought of losing him shook her like an earthquake. Three of her four boys had already been taken before their time, and now the sight of her last living son facing live steel had shattered her completely.

  “My lords,” Daigoro said, “I beg your understanding. She is beside herself with grief. Sometimes she does not know what she does.”

  Samanosuke nodded, more sure of himself this time, but his grandfather was incensed. “I should think not,” he boomed. “I’ve never seen anything so disgraceful.”

  “I give you my word, she will not interfere again. My men will see to it.”

  “They should have seen to it the first time!”

  “Quite right, Lord Sora. They should have. Rest assured that the responsible parties will be punished most harshly. In the meantime, please, if the Buddha’s compassion means anything to you, have pity on a poor woman who has lost more than she can bear.”

  The breath coming from Lord Sora’s nose was as loud as a bellows. His huge red fists reminded Daigoro of the demonic Fudo statues standing guard over so many temples, the ones that had scared Daigoro so deeply as a little boy. He was a storm front in human form, and he even brought the rain with him: those dark clouds on the horizon had already reached the compound, blotting out the sun. “This is an outrage, Okuma. Most of the daimyo in Izu are younger than me, and you’re younger than the lot, but I’ve never, ever heard a daimyo called ‘my baby’ before. If you think we’re going to stand for an embarrassment like this—think what the other clans will say, a Sora beaten in a duel by a, by a—this, this won’t stand at all—”

  It was all blustering from there. Daigoro offered apologies on behalf of his entire family. He offered to make good on his invitation to duel, the next time at the Sora compound. He offered a roof over the Soras’ heads. But though Samanosuke seemed amenable, his grandfather opted for a long ride home in the rain.

  7

  That night Daigoro sat in the teahouse, which had been prepared for many more guests than Tomo, Katsushima, and himself. Low tables ran the perimeter of the room, each one bedecked with chopsticks, a bowl for pickles, another for soup, another for rice, a space left for where the fish platters would be served, and a little bizen teacup. Daigoro supposed it was actually a mercy that his guests had left in a huff. Were they present, he would have been obliged to bottle up his suffering during their meal. As it was, Tomo could get straight to resetting his broken finger bones.

  He winced and bit down hard, eyes watering, as Tomo pried the last of the fragments into place. “Terribly sorry, sir,” Tomo said, looking up with a compassionate smile. In truth Daigoro could not recall a time when he had not seen Tomo smiling. Fever, dog bites, even typhoons, nothing could sour his expression. He’d probably even smile if someone rammed a dagger in h
is chest. It was his way of dealing with the world’s tribulations, and in that sense he and Tomo weren’t so different. As a born samurai, Daigoro was expected to hide any pain or dismay behind a mask of equanimity. Tomo was lowborn, yet took refuge in his smile just as Daigoro took refuge in feigned serenity.

  Daigoro blushed, ashamed that he’d allowed his mask to fall. Tomo finished with the fingers, binding them between thin strips of bamboo. It hurt like Fudo himself was crushing them with his great red teeth, but Daigoro managed to keep his mask on. “Thank you, Tomo. I believe you’ve saved my hand.”

  “It’s nothing, sir.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night, Okuma-dono.”

  Daigoro watched as the potter’s boy took his leave, keeping close to the walls to avoid the heavy raindrops that still drummed against the outermost edge of the veranda. They hammered the clay tiles of the teahouse roof so steadily that it was difficult to hear anything else.

  “So,” Katsushima said over the rain. “Today could have gone better.”

  Daigoro chuckled, his spirits as dark and damp as the night. “Do you think so? I was hoping the rumor that my mother bested Samanosuke would spread like wildfire. Just think how everyone will fear the Okumas if their unarmed women can defeat swordsmen.”

  Katsushima groaned. “What happened there? Why was she even out of her bedroom?”

  “What does it matter? The damage is done.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’ve dismissed all of her attendants, of course. At least her chamberlain had the good graces to spare me from making a proper example of him. He was a good man, and I shouldn’t have liked to execute him at all. He was sensible enough to retire to the orchard and throw himself off the cliff.”

  “I wasn’t asking about the attendants.”

  “Yes,” Daigoro said with a sigh. “My mother. Obviously she’ll be kept under watch until we can find more competent replacements.”

  “No,” Katsushima said. Daigoro heard a distinctly chiding tone in his voice. “Your pressing problem is the Soras. And soon enough the Inoues. When do they come?”

  Daigoro’s shoulders sank. “In less than a week. Not nearly enough time to patch things over with the Soras. And as bullies go, I’m told Lord Sora pales in comparison to Lord Inoue. I’ve spoiled everything, Katsushima. How did my father ever manage to keep these people in line?”

  “You haven’t spoiled everything. The Soras did leave two of their famed yoroi as a gesture of goodwill.”

  “That was none of my doing. They gave us those before we even sat down to tea. And I’m going to need a lot more than two breastplates if I’m to buy peace with the Inoues.”

  Daigoro looked out at the raindrops spattering the faces of every puddle in the courtyard. “It looks like Izu is going to drown tonight, Katsushima, but the truth is this place is more like a field of dry grass. It only takes a spark to start a wildfire, and this damned rivalry between the Soras and Inoues is sending sparks flying everywhere.” Daigoro pounded his fist on the table—his good fist; the right still burned like hell. “I’ve botched everything I can botch. And because of today, tomorrow will be worse.”

  “Patience,” said Katsushima.

  8

  Lord Inoue entered the Okuma compound on the back of an enormous white mare. He was a small man, scarcely taller than Daigoro, and compensated for it with a tall hat, voluminous robes, and daisho much shorter than average, as if someone might mistake him for being larger by mistaking his swords to be of normal length. To Daigoro’s mind he wore not clothing so much as a costume. He made quite an impressive entrance, but Daigoro wondered if he’d given forethought to what would come immediately after entering. His horse was far too long-legged for him, so the samurai of the Okuma honor guard had no choice but to find somewhere else to look as the lord lowered himself off his horse, at one point dangling with both feet off the ground.

  “This is the fearsome Inoue Shigekazu?” Daigoro whispered under his breath.

  Katsushima, standing beside him, sniffed. “This is the man he wants you to see. A feint, exactly the same as in fighting. Tread carefully.”

  Daigoro nodded. “My mother is secure?”

  “Tomo is watching her himself. Well, Tomo and a host of personal guards.”

  Daigoro felt his gut go cold. It was one year to the day since they’d received word of his father’s death. He should have been comforting his mother, not locking her away like a common criminal. “Today will be especially hard for her,” he whispered. “She cannot be allowed to disturb the audience with Inoue, but see to it that she is not treated harshly.”

  “I’ll round up that old healer of yours. Poppy’s tears should keep her quiet.”

  Lord Inoue, having finally reached the ground, approached Daigoro with a bodyguard of eight samurai, all of them his sons. All were dressed in black and silver, and Inoue’s sideburns and thin mustache were also black traced through with silver. His darting eyes followed Katsushima, then flicked to Daigoro, then to the roof, the well, the shadows below the veranda. Daigoro had heard the man was paranoid, but the rumors hadn’t prepared him for this. He moved as if assassins lurked in every corner.

  At last Lord Inoue reached the short staircase leading up to the broad, shady veranda that surrounded the main house. He gave Daigoro a deep and graceful bow. “Okuma-sama. I do hope your mother is feeling better.”

  Daigoro willed his face to remain passive. How had Inoue heard of last week’s debacle with the Soras? His spy network was said to have eyes and ears everywhere, but Daigoro had taken steps to quarantine that information. He’d shut down the entire Okuma compound, allowing no one who had seen the duel with Sora Samanosuke to go beyond the gate. Surely the Soras had said nothing; not only did they stand to be hurt by the story, but they despised the Inoues. Who had talked?

  “Mother is quite well,” Daigoro said, bowing back. His right hand accidentally brushed against the leg of his hakama, shooting spears of pain through his broken fingers. “I thank you for your concern. Come, shall we sit? You’ve been on the road a long time.”

  They took their tea in a long tatami room overlooking the sea. The shoji were open, admitting a gentle breeze and the sedating smell of the camphor grove behind the compound. “Ahhh,” said Inoue, sipping his tea. “The sky is blue. The gulls are calling. What a beautiful day to talk about spies.”

  Daigoro gave a polite laugh, glossing over his guest’s faux pas. “It seems we’ve finished with the preliminaries. Of course you’re right, Inoue-sama. My family would benefit from allying with your intelligence network.”

  “As would everyone else. Even Toyotomi no Hideyoshi, the emperor’s new chief minister and regent, has been making inquiries. Tell me, Okuma-sama, what can you offer that even the likes of Toyotomi cannot?”

  Daigoro knew what Inoue was after. The cagey old daimyo was one of the first on the islands to see the tactical merit of the southern barbarians’ muskets and matchlocks. Inoue’s musketry battalions might have been what first prompted Lord Sora to develop a breastplate capable of deflecting musket balls. And since Inoue was paranoid, he could not set aside the fear of assassination by musket. He simply had to have Sora yoroi, and not just for himself. He had countless sons, and high-ranking officers too. All of them needed protection. But Sora would not trade with him. So long as only Sora commanders were safe from gunfire, the Soras had an advantage to counterbalance Inoue’s firepower.

  Lord Sora’s initial refusal to sell had swollen into open enmity, the kind that showered sparks all over the dry, grassy field that was Izu. Daigoro wanted to prevent a wildfire, and had he not failed with the Soras, he could have sold Sora armor to the Inoues. He could have forged a link between the two houses, protecting the Inoues while making the Soras rich. Everyone would win. But his mother had smashed it all to pieces. More importantly, Daigoro had failed to repair what she’d broken. He was sure his father would have found a solution, some answer D
aigoro hadn’t been able to see himself.

  So Daigoro knew exactly what Lord Inoue was angling for, and Inoue was aware of that before coming here, and both of them knew full well that Daigoro could not afford to give up what Inoue would ask of him. I do hope your mother is feeling better. That was no social formality, no idle comment in passing. It was an announcement: you had negotiations with the Soras and your mother made a shambles of them. You tried to outflank me and you failed. And you still need what I know, so now I can ask anything I want from you.

  And Daigoro knew what Lord Inoue wanted. First and foremost he wanted the armor, but since he’d known he wouldn’t find that here, there was only one other thing the house of Okuma could offer, only one gift as valuable as the intelligence the Inoue spies could deliver. Daigoro knew what it was, and he knew his family couldn’t afford to part with it.

  He met Inoue’s gaze. Those darting eyes were as still as stones now. As dangerous as musket balls. They saw too much.

  “Lord Inoue, as long as we’re dispensing with the formalities, may I dare to venture a guess on what General Toyotomi has promised you?”

  Those eyes glistened. The slightest of smiles touched the corners of Inoue’s lips. He cocked his head, shifted on his cushion, and gave Daigoro an appraising look. “Does my young lord wish to compete with me in the field of information gathering?”

  “I do.”

  “Please. Regale me.”

  Daigoro swallowed. His pulse quickened, but he could no longer back down. “I think Toyotomi offered his own hand in marriage. He is already married, of course, but even a regent’s concubine is still an honorable station. I wouldn’t want to hazard a guess on which one of your daughters you offered, since you have so many—all beautiful and charming, no doubt, but I daresay you would offer someone young enough to promise many children. Am I far wrong?”

  Inoue’s eyes narrowed. His smile became a thin, flat line.