Daughter of the Sword (26 page)

39

By the time the moon waxed full again, a steady stream of challengers had begun to call at the Okuma compound gate. Though Daigoro had predicted as much, Ichirō refused to credit him for his foresight. Yet again Daigoro wondered whether Glorious Victory carried some kind of curse that estranged one brother from another.

The duels had only increased in rancor since the defeat of Katsushima Goemon. If a clan champion came to fight using steel, Ichirō would insist loudly that he could not, then toy with the challenger before trouncing him. If the challenger came to duel with the
bokken
, Ichirō would mock him for not facing him with a live blade. Once goaded into a fight with steel, Ichirō would maim his opponent and then refuse to kill him. The opponent’s right arm was his favored target; more than once the house servants had to strew fresh sand after disposing of severed fingers or forearms. It seemed Ichirō had acquired a taste for blood, and no reasoned argument against it could get through to him.

For his part, Daigoro could only keep on training with Glorious Victory. He continued to struggle with the weight of it, with its extraordinary length and what that meant for wide cuts with the sword. He’d even begun to study the fighting styles of the rivals who came to challenge Ichirō, hoping for some insight on how to manage Glorious
Victory’s great size. Daigoro hadn’t yet found a way to maintain his balance, but his ability to recover his balance was improving quickly, and he thought even his right leg might have been getting stronger.

One day just after sundown the gate guard announced a visitor. Ichirō took what was now his customary place in the courtyard,
bokken
in hand, with his now-customary glare at Daigoro and the huge sword at his hip. Daigoro limped to the gate, looked outside, and was shocked by what he saw.

The gleaming black palanquin was difficult to make out behind the ranks of horses and spearmen. Daigoro could not see the crest embossed on the palanquin itself, but he did not need to, for it was well displayed on the armor of the forty-odd samurai surrounding it and on the red banners hanging from their spears. The crest of the
kiri
flower was well-known, for it belonged to none other than Toyotomi Hideyoshi, the warlord poised to dominate all the Japanese islands.

Daigoro ordered the gates opened at once, and ordered an honor guard with his next breath. He, Ichirō, and their mother bowed deeply as the bearers set down the palanquin in the center of the courtyard. A small man emerged from it, his robes golden, his gray hair marked with a few lingering wisps of black. His topknot was immaculately kept and his pate closely shaved. “I am Shiramatsu Shōzaemon,” he said, “emissary of his eminence, the lord regent General Toyotomi. We shall sit in a cool place and we shall talk.”

Daigoro’s mother hastily arranged for tea to be served in the largest hall in the compound. Shiramatsu sat on the dais at the end of the hall, a spot Daigoro had only seen occupied by his father. The emissary was so slight, and Daigoro’s father had been so large, that Daigoro felt the room had somehow grown much longer, or that his seat was somehow farther away than usual. Daigoro and his family knelt in a row before the dais, their honor guard arrayed behind them, a select few Toyotomi men kneeling behind the emissary. The walls were open to admit the warm evening breeze, yet the air was preternaturally still.

“The great lord general sends his displeasure,” Shiramatsu began, showing none of the tact Daigoro would have expected from a diplomat. Briefly he wondered whether diplomacy was no longer required when one rose to the heights Toyotomi had achieved. But then the emissary was speaking again and Daigoro focused on his words. “His eminence pacified this region so that he could put it out of his mind and devote his attention to other fronts. To speak more precisely, he treated with Lord Okuma Izu-no-kami Tetsurō, because Lord Okuma was said to speak for all the clans of Izu. Was this a lie?”

Daigoro heard Ichirō exhale a brooding breath, could almost feel him bristle at the implication that their father was a liar. To Daigoro’s great relief, it was their mother who was the first to speak. “It was no lie, sir.”

“And do the Okumas still speak for Izu?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So there is an allegiance here after all. Why, then, his eminence wonders, are there so many reports of the region’s best swordsmen being slashed to ribbons in petty conflicts?”

“Sir, they come to challenge my house,” said Ichirō. “Would you have us ignore our honor?”

“As I hear it, the challengers are not the ones who have besmirched your honor. But what I would have you do is irrelevant.” The emissary smoothed his mustache, then his beard. “His eminence the great lord general would not have the best men of these islands reduced to cripples. Do you not understand that your challengers come from far and wide? Do you not understand that some of them come from lands his eminence has already brought under his reign? These men are
his
samurai, to call upon as
he
sees fit. And you too will be his one day soon, when the great lord general unites Izu and the Kantō and all the eastern lands under one rule. You are not to waste his samurai needlessly, and you are certainly not to create a military disturbance among clans the lord treated with as a single entity. His eminence would retain Izu as a region united. Is that understood?”

Everyone on Daigoro’s side of the room bowed deeply. “Now then,” the little man said, “I have heard that these challengers come to face the sword of the late Okuma Tetsurō. It is said to be a weapon of the highest quality—an Inazuma, I am told. I am also told that they are routinely denied this honor. Is this so?”

“Yes, sir,” Ichirō said with a bow.

“I am sure I will not have to ask why.”

Before Ichirō could answer, Daigoro said, “Because, sir, it was not my father’s desire that my brother wield the sword, and it is my brother who faces the challengers.”

“Ah.” The emissary’s thin black eyes fixed on Daigoro. “You are the second son of the late Okuma Tetsurō, are you not? A cripple, I am told.”

“Correct, sir, on both counts.”

“Do you lack the will to face these challengers?”

“No, sir, I am willing.”

“But you would prefer that your brother does it?”

“No, sir.” Daigoro paused a moment. “Sir, I do not have a preference, except to be of service to my father’s house. My brother is the better swordsman, hence he faces the challengers instead of me.”

Shiramatsu stroked his mustache. “I see,” he said with a nod. “Henceforth, if a man comes here to duel, the great lord general Toyotomi would have the duel take place with
bokken
. If the challenger insists on fighting with steel, only the Inazuma sword will meet the challenge, and the duel will be fought to the death. The lord general will not have his samurai crippled, nor will he have them dying for nothing; you are to give them what they come for. Is this understood?”

Again everyone on Daigoro’s side of the room touched their foreheads to the floor. Then, as unexpectedly as he had arrived, Lord Toyotomi’s emissary marched off into the night.

A stunned silence hung over the compound in the wake of the emissary’s departure. Ichirō went to bed, leaving Daigoro and his mother alone to watch the moon rise through the silhouettes of the trees. They stood for a long time before Daigoro broke the silence.

“Did Father get along with his brothers?”

She pursed her lips. “Not especially, I suppose. I almost never saw them.”

“Why not?”

“Your grandfather was a very important man. His sons performed important tasks for him in every corner of Izu. Then, after your grandfather passed on, there was much more work to do. Your father and his brothers had all become important men.”

“But when you did see them,” Daigoro said, “when you saw Father and his brothers together, was there tension between them?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said. “But then, they only came here when we married, and when you and your brother were born. It would have been most improper for them to spoil our home’s harmony.”

“So they never came here except for special occasions?”

His mother searched her memory for a moment. “I suppose not, now that I think of it. Daigoro, why do you ask all these questions?”

“Is it possible,” he asked, “that they begrudged Father because he was the one to get grandfather’s sword?”

“Of course they begrudged him, but I don’t think it had anything to do with the sword. Your father was named head of the clan. In effect, your grandfather bequeathed him all of Izu. Who wouldn’t begrudge that?”

A good samurai wouldn’t, Daigoro thought. He was in no position to judge whether or not they had been good samurai; he knew so little of his uncles. But if he assumed the best of them, if he assumed they followed the path as surely as his father had, then it wasn’t the rulership of the clan that they resented, nor even the mastery of Izu. Despite what his mother had said, Daigoro still suspected the sword.

BOOK FIVE

HEISEI ERA, THE YEAR 22

(2010 CE)

40

Fuchida sat on a chair of golden aluminum and beige cushioning, the fanciest kind of chair that could still be stacked by the dozen and stowed in a closet. Had this been a traditional
wa-shiki
funeral, there would be no chairs; people would either stand or kneel. There would be hardwood underfoot, or perhaps even dirt, but certainly not carpet. But this was a Western-style funeral parlor. The Fuchida family was nominally Buddhist, but as their temple refused to perform cremation services for an infamous gangster, stackable chairs and maroon carpeting were the order of the day. Not two steps in front of Fuchida’s chair, sitting on the burgundy Berber, was the green plastic box that stored his father’s ashes.

The box surprised him, though now he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. An urn? There was hardly any point; after today no one would ever see the urn, for his father was to be interred in the family mausoleum. Fuchida didn’t know what else human ashes came in. Surely not a sack from the grocery store, but he’d never envisioned a green plastic box. It looked like something one might use to house electrical sockets in a garden or public park; the box was the color of plastic army men, the color hose reels and garden caddies came in. It seemed industrial somehow. It was small too, much smaller than he’d thought it would be. His father died at half the size he was in his prime, but still, a human body was pretty big;
Fuchida had imagined the ash pile left behind to be a lot bigger than the box in front of him.

Most of the guests had gone, as had those who had come to pay their respects but couldn’t be called guests, as had most of the funeral home people, and the caterers, and the Shinto priest. Fuchida sat, the small of his back pressed flat against the chair, his hands resting limply on his belt buckle as he looked at the box. He could hear voices behind him, muted, and the sigh of the air-conditioning passing through a vent somewhere above and behind him. Its breath was cold on his neck, but he didn’t have the energy to go sit elsewhere.

Footfalls against padded carpet approached, and Fuchida saw movement over his right shoulder. “Shūzō-kun. My condolences for your loss.”

It was Kamaguchi Ryusuke, then. His lisp was unmistakable. They said someone had bisected his tongue in a knife fight once—stabbed him right through the cheek to do it. That was in his youth; now Kamaguchi had a watermelon of a belly and had to dye his hair black. One of the chairs creaked softly as he settled his weight into it.

Fuchida did not look up from the green plastic box. “My family thanks you,” he said.

“There is not so much of your family left,” said Kamaguchi. “Your uncles are all gone. You have inherited leadership of the Fuchidas.”

It was an obvious statement, and yet it only became fact when Kamaguchi Ryusuke pronounced it. The Fuchidas were beholden to the Kamaguchi-gumi, and their right of succession had always been defined by the parent clan. “I thank you,” said Fuchida, “and I will see to it the family prospers as never before.”

“And now we come to that,” said the old, fat man. “I hear rumors of a new mover in town.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Pushing drugs I have not authorized. A fatal mistake—one I am sure you are not stupid enough to make. And yet I hear your name
connected to these rumors. What do you know about it? Is there new activity in your territory?”

Fuchida shrugged. “Nothing. The usual guys slinging speed in neighborhoods where my people collect, but that’s nothing I’d call ‘new.’”

“Look at me,” Kamaguchi said. “Tell me you have no involvement.”

Fuchida looked away from the little green box for the first time in their conversation. He turned his head and looked Kamaguchi in the eye. Kamaguchi’s black hair was punch-permed. A hairless scar the shape of a bullet stared out of the middle of his left cheek. His eyes seemed too small; his lower jaw seemed too long, his lower teeth just visible as they touched his upper lip. He wore a blue-gray suit with a blue tie and a pair of big gold-rimmed sunglasses hanging from the left breast pocket. Fuchida thought of a boar wearing the same suit.