Disciple of the Wind (35 page)

*   *   *

By the time the
shinobi
was finished, the sun had long since risen and Shichio had twice waved away the maids bringing breakfast. Wada-sensei had gone, so Shichio would learn no more
kenjutsu
today. But that was of no concern; he’d discovered so much about the Bear Cub that his mind could scarcely hold anything else.

The whelp could no longer hide from him. Shichio knew his every secret. He would pass them along to his bear hunters, and from there it was just a matter of waiting. “Tell me one more thing,” he said. “Do you know what the boy has in store for me?”

“He means to kill you.”

“How? When?”

“Unknown.”

Shichio snorted and huffed. “You don’t know, or the Wind doesn’t know?”

“There is no place the Wind cannot reach.”

“That’s not—” He cut himself short. “So your masters
do
know. Why will you not tell me? Is it a matter of payment?” He seized the heavy jade box and slid it over to the
shinobi
with a mighty shove. “Tell me, damn you. Tell me what you know of the whelp’s plans to kill me.”

His guest pushed the box back toward him with a single iron-hard finger. “I know nothing.”

“Who, then? Who must I pay?”

Was that pity in the
shinobi’s
eyes, or merely contempt? Neither, Shichio thought; this one is incapable of human emotion. “Suit yourself,” he said. “Tell me this, at least: does the Wind track his movements?”

“There is no place—”

“Yes, yes, enough of that. Do
you
know where he is?”

“No.”

“But you could find out?”

“Stupid question.”

Shichio shoved the coin chest back toward him. “I want his head. Name your price.”

“I cannot kill him.”

“What? Why not?”

“Reasons are irrelevant. Concern yourself with facts.”

Shichio tossed the desk aside, scooted forward, and slid the chest far enough that it struck the
shinobi
in the knees. “Is he paying you? I’ll double it.”

“No.”

“Triple, then.”

A grumbling, growling sound welled up from deep within the
shinobi’s
chest. “You are worse than the boy. You do not hear. You do not think. You have the patience of a squalling infant.”

Furious, Shichio backhanded the man—or tried to. An instant later Shichio was on the floor, tasting the tatami. His wrist was a ball of stabbing, ice-cold pain. The bones in his hand ground against each other like teeth gnawing on rocks. Some abstract part of his mind understood the
shinobi
had him in a wristlock, but what Shichio felt in the moment was an angry bear chewing on his hand.

Release me, he attempted to say, but what came out was, “Reee
ssssssssss
—”

“No,” said the
shinobi
.

“I am the master of this house,” Shichio whispered through gritted teeth. It all gushed out as a single sibilant word. “I can have you killed for this.”

“No.”

Shichio tried to cry for help. A hundred flaming arrows shot through his arm, silencing him instantly. The
shinobi
had total control; Shichio could not even express pain except in the way his tormentor allowed him.

For Shichio this was not a wholly alien experience. He had introduced many lovers to the delights of domination and surrender. But this was a perverse corruption of that. Taken with a certain sense of play, there was pleasure to be found even in the sharpest pain. But not in this. This was sheer coercion, brutal in its simplicity.

“Let me go,” he whimpered. “Pl-please.”

Just like that, his arm was his own again. As hellish as the pain had been, he was surprised to see no outward signs of injury. He’d half expected to find bloody tendons dangling out, finger bones jutting randomly like thorns from a bramble. The
shinobi
, on the other hand, seemed to have taken no notice of the entire exchange. He sat just where he was before, stone-faced, unblinking.

Shichio scrambled away from him, groped for his upended writing desk, and placed it back between the two of them. Too late he realized he’d left the coin chest on the opposite side of the desk. Then he decided he’d rather let the
shinobi
walk away with the money than get close enough to take it back. “So,” he said, holding his wrist. “Your masters have forbidden you from killing the whelp. Was that your meaning earlier?”

“No.”

“But something restrains you. Something personal.”

“At last you begin to think clearly.”

Yes, pain is so wonderfully clarifying, Shichio thought. He would not dream of saying it aloud. It scared him a little just to have thought it in the
shinobi’s
presence. Hastily, as if to drown out his own thoughts, he said, “Something personal, but not loyalty. Not allegiance. You’re entirely too mercenary for that. . . . Ah! He paid you.
Neh?
He foresaw this conversation. He paid you in advance not to kill him.”

The
shinobi
dipped his chin in a tiny bow.

“Damn that boy.” And damn me too, Shichio thought; have I become so transparent? “Damn, damn, damn.”

Just this once, he wished he had his mask. It tended to focus his thoughts when it came to plotting a murder. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, he had to admit this latest move
was
predictable. No one
was better suited for a successful bear hunt than the beast who sat in Shichio’s study. He had studied Daigoro, traveled with him, fought with him. It was not so hard for Daigoro to foresee the threat he posed.

“There must be another who can kill him,” Shichio said. “Of all the Wind’s assassins, one of them must be the best. Who is your canniest, deadliest fighter?”

“The warrior eternal.”

The man spent no time at all thinking about it. That was encouraging. “Who is that?”

“Not who. What. An ancient title, held only by a few.”

More encouraging yet, but Shichio was still unconvinced. “A title is little defense against Glorious Victory. You’ve seen the Bear Cub fight. He is a force of nature. What makes you think this warrior can stand against him?”

“The warrior eternal is protected. Relics. Weapons. Protective magics. The innermost secrets of the Wind.”

Now that’s just what I’m in the market for, Shichio thought. But he might get a better price if he didn’t mention that aloud. “It’s not enough. The mightiest warrior alive is harmless if he has no one to fight. He needs an opponent. Tell me where the Bear Cub is and I will hire this warrior eternal.”

“Stupid question.”

Shichio felt his anger spike, and he doused it just as quickly. His wrist had not forgotten its pain. “Pray tell,” he said as sweetly as he could, “what makes that a stupid question?”

“Meaningless. Ask the question that matters.”

How long must I endure you sitting here? That was the question he wanted to ask. Or, how long would you survive in a cauldron of boiling water? How many cuts would it take to kill you on my table? But those questions would not get this woolly brute out of his sight, nor would they locate the Bear Cub any sooner—

Oh, very clever, he thought. The question that matters. “You don’t
know where the Bear Cub is. Even if you could tell me, he’d be gone by the time I got there. But you know where he’s going, don’t you?”

The
shinobi
slid the chest away, and at first Shichio thought this was a signal that the man was beyond bribery. Then he understood: pushing the box toward Shichio was a silent demand for payment. Shichio obliged him. He drew the carven chest closer, opened it, and clacked golden
ryo
on the tatami one by one until he reached the Wind’s price for that all-important question.

In that guttural, ursine voice, the
shinobi
said, “Atsuta Shrine.”

28

A
brash and unusually ambitious rooster trumpeted its morning call from just outside Daigoro’s window. Its crow was loud enough to break pottery. Daigoro woke as suddenly as if the damned beast had pecked him in the forehead.

If only he’d had his bow ready to hand, he would have shot it through the heart and carried it down to the kitchens. Nothing could be a better memoriam for his murdered sleep than eating its killer for breakfast. Why the bird had flown all the way up to a third-story windowsill was a mystery. There was no feed to scratch, no hens to pester, no other cocks to challenge. It wasn’t even daybreak yet.

Daigoro wormed back between the futon and closed his eyes. Again the wretched monster blared its defiance. “Be gone!” he shouted, and still half in a daze he fumbled for something to throw. His hand found something knife-shaped, and before he knew it he flung it right out the window. It wheeled end over end, and had it been a knife it would have pierced the creature right through its evil black heart. Sadly, he’d only thrown his hairpin. The rooster squawked, flapped noisily to the next window, and resumed its harangue from just out of throwing range.

Daigoro was not yet ready to bear the indignity of limping downstairs with his hair drooping to his shoulders, so he retreated to the dwindling warmth of his futon and thought about his brother. Ichiro
would have marched down to the yard to fetch a longbow. Even in the dark, he would only need one shot. He was the finest archer in the northlands. Everyone said so.

Daigoro often woke to thoughts of the family members he’d lost. Ichiro, lying in red slush. His blood stained the snow and made it steam. Their father, cold and pale, staring up at the cold, pale sky. Were Okuma men doomed to die on the road? Would this journey claim Daigoro’s life before the end? Was there any way to know his fate other than to ride forth and meet it?

The damnable bird crowed again. Sleep had become a priceless luxury in Daigoro’s life, but this morning it was lost to him. Of all the wondrous inventions created by mortal man, he’d never imagined that a soft, clean, warm, dry bed was foremost among them. Life as a samurai could never have taught him that; he could learn it only as a fugitive.

At last he dragged himself from his rooms, bleary-eyed and annoyed. His hair was undone, but at least he could don his swords. He would feel naked without them, especially since he also had to carry what Jinichi had given him: two big sacks of brass coins. It was more money than Daigoro had ever seen in his life. He slung a bag over each shoulder and limped ponderously down the stairs, making his way toward the stables. He had to step very carefully with his right foot, lest he buckle his knee; he was carrying half his own body weight in coin.

As he neared the horse barn he found his mare snorting and shaking her head. She wore a pack harness, and it seemed to rub at her the wrong way. Katsushima tugged at it here and there, making adjustments. “Look at this,” he said when he saw Daigoro. As little as he cared for decorum, he didn’t even notice the state of Daigoro’s hair. “Remember that clever fellow who brought in your horse last night? It seems he’s been up to no good.”

“Oh, no.” Daigoro limped closer to stroke his mare’s neck. She settled down a bit, and he unlimbered his heavy bags, which hit the ground with chittering, clinking sounds. “What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing. You’re
ronin
, Daigoro; being up to no good is what you do now.”

Katsushima had a mischievous gleam in his eye. He’d always enjoyed ruffling Daigoro’s feathers. Usually Daigoro was a good sport about it, but this morning had already been a trial.

“See here,” Katsushima said, tugging again on the horse’s tack. “Looks like a pack harness,
neh
? Fill these crates and you’d say she can’t bear any more.”

Daigoro had to agree. A pair of boxes hung on either side of her, four in all, and the largest ones were big enough for Daigoro to sit in. They were slung across a quilted moss-green blanket that totally concealed Daigoro’s unique saddle. His mare was still upset by Katsushima’s pulling and prodding, so Daigoro ran his hand down her neck in long, slow strokes.

“Now watch this,” Katsushima said. He unbuckled a couple of straps and folded back the two smaller boxes, which slipped right into the two larger ones. The pack blanket rolled back just as easily, uncovering the saddle. Just like that, Daigoro’s mare was ready to ride. Switching over from the pack harness to riding tack should have been a hassle; this took only a few moments.

“Suppose you filled all four crates with straw,” Katsushima said. “Overstuff them. Do you think you could hide Glorious Victory in one of the big ones?”

Daigoro eyed it carefully. “Barely. It would be close.”

“We’ll test it before we leave. You’ll hide your armor in the other crate. Between towns we can ride the highways, and as soon as we get within sight of other people, we can buy . . . well, whatever there is for sale. Rushes. Thatching. Anything cheap. I’ll ride on, you’ll walk your horse through town, and we’ll meet on the other side.”

Daigoro imagined it and smiled. “In the eyes of the world, we’re not two outlaws riding together. I’m a tired farmer—”

“And I’m a dashing, dangerous-looking
ronin
with a little time to spare if there happen to be any whores about.”

Daigoro couldn’t help but laugh. Katsushima was certainly in fine fettle. The old rogue enjoyed a good caper. It was too bad they wouldn’t
be riding together any longer. Daigoro did not look forward to telling his friend they had to part ways.

“What did you make of Jinichi’s tale last night?” asked Katsushima.

“Most of it matched what my father told me.”

“But not the nonsense about Atsuta Shrine. You don’t think
the
Okuma Tetsuro would go running there to escape evil
kami
, do you?”

“No. I think he wanted to show honor to a worthy opponent. A priest of Atsuta praying over her ashes would be respect enough, I think.”

“Wait.
Her?
”

“Yes. He said the assassin was an old woman. I remember laughing at him at the time. Ichiro told him little old grannies couldn’t fight. Father said this one taught him otherwise.”