Disciple of the Wind (34 page)

He drove the point home with a confident jut of his chin. The wattles stood out in his wrinkled neck. Daigoro could only bow, signaling his agreement. There might have been other explanations, but none of them mattered. At last he could see the next step on his path.

27

“T
ip up,” Wada-sensei said. “Shoulders back. Weight forward—not so much. Keep your center. And what did I just tell you? Keep your tip
up
.”

Shichio raised the tip of his sword, training it on Wada’s neck. “Not so high,” Wada told him. “You want the throat, not the chin. Here.” He tapped the hollow where the tips of his collarbones met. Then, without warning, he tried to smack Shichio’s sword out of the way. Shichio anticipated the move, tightened his grip, and shoved Wada’s deflection aside.

“Tip
up, Shichio-sama. When you parry, you come back here. Every time.” He tapped the hollow at the base of his throat again.

Shichio wanted to gut him. He wanted to stamp his feet, to scream, to throw his sword across the dojo—but more than anything, he wanted to get this
right
.

Wada-sensei was a mailed fist in a silken glove. He was a handsome man, with arms of sculpted bronze and eyes like tigereye gemstones. He was genteel in speech, but he pressed Shichio almost to the point of breaking. Wada was the only man who could promise that Shichio would never again risk the embarrassment he’d suffered in the Bear Cub’s courtyard. The next time I’m called upon to hold a sword, Shichio thought, I’ll damn well know how to use it.

He found
kenjutsu
to be odious and exhilarating in equal measure. The pain in his thighs and forearms he could live with. His blistered
hands could be salved. Far worse was the constant badgering, the thousand niggling corrections and rebukes. But worst of all was the sweat. It began in the small of his back, and soon enough it soaked through his
kosode
, making the silk cling to his ribs.

On the other hand, the mask relished sword combat. It sent thrills surging through his veins with every cut.

His first sword master had laughed when he heard Shichio meant to train while masked, and japed that only women wore silk into battle. Shichio asked him to show a little sympathy, and to help him along that path, he had the man gelded and then bound head to toe in silk. When asked, Shichio’s second sword master voiced no objection to silk robes or iron masks.

In fact, it was the second sword master, Wada, who observed how effective the mask was in combat. He even asked to wear it himself, and Shichio briefly obliged him. Wada called three other samurai to spar with him, and Shichio watched as the mask transformed his sensei from a master into a living hurricane. He trounced all three opponents with ease, then four, then six. “I don’t even need to see them to fight them,” he said afterward, drained but elated. “It’s as if the mask sees their weapons on its own.”

Yes, Shichio thought. It’s just like that. Without the mask, he was an indifferent student at best. With the mask, his form was still weak, his strikes too slow, his counterstrikes too late—but oh, did he fight with spirit! That was half the battle, Wada-sensei said. If he could only get Shichio to keep the tip of his sword pointed at the opponent’s throat, he would be nine-tenths of the way there, because the mask gave Shichio one more advantage: the ability to parry. That was no easy skill, Wada-sensei insisted. It was so hard to tell the difference between a feint and a genuine attack, and trying to block a feint was exactly what the opponent wanted. Wada preferred to teach counterstriking instead, but the mask gave Shichio preternatural awareness of what his enemy’s sword would do.

Wada chopped lazily at Shichio’s shoulder with his
bokken
. Steel rang against white oak. Shichio brought his katana back to center.
Another chop, faster this time, and again Shichio recovered. A third strike and a fourth, strong enough to rattle Shichio’s shoulders in their sockets, and again he brought his katana back to the sword master’s throat. “Better!” said Wada. “Did you feel it that time? Strong spirit and strong form. They’ll carry you through against anyone who isn’t trained.”

But the whelp
is
trained, Shichio thought. And he comes for me; I must be ready.

He lowered his weapon and stepped away. “Let’s take a rest.”

“Shichio-sama, we’ve only just begun—”

“I said we’ll rest. Oh, and call me Lord Kumanai henceforth. I’ve finally settled on a surname.”

“Yes, Kumanai-dono.”

Wada kneeled, bowed, and stayed low until his lord and master left the dojo. Shichio stepped out onto the veranda, away from the smells of tatami fiber and sweat, into the cool predawn air. His new estate sprawled before him. House Urakami was every bit as wealthy as Nene had promised, if wealth could be measured in mosquitoes. The village of Kanagawa-juku was a festering swamp. At least the Urakamis had the presence of mind to build on a hill, but that protected the manor from flooding, not from the heat. The only respite came early in the morning and late at night, hence Shichio’s training sessions at this ungodly hour.

House Urakami no longer, he thought. This was House Kumanai now. He was quite pleased with the name he’d chosen for himself.
Kuma
, meaning “bear,” was the second character in the name Okuma.
Nai
was the ancient reading of
mu
, the Buddhist doctrine of absolute negation. Thus
kuma-nai
meant “no bears,” and with just a touch of poetic license, “no Okumas.” Shichio meant to make good on his name and hunt House Okuma to extinction.

It was a pleasant meditation to begin the day, but now his sweat began to distract him. Beads of it gathered on his scalp and trickled into his eye. Once again he missed his hair. Damn that woman, he thought. Damn this topknot, damn these swords, damn Hashiba for
giving them to me—but above all, damn that woman for making him do it.

He wondered if there was some way he could talk Hashiba into fucking his wife. It was a ridiculous thought. No man ought to need convincing. Nene was comely enough—past her prime, to be sure, but Hashiba was too. Not that he’d lost his libido. His taste for women was a match for any teenager’s. So why not bed this one?

How many of Shichio’s woes would disappear if only Nene behaved like a proper wife? If her only problem with Shichio was jealousy, Hashiba could have laughed it off. I’m the regent, he could say; I’ll stick my cock wherever I like. It would be so easy to convince him of that. Just saying it aloud would make him feel powerful. But Nene didn’t care where he spent his nights. Her love for him was a sisterly concern for his well-being, not a catty, possessive need. Hashiba
had
to take her seriously.

“General Shichio?”

It wasn’t Wada-sensei’s voice. Shichio turned around to see his adjutant, Jun, the only one of his original servants he’d been allowed to keep when he took up residence in House Urakami’s compound. All the rest of his attendants were still in Kyoto, absorbed into the Jurakudai’s staff. Jun was as meek as a feather on the wind and weighed little more. The man was so skinny he threatened to slip between the floorboards. He huddled over his knees, a portrait of obsequiousness, his forehead and palms pressed to the veranda.

“It’s Lord Kumanai now. Or General Kumanai, if that’s easier for you to remember.”

“Very good, sir. General Kumanai?”

“Yes, Jun?”

“You have a visitor.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir. Waiting for you.”

“Yes, I gathered that, since as you can see”—he stretched his empty palms at the equally empty surroundings—“there is no visitor standing next to me. Perhaps you’d like to tell me where this person is?”

“In your study, sir.” Jun bowed so low he seemed to shrink.

“You might also consider telling me his name, Jun.”

“He . . . he says he hasn’t got one.”

“Yet you admit him into my house? Into my study? Do you have any idea how many scrolls I have in there, how many secrets—?”

Shichio cut himself off. There was one visitor he was willing to see at this hour, the only one who would arrive unnamed and unannounced. A week from now, he would have been anxious
not
to hear from this man, but Shichio hardly expected him to appear so soon. Leave it to Nene to vex him so sorely that he could forget his quarrel with the Bear Cub.

He strode past Jun, faintly aware that he owed the young man an apology, but it was not for a general to apologize. Not a samurai’s place to apologize, either, he realized. It was the first time today, but assuredly not the only time, that he had to remind himself of his new station.

The thought made him reach for his topknot, wondering just how unkempt it had become. In touching his hair he felt the leather thongs binding the mask in place. He’d entirely forgotten he was wearing it. Quickly changing course from the study, Shichio ducked into his residence and found a mirror, comb, and face powder in his dressing room. Then he remembered the sodden state of his
kosode
. He slipped into a curry yellow kimono and lordly black
hitatare
, and in that very moment he decided the colors of House Kumanai would be black and gold. They would be a fetching complement to Hashiba’s red and black.

The mask went into a little sleeve of Chinese brocade, which in turn went under his pillow. He remembered his swords, and then had to don a heavier
obi
to support their weight. Then he went to his study, adopting the measured pace befitting the lord of the clan.

There he found the most bestial human being he had ever laid eyes on. The
shinobi’s f
ace was as flat as a mountain monkey’s, and looked like it had been punched and kicked into those contours. His hair, mustache, beard, and single long eyebrow were all of uniform length.
The backs of his hands were crawling with wiry black hair, which crept down even to the first digits of his fingers. Shichio would not have been surprised to see claws instead of fingernails.

“Lord Kumanai,” the
shinobi
growled.

“What? How did you know I—?”

“The Wind hears all.”

And so do you, even with all that hair sprouting out of your ears. Shichio was disappointed in himself; he shouldn’t have allowed this man to set him on his heels so quickly. He reclaimed his composure and folded himself into his customary seat behind his knee-high writing table. “I would offer you a drink, but I know you would refuse. What shall I call you?”

“I am of the Wind. The Wind is without name.”

“So you told my man Jun. Now you are speaking to me. I am your employer; I will have your name.”

“I am of the Wind. The Wind is without name.”

Shichio imagined his katana pointed at the
shinobi
. Then he imagined taking a step forward and spitting him right through the throat. “The Wind is also without number. I only have interest in one particular man. How am I to know you’re the
shinobi
who accompanied the Bear Cub to the Green Cliff?”

“Ask what you will. I can answer.”

Shichio bottled up his frustration and began to test him. The man proved as good as his word; he knew every detail, including the precise phrasing of the false missive Shichio had received, proclaiming Daigoro’s death.
BEAR
STRIPPED
OF
PELT
TONIGHT
.
THERE
IS
NO
MAN
THE
WIND
CANNOT
REACH
. Shichio would never forget the elation he’d felt at reading it, or the crushing frustration when he learned it was false.

“The note was your handiwork, was it?”

“Yes.”

Shichio fumed. “Do you have any idea how much I’d like to kill you for sending that?”

“Stupid. Hopeless.”

It was clearly a threat—
try it and you die
—yet the
shinobi
showed
not the slightest emotion. He was deadly, but like an earthquake, not a dragon. Both could swallow you up, but this one had no feelings about it, not even a conqueror’s glee.

Once again Shichio had no choice but to choke down his irritation and press forward. “Do you know why I’ve summoned you here? There are only two men alive who have worked closely with the Bear Cub since he became a fugitive. That ragged
ronin
of his is one. You are the other.”

The
shinobi
looked at him as if he’d just explained that water was wet.

“I want to know your impression of him.”

“Short. Frail. Slow.”

“Hm. I have the sneaking suspicion that you’re being less than honest. It’s almost as if you feel
loyalty
to the boy. But that couldn’t possibly be true, could it? You’re a mercenary—a
shinobi
of the Wind, no less. Your only loyalty is to clan and coin. Isn’t it?”

“Obvious.”

Shichio found it creepy that the man never seemed to blink. Rather than lock stares with him, the lord of House Kumanai smoothed his robe, reached for an ornately carved box of genuine Ming jade, and withdrew a golden
ryo
. The oblong coin held the oil lamp’s reflection, producing the illusion that it radiated orange heat from within. “Clan and coin,” he repeated. “So if you knew just how the whelp commandeered my ketch, or how he managed to run my blockade, or how he vanquished two full platoons, you’d be obligated to tell me—at least so long as I keep doling out the coins,
neh
?” With that he flicked the coin directly into the
shinobi’s
hirsute chest.

It struck with a padded thump and fell impotently to the tatami. His guest paid his antics no mind. I’ll throw the next one at your eye, Shichio thought. Maybe that will make you blink.

Summoning the last of his patience, he said, “You will tell me everything you know of the Bear Cub. I want to know how he thinks. Where does he go when he vanishes from the highways? How does he
pass through towns and checkpoints unseen? Has he been stealing food or paying for it? Where does he sleep? How does he hide that limp of his, or that remarkable sword? You know his tricks; I would have you betray every one of them.”