Disciple of the Wind (37 page)

“I am.”

“Your nephew sent us. He says you’ve heard tell of a thief who survived after taking a knife through the heart.”

The priest’s eyebrows popped halfway up his forehead. “Well, now. I know the tale, yes, but we don’t talk about it here.”

“I’m not looking to stir up any old ghosts; I only want to sort out a few of the details. I promise it won’t take long.”

The priest weighed it over for a moment, then welcomed them inside. Even before they entered, he apologized for the rather empty feeling of the temple. The groom was one of Daimatsu’s priests, he explained, and very popular with the rest of the staff. As such, they’d all gone to the wedding reception, leaving the high priest in sole custody of the shrine. “Come, sit,” he said, ushering them into a little room for private worship. “I’ll come back with some tea.”

It was impossible to sit down while wearing Glorious Victory Unsought, so Daigoro unlimbered the great sword and laid it along the back wall of the little room. He couldn’t help but notice that Katsushima kept both of his blades. Out of old habit the
ronin
flicked his katana back and forth in its scabbard with his thumb.

“What troubles you?” Daigoro asked.

Consternation wrinkled Katsushima’s brow. “Hoofprints,” he said.

“Hm?”

“There weren’t any. The priest said we’d have to hurry to catch the wedding party, but there’s no evidence that they were on horseback. So why should we
hurry
to catch up with them? They’re on foot; we’re mounted.”

“Maybe they left a while ago.”

“No. He said they’d just left. And did you see the altar?”

Daigoro shook his head. “No.”

“No sakaki branch. You and Aki laid a branch on the altar when you married,
neh
? This couple didn’t.”

“Come now, Goemon. Couldn’t the priest have—?”

Daigoro cut himself short. He had been about to say “disposed of it already,” but that couldn’t be right. The sakaki branch was a sacred symbol of matrimony. It would be burned with all the rest in a
dondoyaki
ceremony at the turn of the New Year, not tossed aside like an old chicken bone. Perhaps Daimatsu Shrine had a cupboard set aside for such ritual objects, but even so, it would have been indecorous to take it from the altar so soon. Atsuta was not the place for such impropriety.

“Now you’ve got me worried,” Daigoro said. “Probably over nothing, but still . . .”

“You see?” Katsushima kept his voice low. “Something’s amiss here.”

Daigoro thought about the strong resemblance between the high priest of Daimatsu and the acolyte from the previous shrine. They could pass for twins—or even for the same man, if he were sufficiently skilled at feigning old age. And, of course, if he could fly like a falcon between one temple and the next.

“The botched directions,” Daigoro whispered, thinking aloud. “What if he deliberately steered us awry, to give himself time to race over here? Then . . . then nothing. This is silly, Goemon. We could just as well suspect our horses of playing us false.”

“Did our horses arrange for an entire temple to be empty but for one man? Or did one man beat us here, and then—”

“Then what? Kill every last priest? Leaving no sign of struggle?” Katsushima nodded, apparently quite satisfied. Daigoro scoffed in reply. “Oh go on, Goemon. Think of what you’re saying. Is it so strange for a man to look like his own nephew?”

“Is it so strange for one of Shichio’s bear hunters to dress as a priest instead of an assassin?”

“Only if he wants to dress himself to lose a sword fight. Even if he
were armed, how could he draw a blade with those dangling sleeves? He’s more likely to fly away on them.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Katsushima kept his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “This much we know for certain: he was quick to explain why this shrine is empty, even though we did not ask. He was quick to rush us in here, behind closed doors, rather than let us roam around. You said ‘no sign of struggle.’ I say it’s better to look around and see what we can find.”

He started to stand, but then they heard the priest returning to the door. “Drink nothing he offers you,” Katsushima whispered, barely audible. “Let us see how he reacts.”

The priest knocked gently, then slid open the
shoji
. The smell of hot green tea preceded him into the room. Daigoro studied him closely, trying to convince himself that this couldn’t possibly be the acolyte from the other temple. He failed. Daigoro’s experience with
shinobi
was limited, but he could not help but remember a certain agent of the Wind, one who had saved his life many times over. That one could pass for a corpse at will, or even pass for Daigoro himself when the need arose. Daigoro had seen him do both, in full view of Toyotomi archers, and not one of them saw through the ruse.

“Please, enjoy,” said the priest, kneeling before them and filling their cups. His black shark-fin hat was so tall that Daigoro had to move his head aside when the priest bowed toward him to offer the tea. “Now then, you had a mind to discuss that old tall tale. The fellow who survived a blade through the heart.”

“Yes.” Daigoro picked up his teacup but did not drink. “But this tale’s not so tall. Many people here have told me it’s true. What do you know of it?”

The priest shrugged. “Not much. But more than most, I suppose.”

“Tell me about the thief. Where did he go after he was stabbed?”

“Sounds to me like you’re more interested in the knife than the thief. Do you mind if I ask why?”

No harm in asking, Daigoro thought, if only Katsushima didn’t have me on edge. But now that his hackles were up, he realized the
priest hadn’t answered any of his questions. Daigoro didn’t know what to make of that. The abbot of Katto-ji was just as inscrutable. Was it a clergyman’s duty to ask enigmatic questions? Or was this priest concealing something, as Katsushima suspected?

Only one thing was sure: Katsushima distrusted the man. Daigoro had never known his friend to be wrong in such matters. He raised the cup to his lips to judge the priest’s reaction. There was none. “Still too hot for my liking,” he said, lowering the cup once more. “If you don’t care to discuss the knife or the thief, we can talk about something else.”

“Such as?”

“A different tall tale,” Daigoro said. “In this one, you and I don’t meet by chance. You’re told a story about a boy whose sword is too big for him, a boy with a keen interest in the blade known as Streaming Dawn. You were told to wait for him at the Shrine. But you never expected him to appear so quickly. You thought to look for him some days from now, but this afternoon you spy a young man fitting his description. He wears no house insignia, so you have to ask him about the blade. It’s the only way to be sure you’ll strike the right target.”

“Target? I am no arrow, sir.”

“No? Perhaps your role was simply to mark me out for hidden archers.”

The priest’s face soured. “No doubt my young lord is tired from his long journey, and that is why he speaks to a high priest of the Shrine in such a rude, suspicious tone. Perhaps a little tea might refresh his body and temper his spirit. . . .”

“You see, that’s just it. We never mentioned any journey to you.”

“Nor did you need to.” The priest maintained his stern, paternal facade. He was a masterful liar, or else a wronged and innocent man. “It’s your accents. You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

“Oh, but I do,” said Katsushima. “I was born not ten
ri
from where we sit.”

“I don’t care for your tone either,” said the priest. “A man your age should have more sense. What do you make of your friend’s story? Do you think the hallowed ground of Atsuta is crawling with archers?
Was I to paint a red circle on the young man’s chest when he entered the Shrine?”

Katsushima’s only answer was to loosen his katana with a flick of the thumb.

The priest stood in a huff and made for the door. “Insult me if you will, sir, but I will not stand for being threatened. I’ll leave you two to enjoy your tea—and to speak spitefully about me behind my back, I have no doubt.”

It was the fact that he was pretending to leave that made Daigoro drop his guard.

It was only for the blink of an eye. Daigoro had been watchful from the moment he voiced his suspicions. So long as the priest continued to feign innocence, he remained a threat. It was only in that brief instant when the priest turned to remove himself from the room that Daigoro relaxed.

The blade of the priest’s foot struck him in the throat.

Daigoro went flat on his back. He could hardly breathe.

Katsushima was already in motion, his katana snapping out like a whip. Somehow the priest was faster. He spun in a low whirl; his long sleeves flew like wings. One white sleeve caught Katsushima’s sword. With a quick twist, the priest wrapped up both the katana and the arm holding it.

Daigoro rolled to his knees. The priest’s heel caught him in the temple. Daigoro blacked out. He came to an instant later when his face struck the floor. He saw Katsushima struggling to pull his sword free. The priest jammed his thumb into Katsushima’s eye socket, and Katsushima had no choice but to retreat or be blinded.

He reeled away and drew his
wakizashi
and
tanto
. Daigoro had never seen his friend fight two-bladed before. No one had ever taken his katana before.

Katsushima sprang to the attack, a hurricane of flashing steel. The priest was a typhoon of swirling white. The two storms collided. Blood flew; Daigoro could not tell whose.

He knew he needed to join the fight, but his head was foggy and his body was slow to respond. He snatched up Glorious Victory Unsought, then realized her great length was only a liability in such close quarters. That was too bad; now more than ever, Daigoro needed her power. He drew his
wakizashi
and crept around to flank the priest.

Suddenly Katsushima was airborne. Daigoro had to fall flat or be impaled. He dropped to his back. His friend sailed over him trailing blood, and stove in a wall when he landed. An instant later his katana flew after him, straight as an arrow. Daigoro managed to knock it spinning. It careened through a
shoji
window and disappeared.

Daigoro scrambled to all fours, keeping his
wakizashi
between him and his opponent. The priest’s white robes were striped with blood, none of it his own. Daigoro meant to change that.

The priest stood back and allowed him to stand. It was an act of the highest contempt; he feared Daigoro so little that he was willing to give him the advantage of fighting on his own two feet. A tiger would not have been so gracious, but Daigoro was not facing a tiger; he was facing a veritable god of war.

The priest hadn’t even troubled to arm himself. Daigoro was an even match for any two men, Katsushima for any four, yet this one treated them like paper dolls. “You were right not to drink the tea,” he
said. “You were right about the other question too: I had not thought to see you here so soon. I salute you. Not many victims force me to rush.”

He bent low to pick up the teapot. It was a moment of vulnerability, but Daigoro was too intimidated to make good on it. “I hurried in playing my hand because your reputation preceded you.” The priest—no, the
assassin
gave him a regretful wince. “I’m sorry to say the stories vastly outstrip your actual prowess. You’re not your father’s equal. The story is true, by the way. He stabbed me right through the heart. His only mistake lay in not withdrawing the blade. But you? You’ve made nothing but mistakes from the moment we met.”

They circled each other, Daigoro with a sword, his foe with no more than a steaming teapot. Somehow it was Daigoro who was too scared to speak. “No, you’re not worthy of a warrior’s death. I think I’ll resort to the weapon I originally intended to kill you with: the tea. Are you ready?”

Daigoro tightened his sweating fingers around his
wakizashi
. Behind the
shinobi
-priest, Katsushima rose silently to his feet. His face was a dripping red mask. He blinked hard, as if he was seeing stars and trying to clear them. But his blades were steady enough.

There was only one way to prevent the assassin from noticing him. It was suicidal, but Daigoro pressed the attack.

A white sleeve whipped toward his eyes. He sliced it off. His blade found cloth, not flesh. The priest-assassin stepped in. His free hand clamped down on Daigoro’s wrist. He twisted it around, driving the
wakizashi
toward Daigoro’s own body. Gracefully, almost lackadaisically, he poured scalding hot tea over Daigoro’s face.

It burned like dragon breath. Daigoro shut his mouth tight against it, but still he feared the poison would leak in. The more he strained to keep his face out of the downpour, the less he could concentrate on his sword. Already he felt the blade brushing the inside of his thigh. The artery there was huge. He would bleed to death in a matter of heartbeats.

Katsushima pounced. The assassin sidestepped. With a backward swipe he shattered the teapot on Katsushima’s cheek. Katsushima grunted and lashed out. He missed with his short sword, but he drove his
tanto
deep into the assassin’s lung.

The assassin collapsed around the blade, but instead of dying on the spot he rolled backward, somersaulting to his feet on the far end of the room. Katsushima’s knife protruded from his rib cage dripping blood. Daigoro and Katsushima stood shoulder to shoulder and advanced, swords at the ready. The assassin drew a blade of his own, a chisel-pointed
tanto
. Then he drove it right into the side of his neck.

Daigoro waited for the man to fall. Surely he meant to take his own life before his enemy could question him. But no. He pushed the
tanto
all the way through his throat. Then, with agonizing slowness, he slid Katsushima’s knife out of his chest. Impossibly, there was no blood—not from Katsushima’s knife, nor even from the dagger in his neck. If anything, the assassin seemed to have greater resolve.

Katsushima retreated a step. The sword sagged in his grip. Daigoro sympathized; what use was swordsmanship against an enemy who could not bleed? The astounded look on their faces could only bolster the assassin’s morale.