Disciple of the Wind

by Steve Bein

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

  “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 f
ellow 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.”

  Katsushima mulled it over for a moment. “The stories say demons disguise themselves as old crones. Maybe it’s true. In any case, I can’t imagine your father losing to a wizened grandmother any more than I can imagine him losing to a demon, so it’s all the same to me.”

  Daigoro frowned. “I know what he told me.”

  “All right. A demoness, then. She defeated your father, yet she was the one who died. Was that the way of it?”

  “That’s what he said.” Seeing Katsushima wrinkle his brow, Daigoro added, “I was only a boy. I didn’t ask many questions.”

  “Mm. Did he bury this ‘evil knife’ with her?”

  “No,” Daigoro said. “He tried to, but he was set upon by thieves.”

  “And?”

  “He stabbed the first one in the heart with Streaming Dawn. The others went running after that.”

  Katsushima nodded stoically. “That usually works.”

  “He said their friend fled with them.”

  “The one with the dagger in his heart.”

  “Yes.”

  Katsushima paused to consider that for a moment. “All right, that’s something I’d like to see. Are we off to Atsuta Shrine?”

  “I am. You’re not.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I need you to take these back home for me.”

  He hefted the two heavy sacks off the ground again and lugged them a little closer to Katsushima. Their weight threatened to collapse his bad knee. Katsushima eyed them over, and when curiosity got the better of him, he crouched over one of them and untied the top. What he saw inside made him gasp, a totally uncharacteristic expression from him. “That’s … that’s a lot of money.”

  “Keep your voice down.” Daigoro looked over his shoulder, then scolded himself for it. Everyone in the compound was loyal to Jinichi. Even so, he could only bring himself to speak in a whisper. “It’s barely a quarter of Kenbei’s demand. Not nearly enough, but it’s a start. You’re the only one I can trust to get it where it needs to go.”

  “Trust Jinichi. It’s his, neh?”

  “It’s mine now. He loaned it to me.”

  “Then he should protect his investment. Ask him to send riders with it, all the way back to your mother’s doorstep.”

  “I can’t do that, Goemon. He’s already emptied his vault for me; I can’t ask him to go to the expense of—”

  Katsushima stood up and took a step back, as physically separating himself from the money would also distance him from any responsibility for it. “Daigoro, he’s willing to help you. He may even be willing to saddle Kenbei with the expense of boarding his people and feeding their horses once they get where they’re going.”

  “I can’t ask him to do that.”

  “Then leave it here and we can take it to your family compound after we return from Atsuta. Either way, I go where you go.”

  “Goemon, please—”

  “Daigoro, when I announce myself at your front door and I present your wife and mother with all this coin, they’re going to ask where you are and whether you’re well. What would you have me tell them? That I turned my back on you? That I have no idea where you’ve gone or whether you’re still alive?”

  It was a good point, and it stung. Indignant, Daigoro said, “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “True. A ronin swears oaths to no one and no one swears oaths to him. He’s alone in this world except for his friends. I don’t owe you friendship, but you have it from me anyway.”

  “I know, Goemon. But the money—”

  “Isn’t any safer with me than it is with a fully armed platoon. Though I appreciate your esteem for my sword arm.”

  Daigoro tried to object, but Katsushima silenced him with a look. “How many towns lie between here and your family’s doorstep? And in those towns, how many taverns? How many whores? Do you mean to send me along that road, with two sacks of brass and no one looking over my shoulder? Find a better way to spend your money, Daigoro.”

  That was the finishing blow. Daigoro knew he’d lost the fight well before then, but that was what made him surrender. His head sagged, and a noise escaped him that was part laugh and part sigh, partly dejected and partly relieved. “Have it your way. But do one thing for me before we depart. Lend me a hairpin.”

  29

  Daigoro had heard of Atsuta Shrine because everyone had heard of it. Legend had it that Emperor Keiko founded it to house the Kusanagi no Tsurugi, the fabled Grass-Cutting Sword. At fifteen hundred years old, it was known simply as “the Shrine,” and it was without doubt one of the holiest places on the face of the earth.

  Having heard of the Shrine did not prepare him in the slightest for the sheer size of it. In Izu, Shinto shrines were rarely more than a single sanctuary to enshrine the kami, connected by a short path to the obligatory torii. Osezaki, where he’d conducted his midnight rendezvous with Lady Nene, was uncommonly large;
the smallest sites were little more than two upright posts connected by a braid of sacred rope. By contrast, the word “shrine”—even the Shrine—did not begin to describe Atsuta. Better to say it was a village of shrines, scattered throughout a sprawling forest under the protection of spirits, gods, and men.

  A thick green canopy held in the cool humidity of recent rain, which condensed to form scores of tiny pearls on Daigoro’s forehead. The cool air came as joyous relief from the harried, hurried, breathless voyage from Yoshiwara. Back at Fuji-no-tenka, Jinichi had insisted that Daigoro should make all possible speed. He knew all about Shichio’s many eyes and ears, and about the roving packs of bear hunters. He also knew of a swift ship, Pride of Suruga, said to be able to make the run from Izu to Ayuchi in two days flat.

  The Pride was as fast as Jinichi promised, but the weather was against her, so it was not until morning on the third day that Daigoro and Katsushima guided their mounts onto the boardwalk in the port city of Ayuchi. From there they rode straight to Atsuta, not stopping to break their fast. Daigoro was feeling pressed for time; the lost half day weighed on him as heavily as his Sora breastplate. But now, enveloped by cool air and history, he did not know what to do with himself.

  The Shrine was a sight to behold. Narrow canals babbled here and there, their walls equal parts hand-laid rock and moss laid down by the tao. A bridge arching over the water formed a perfect wheel with its reflection. Decorative stone lanterns were home not to evanescent candles but to lichens a thousand years old. No two lanterns were alike, and there would be hundreds of them in this forest, standing sentinel like the trees.

  Daigoro had no idea how he would ever find his father here.

  He’d spent his entire life trying to follow in his father’s footsteps. Here, from the moment he crossed under the first towering torii, he knew he was doing precisely that. His father had walked these very paths. His boots had trodden the same rain-slicked stones. But this place was so vast. There was no way of knowing which way to go.

  “He came here to honor a worthy foe,” Daigoro mused aloud.