by Steve Bein
Glorious Victory Unsought was half the trouble. It was his father’s sword, a genuine Inazuma blade, but even without it his father would still have been famous as a warrior, a diplomat, and a tactician. It was probably his fame that had gotten him killed. It was his sword that got Daigoro’s elder brother Ichiro killed—well, that and Ichiro’s ego, Daigoro supposed, but certainly these damnable duels were no help. Challengers came from far and wide to face House Okuma’s famed Inazuma blade. Now only Daigoro remained to face them. Ichiro’s death condemned Daigoro to a lifelong sentence of working day and night to uphold their father’s reputation.
Daigoro still didn’t understand why the clan leaders had agreed to name him Izu-no-kami, Lord Protector of Izu. At sixteen Daigoro was not only the youngest of the five lords protector; he could have been a grandson to any one of them. Okuma Tetsuro had left such a lofty reputation for his son to live up to, and Daigoro was not yet accustomed to shaving his pate.
“My lords,” Daigoro said, “it has been my honor to be defeated by such an agile warrior. Now, if you would like to join me for dinner—”
“Not so fast,” said Lord Sora. He stood and approached the fighters, his yellow kimono flowing behind him and the broad orange shoulders of his haori all but glowing in the sun. Sora Izu-no-kami Nobushige was another lord protector of Izu, and had held that station since even Daigoro’s father was a little boy. Despite his many years his white topknot had not thinned at all, and his red face still seemed as though he’d just left the forge that made him famous. Upon arrival at the Okuma compound, Lord Sora and his grandson had presented Daigoro with two of their clan’s famed yoroi, breastplates so well crafted that they were said to be able to deflect even the musket balls of the southern barbarians. Daigoro could not help thinking that the gift was made too late; had the Soras provided their unique armor a year earlier, they could have been meeting with Daigoro’s father today.
Years of hefting and hammering had made Lord Sora’s body strong, but the decades afterward had slowed him considerably. “My grandson is unsatisfied,” he said, almost shouting because he’d made so little progress across the courtyard. Daigoro noted the old man’s shuffling steps with sympathy; he wasn’t much faster himself. But he also noted that between Lord Sora’s shouting and his perpetually red face, it was impossible to read the man’s emotions.
“He believes the famed Bear Cub of Izu has not fought at his most bearlike,” said Lord Sora, still booming. “He believes our young lord has gone easy on him so that our parley will go smoothly. I am sure the young lord will explain to him why this is a misperception.”
At least that wasn’t hard to read. Daigoro was certain the doubts hadn’t come from Samanosuke at all. They came from the old man.
And the solution to all of this could have been so easy. Daigoro had but to hike up the hem of his hakama and show the Soras the wrist-thin leg concealed within. But to reveal his own weakness would have brought shame on both his clan and his father’s memory. Only a handful knew the son of Okuma Tetsuro was a cripple.
So instead he said, “My lords, my prowess has indeed been spoken of highly—more highly than it should have been. I assure you, I fought my best.”
“Then how is it that my grandson bested you so easily? Your reputation precedes you, Okuma-dono. Everyone knows you are undefeated in duels with live steel. If my grandson were so inclined, he might come to the conclusion that you have insulted our house. That you were toying with him. Even that you let him win in order to secure a better price on Sora yoroi.”
And one might also conclude, Daigoro thought, that you deliberately read the worst into every situation, the better to drive up the price of your precious armor. Or that you believe two broken fingers is too small a price to pay for nothing more than the honor of dining with you. Or that your grandson’s life is no price at all, that it will be good enough for your house if one of your lineage dies on Inazuma steel.
But Daigoro could say none of it. He could only try to keep from shaking his head, to hold his breath rather than let out a scoff. Lord Sora was close now, standing shoulder to broad shoulder with Katsushima. Daigoro hoped he’d contained himself well enough, because the old man was close enough to see the slightest hint of disrespect.
“I don’t suppose,” Daigoro said, his tone less gracious than it should have been, “that your grandson would like to come here and voice his concerns himself.”
Sora’s red cheeks wrinkled in the wake of a thin, spreading smile. “I fear he may have lost his composure.”
“He certainly wouldn’t want to do that,” said Katsushima, giving Daigoro a piercing stare.
“No, indeed,” said Daigoro. “No, he would not.” Stubborn old bastard, he thought. Damn you for making me do this. “But perhaps he might be willing to face me in a second duel?”
Sora’s white eyebrows pushed up toward his topknot. “Why, Okuma-dono, what sort of a barbarian do you take him for? He has his honor to think of. It wouldn’t do to challenge a man he’s just beaten.”
“Of course not,” said Daigoro, grinding his teeth. “I mean to say that, if he would be so gracious, I would be honored if he would accept my invitation to fight me steel to steel.”
A triumphant light gleamed in Lord Sora’s beady black eyes. “Samanosuke,” he called, not even bothering to look back, “ready your katana.”
Daigoro limped back to the veranda where Tomo and Glorious Victory stood waiting. Tomo regarded him with a smile that conveyed more worry than gladness. His hair was disheveled and he was wringing something in his hands, something too small and slender for Daigoro to see.
“Tomo, I’ll need you to do something more for these fingers. There’s no way I can hold—”
“It’s all well in hand, sir.” Now Tomo’s smile was boyish again, widening as he presented Daigoro with a closed fist. He opened his hand with a flourish, revealing a short, curved length of copper.
“Tomo, is that your hairpin?”
“No longer, sir. It’s your splint. May I see your hand?”
The metal matched the length of Daigoro’s middle finger precisely. How Tomo had managed that was beyond Daigoro’s ken. It hurt like hellfire when Tomo unwrapped the bandage he’d laid before, and when he bent misshapen fingers to match the curve of the copper, it was everything Daigoro could do not to wail like a little child. But the metal was a lot stronger than broken bone—maybe even strong enough to hold the weight of an odachi, Daigoro thought. If I don’t pass out first.
A few quick wraps with the cotton bandage and Daigoro’s broken fingers vanished, replaced by a fat, swollen, pain-ridden tongue, curled in just the shape needed to grip a sword. “By the Buddha, that stings,” said Daigoro. He wiped the last unbidden tears from his eyes and willed his clenching jaws to relax. “You’re a miracle worker, Tomo.”
“If you’re lucky, he’ll kill you, sir. And if not, I’m going to have to reset those fingers after the duel.”
Daigoro pushed himself to his feet, babying his right hand. He needed Tomo’s help to draw Glorious Victory, whose blade was nearly twice the length of his arm. He saw Samanosuke’s eyes widen as the two of them came to the center of the courtyard.
“Take your stance,” Katsushima said, and Daigoro’s right thigh quivered as he centered his sword. He found himself overgripping with his left hand, the better to take weight out of the right. The pain coming from those two fingers was blinding. Daigoro raised Glorious Victory to a high guard, the blade pointing straight at the sun, leaving his vitals wide open in an effort to take more weight off his maimed right hand.
Samanosuke hovered like a bee, well out of range. His katana was scarcely half the length of Daigoro’s odachi, and he was too crafty a fighter to simply wade in looking to score a quick kill. Had he ever faced a horseman’s sword before? Did he know Daigoro’s high guard sacrificed most of his reach? Daigoro couldn’t be sure.
Samanosuke ventured in closer. Daigoro held his stance. Another step and Samanosu
ke was close enough to strike. Their eyes met. Samanosuke lunged.
Daigoro had been so focused on Samanosuke’s blade that he never saw his mother rush onto the battlefield.
She looked like a madwoman, her hair billowing smokelike in every direction, and she grabbed Samanosuke from behind. “No no no no no,” she shrieked, her hands digging into Samanosuke’s elbows like iron hooks. Samanosuke had to struggle just to keep his footing.
Daigoro was paralyzed. He couldn’t lower his blade lest Samanosuke think he was attacking him. Nor could he simply toss his father’s sword aside like an old chicken bone. His scabbard was a good ten paces away. “Mother!” he shouted, his sword standing uselessly in his high guard.
“Not my baby,” she wailed. “Not my baby mybabymybaby—”
At last Katsushima took a hold of her, prying her hands off Samanosuke one by one. Moments later Tomo was on her too, and together they wrestled her back into the house.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Sora bellowed. Daigoro and Samanosuke still had their swords in hand. Formally speaking, their duel was still in progress, but any other semblance of formality had scattered to the winds. Now Lord Sora was shuffling into the fray, blustering as only he could. “Is this how you come to be undefeated? Do you Okumas allow your women to do your fighting?”
Daigoro lowered his weapon, taking care to point it away from everyone else so that no one could mistake it for an attack. “My lords,” he said, “you must accept our most abject apologies. Within the past year my mother lost her husband and her firstborn. No doubt you’ve heard how my brother Ichiro died, neh?”
Still visibly shaken, Samanosuke gave a nervous nod. “In a duel.”
“A duel just like this one.”
The truth was worse, though Daigoro had no mind to share family secrets. Ichiro’s name meant “firstborn son.” Daigoro’s meant “fifth son.” Their mother had miscarried two boys in between, but of course no woman could have named her next child “fourth son.” Four was the number of death. Daigoro’s mother had wanted to give her fourth son a girl’s name instead, for clearly some curse hung like a pall over the boys of House Okuma. Perhaps a girl’s name might deceive the evil gods and spirits. But her husband would not allow it, and so she’d named her next child Daigoro, despite the fact that he was not the fifth. The curse had already disfigured his leg; she would not hang the number of death on her newborn as well.
The thought of losing him shook her like an earthquake. Three of her four boys had already been taken before their time, and now the sight of her last living son facing live steel had shattered her completely.
“My lords,” Daigoro said, “I beg your understanding. She is beside herself with grief. Sometimes she does not know what she does.”
Samanosuke nodded, more sure of himself this time, but his grandfather was incensed. “I should think not,” he boomed. “I’ve never seen anything so disgraceful.”
“I give you my word, she will not interfere again. My men will see to it.”
“They should have seen to it the first time!”
“Quite right, Lord Sora. They should have. Rest assured that the responsible parties will be punished most harshly. In the meantime, please, if the Buddha’s compassion means anything to you, have pity on a poor woman who has lost more than she can bear.”
The breath coming from Lord Sora’s nose was as loud as a bellows. His huge red fists reminded Daigoro of the demonic Fudo statues standing guard over so many temples, the ones that had scared Daigoro so deeply as a little boy. He was a storm front in human form, and he even brought the rain with him: those dark clouds on the horizon had already reached the compound, blotting out the sun. “This is an outrage, Okuma. Most of the daimyo in Izu are younger than me, and you’re younger than the lot, but I’ve never, ever heard a daimyo called ‘my baby’ before. If you think we’re going to stand for an embarrassment like this—think what the other clans will say, a Sora beaten in a duel by a, by a—this, this won’t stand at all—”
It was all blustering from there. Daigoro offered apologies on behalf of his entire family. He offered to make good on his invitation to duel, the next time at the Sora compound. He offered a roof over the Soras’ heads. But though Samanosuke seemed amenable, his grandfather opted for a long ride home in the rain.
7
That night Daigoro sat in the teahouse, which had been prepared for many more guests than Tomo, Katsushima, and himself. Low tables ran the perimeter of the room, each one bedecked with chopsticks, a bowl for pickles, another for soup, another for rice, a space left for where the fish platters would be served, and a little bizen teacup. Daigoro supposed it was actually a mercy that his guests had left in a huff. Were they present, he would have been obliged to bottle up his suffering during their meal. As it was, Tomo could get straight to resetting his broken finger bones.
He winced and bit down hard, eyes watering, as Tomo pried the last of the fragments into place. “Terribly sorry, sir,” Tomo said, looking up with a compassionate smile. In truth Daigoro could not recall a time when he had not seen Tomo smiling. Fever, dog bites, even typhoons, nothing could sour his expression. He’d probably even smile if someone rammed a dagger in his chest. It was his way of dealing with the world’s tribulations, and in that sense he and Tomo weren’t so different. As a born samurai, Daigoro was expected to hide any pain or dismay behind a mask of equanimity. Tomo was lowborn, yet took refuge in his smile just as Daigoro took refuge in feigned serenity.
Daigoro blushed, ashamed that he’d allowed his mask to fall. Tomo finished with the fingers, binding them between thin strips of bamboo. It hurt like Fudo himself was crushing them with his great red teeth, but Daigoro managed to keep his mask on. “Thank you, Tomo. I believe you’ve saved my hand.”
“It’s nothing, sir.”
“Good night.”
“Good night, Okuma-dono.”
Daigoro watched as the potter’s boy took his leave, keeping close to the walls to avoid the heavy raindrops that still drummed against the outermost edge of the veranda. They hammered the clay tiles of the teahouse roof so steadily that it was difficult to hear anything else.
“So,” Katsushima said over the rain. “Today could have gone better.”
Daigoro chuckled, his spirits as dark and damp as the night. “Do you think so? I was hoping the rumor that my mother bested Samanosuke would spread like wildfire. Just think how everyone will fear the Okumas if their unarmed women can defeat swordsmen.”
Katsushima groaned. “What happened there? Why was she even out of her bedroom?”
“What does it matter? The damage is done.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I’ve dismissed all of her attendants, of course. At least her chamberlain had the good graces to spare me from making a proper example of him. He was a good man, and I shouldn’t have liked to execute him at all. He was sensible enough to retire to the orchard and throw himself off the cliff.”
“I wasn’t asking about the attendants.”
“Yes,” Daigoro said with a sigh. “My mother. Obviously she’ll be kept under watch until we can find more competent replacements.”
“No,” Katsushima said. Daigoro heard a distinctly chiding tone in his voice. “Your pressing problem is the Soras. And soon enough the Inoues. When do they come?”
Daigoro’s shoulders sank. “In less than a week. Not nearly enough time to patch things over with the Soras. And as bullies go, I’m told Lord Sora pales in comparison to Lord Inoue. I’ve spoiled everything, Katsushima. How did my father ever manage to keep these people in line?”
“You haven’t spoiled everything. The Soras did leave two of their famed yoroi as a gesture of goodwill.”
“That was none of my doing. They gave us those before we even sat down to tea. And I’m going to need a lot more than two breastplates if I’m to buy peace with the Inoues.”
Daigoro looked out at the raindrops spattering the faces of every
puddle in the courtyard. “It looks like Izu is going to drown tonight, Katsushima, but the truth is this place is more like a field of dry grass. It only takes a spark to start a wildfire, and this damned rivalry between the Soras and Inoues is sending sparks flying everywhere.” Daigoro pounded his fist on the table—his good fist; the right still burned like hell. “I’ve botched everything I can botch. And because of today, tomorrow will be worse.”
“Patience,” said Katsushima.
8
Lord Inoue entered the Okuma compound on the back of an enormous white mare. He was a small man, scarcely taller than Daigoro, and compensated for it with a tall hat, voluminous robes, and daisho much shorter than average, as if someone might mistake him for being larger by mistaking his swords to be of normal length. To Daigoro’s mind he wore not clothing so much as a costume. He made quite an impressive entrance, but Daigoro wondered if he’d given forethought to what would come immediately after entering. His horse was far too long-legged for him, so the samurai of the Okuma honor guard had no choice but to find somewhere else to look as the lord lowered himself off his horse, at one point dangling with both feet off the ground.
“This is the fearsome Inoue Shigekazu?” Daigoro whispered under his breath.
Katsushima, standing beside him, sniffed. “This is the man he wants you to see. A feint, exactly the same as in fighting. Tread carefully.”
Daigoro nodded. “My mother is secure?”
“Tomo is watching her himself. Well, Tomo and a host of personal guards.”
Daigoro felt his gut go cold. It was one year to the day since they’d received word of his father’s death. He should have been comforting his mother, not locking her away like a common criminal. “Today will be especially hard for her,” he whispered. “She cannot be allowed to disturb the audience with Inoue, but see to it that she is not treated harshly.”
