Year of the Demon

by Steve Bein

  Now Daigoro knew of just one solution left to him, and the mere fact that it had entered his mind inspired guilt so strong that he felt it viscerally, like a little sharp-clawed demon crawling around in his gut. His solution would solve all his family’s problems, but he was certain that neither his mother nor his wife would ever forgive him for it.

  36

  They met the crowds of the big city when they were still thirty ri from the city itself. One afternoon, still three days’ ride from Kyoto, the population of the Tokaido suddenly quintupled. By sunset the following day, the foot traffic was so steady that the road itself resembled a tiger, striped with the long shadows of scores upon scores of peasants. By the time they reached Kusatsu the Tokaido was hardly a road anymore, but rather a long and crowded open-air market. Potters and knife sharpeners, greengrocers and fishmongers, singing clowns surrounded by mobs of giggling children; the travelers lacked for nothing—except, Daigoro thought, the scent of the sea, replaced by dust and wood smoke and the musk of oxen. Patrols of Toyotomi samurai were as ubiquitous as the mangy dogs hovering on the edges of every crowd, though of course the samurai were not so thin that Daigoro could count their ribs, and the dogs carried no spears to announce their presence from a hundred paces away.

  Not only were the Toyotomi men not looking for Daigoro; they recognized neither his colors nor even the Okuma bear paw, though both were prominently displayed on his breastplate, his haori, and his horse’s tack and harness. That was good, Daigoro supposed; it proved his earlier fear of Shichio’s roving assassins was unfounded. Now he wondered whether that too was merely symptomatic of a greater fear, just like his worries about drowning in his yoroi.

  Never in his life had Daigoro been made to feel so provincial. To be born samurai was to be born into high station—not quite noble born, far short of being born into the Imperial Court, but nevertheless even a newborn samurai inherited a certain aristocracy unknown to the farmers, artisans, and merchants. As such, despite his relief at being unrecognized, Daigoro also felt somewhat insulted. He had always thought of himself as a man of world—or a boy of the world, at the very least. Now, after ten days on the road, he felt like a rube.

  And that was before he crossed the bridge into Kyoto itself. He’d always heard Kyoto was cold, and to his embarrassment he’d even packed a quilted jacket among his things. Now he wondered how it could ever get cold here, given the sheer press of human bodies. The Sanjo Ohashi was hardly the longest bridge he and Katsushima had crossed during their ride, but traffic in and out of the city was so dense that Daigoro thought he might just as well make his mare ford the river as wait to cross the bridge like a civilized person. Katsushima only clucked his tongue and said, “Patience.”

  Never before had Daigoro seen so many buildings. They were built so close to each other that the monkeys simply hopped from roof to roof. “Can you believe how many temples they have?” said Daigoro. “You could hardly throw a rock without hitting one.”

  “Brothels too,” Katsushima said wistfully.

  Not ten paces later Daigoro spotted his first southern barbarians. A group of twelve men walked in a block, hands folded and strange round eyes downcast, wearing simple orange robes. Daigoro could not help staring at their sickly pale skin. Their eyes were bizarre, too big, showing too much white. They did not shave their heads properly, but only the pate, like a samurai without his topknot. One of them had hair the same color as Katsushima’s blood bay gelding. Another had curly hair like a sheep.

  Fully half the city seemed to be newly built. Homes were packed in cheek by jowl, the shops packed in tighter still. In the space of a single block Daigoro saw three tailors, a cooper, a farrier, a furrier, a cobbler, a carpenter, a papermaker, a signmaker, a cloth dyer, two taverns, two sushi restaurants, four noodle shops, and three inns whose common rooms served food as well. Daigoro wondered what these people did all day to require so much to eat.

  There was a whole district for buying produce, still another for buying crabs, lobsters, and other fruit of the sea. Now and then a wheelbarrow would pass, stacked so high with caged poultry or bags of rice that it was impossible to see the man doing the pushing. There were geisha and there were low-class whores. There were leatherworkers, blacksmiths, goldsmiths, silversmiths. There seemed to be no imaginable service Daigoro might ever need that could not be provided for within ten minutes’ walk of where he stood.

  At the heart of the commotion was Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s home, the newly built Jurakudai. It wasn’t hard to find; one had only to look for the golden roofs. Daigoro could not begin to guess how many buildings lay within the whitewashed wall that ran the perimeter of the complex. Every one of them was crowned in gold. Even the wall had a little roof of its own, its thousands of curved roof tiles gilded at unthinkable expense. Their circular endcaps shimmered like little suns on the green surface of the moat.

  Daigoro had to circumnavigate the complex to find the front door—no short distance, to be sure; the palace was a city quarter unto itself. From every angle he could see the towering three-story keep, whose gabled roofs also shone like solid gold. Daigoro found it garish, but he also found himself second-guessing his every instinct. If riding a hundred-and-some-odd ri on the Tokaido hadn’t done the job thoroughly enough, the clamor and alarum of Kyoto had fully impressed on him the fact that he knew nothing of the world beyond his own front door.

  Now, dwarfed by the gleaming golden palace before him, he wondered if he’d taken leave of his senses entirely. Was he really so gullible as to think that gaining an audience with the imperial regent was no harder than paying a visit to a family friend? He blushed at his own naïveté. He’d ridden half the length of the empire and now he hadn’t the slightest inkling of what to do next.

  And then, impossibly, Mio Yasumasa came out to greet him.

  There was no mistaking him. If his snow-white topknot were not enough to identify him, his glittering black breastplate was so big it could almost serve to bard a horse. Mio’s shadow stretched out broad and long behind him as he lumbered through the visitor’s gate. “Young master Okuma! What a strange day this is. That viper Shichio told me I would find you here, and here you are!”

  Daigoro looked to the tower standing high atop the keep. It was a viewing deck, not a defensive structure—the walls were no more than lattice—and so Daigoro should have been able to see any observers. The tower was empty.

  “How did he know I was here?”

  “Eh? You’ll have to speak up, son. Some northern upstart had the gall to cut my ear off.”

  Mio made a flourish of cupping a hand to the scar on the left side of his head, and just as Daigoro was about to apologize, the giant let loose a thunderous laugh. Daigoro smiled with him, but he was not in a joking mood. “Please, General, tell me: does Shichio have spies watching for me? How does he know I’m here?”

  “It’s that mask of his. Pure devilry, if you ask me.” Mio sneered and spat. “He says it ‘felt you coming’—no, felt your sword coming, he said, and if you can make any sense of that, I’ll conscript you on the spot and make you my personal soothsayer. By the Buddha, I could use a clearer view of the future.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Shichio. He’s changed. Leave him to his maps and numbers and he can do your army some good, but I campaigned with him for years and never saw him draw a blade. He’s got no stomach for it. But all of a sudden he’s taken to wearing swords. Why? Why now?”

  Mio led them into the palace as he spoke, and Daigoro made a careful note of every guardpost, every building, every intersection of lanes. When he and Katsushima tethered their horses, Daigoro memorized every door and window facing the hitching posts. If they needed to make a hasty retreat, he’d need an accurate mental map.

  Katsushima was equally on edge. “Is that why you go armored?” he said. “Because you can’t foretell what Shichio might do with his swords?”

  Mio looked down at Katsushima—he was that tall—and snorted a laugh thro
ugh his nose. “Say what’s on your mind, ronin.”

  “Very well.” Katsushima’s left hand fell to his hip, and with a flick of the thumb he loosened his katana in its sheath. “I think a man dressed for battle usually intends to go to battle. So unless fashions have changed since I was last in Kyoto, you’re prepared for a fight.”

  Mio noted Katsushima’s hand but made no move for his own weapon. “Maybe I am,” he said, his tone darker than before. “Maybe I always am.” Then he slapped a big hand on his armored belly. “Or maybe I need it to keep my innards from spilling out. Ever since your little friend put his sword in my gut, it hurts every time I bump it into something—and at my size, that happens quite a lot!”

  He slapped his breastplate again, laughing mightily at his own joke, then bade Daigoro and Katsushima to follow him past a teahouse and into the garden on the opposite side.

  Hideyoshi sat on a stone bench at the edge of a tranquil little pond. The grass surrounding him was lush and green, punctuated by flat white stepping-stones tracing a winding path to the water. High walls surrounded the garden, largely invisible behind the sprays of bamboo that whispered to each other in the light breeze. Carp swam in the pond, their colors ranging from white to orange to black. Now and then came a sucking sound as one of their gaping round mouths breached the surface.

  General Shichio sat by the pond as well, petting the demon mask that rested in his lap as if it were a cat. He wore a katana at his hip, just as Mio had said, but it did not suit him. It was too short for him, and too clean; no sweating hand had ever touched it. He wore it at an awkward angle, like a sandal stuck between the wrong toes. And yet he had an eye for Glorious Victory that bordered on the lascivious. Daigoro had seen murder in the eyes of a rival swordsman before, and this wasn’t it; this was closer to rape.

  “Well, now,” said Hideyoshi, “here’s a guest we didn’t expect.”

  Somehow Daigoro’s memory hadn’t fully retained how ugly Hideyoshi was. It was a shame; Daigoro found him quite likable, and he thought fate unusually cruel to make such a personable man so simian in appearance. Then again, maybe the regent’s charisma was born from his unfortunate looks; perhaps it was a defense mechanism, born of necessity in a needlessly superficial society. Daigoro wondered why he himself had never thought to practice being charming; perhaps he could have deflected some of the bashing he’d endured all his life thanks to his lame leg.

  “Sit, sit,” Hideyoshi said, gesturing to another stone bench on the opposite side of the pond. At the raising of an eyebrow, servants sprang noiselessly into motion. Daigoro had a little cup of sake in his hand from the very moment he sat down, and Katsushima had a little cup of southern barbarian whiskey. To Mio they gave the entire flask of whiskey, along with a cup that all but vanished in his enormous hand. Then, just like that, the servants vanished back into the woodwork. Hideyoshi clapped his hands on his knees. “So, what occasions this visit?”

  “Assassins,” said Daigoro. “I just turned fifty of them out of my house.”

  Hideyoshi laughed, baring sharp teeth that pointed every which way. “Well done! Fifty, you say. That must have been quite a fight.”

  “I tried to avoid fighting, my lord regent. I nearly succeeded too, but my efforts were sabotaged.”

  “Were they, now? By whom?”

  “By the one who sent the assassins, my lord regent.”

  The regent smoothed his wispy mustache. “Ah. Some local trouble, is it? Well, you came to the right place. I like you, Okuma-san. You’ve impressed me. Tell me who the rabble-rouser is and I’ll set him straight.”

  The clacking of armor plates reminded Daigoro that Mio sat just to his left, opposite the pond from Hideyoshi and Shichio. Why was Mio sitting with him and not with his own people? Perhaps Katsushima’s earlier suspicions were right on the mark. Had Mio armored himself for a fight? Had he positioned himself to be ready to strike, or was he implicitly siding against Shichio by sitting with Daigoro? It was impossible to tell, and impossible for Daigoro to know how to answer the regent’s question. If Mio had not allied himself with Daigoro but was merely flanking him, accusing Shichio might be the last thing Daigoro ever did.

  He steeled himself, gulped down his sake, and said, “General Shichio sent the assassins, my lord.” Then he waited for Mio’s sword to clear its scabbard.

  It didn’t. Mio continued to sip his whiskey. For his part, Hideyoshi grinned, as friendly as ever. “I told you before,” he said, “you’ve impressed me, Okuma-san. Would you like to know how you can tell that I like you?”

  “Because you said so, my lord regent?”

  “Because I didn’t burn your house down.”

  All warmth vanished from Hideyoshi’s face. The smile stayed, though, an eerie, empty, hideous mask. “You’ve got some fire in you, kid. Coming all the way here with only this haggard bodyguard as your retinue? Impressive. But impressing me is one thing. Getting me to turn against one of my own top men is something else entirely.”

  “Sir,” Mio blurted, “surely he didn’t mean to—”

  “Oh yes, he did. Isn’t that so, Okuma-san? You meant to suggest that General Shichio sent assassins against my will. You thought a show of bravery against overwhelming odds would be enough to talk me into killing him. Isn’t that why you rode all the way here? Alone? Right into the dragon’s den?”

  “No, my lord regent,” said Daigoro. “I come to make a truce.”

  That brought an honest smile back to Hideyoshi’s face—the smile of a bully, to be sure, but no longer a reptilian facade. “Do you, now?” he said. “And why should I treat with a gnat like you?”

  “Because you treated with my father. Because honor demands it.”

  “Back to honor!” Hideyoshi laughed and slapped his knee. “You never tire of it, do you? Let me ask you something, Okuma. Why haven’t you killed General Shichio?”

  “My lord?”

  “You’ve had opportunity. You’ve served us food in your home; your cooks could have poisoned him, neh? Or if that offends your sense of honor, why not kill him here and now? You’re armed. You’re a fine swordsman. If this man is such a threat to your house, why haven’t you separated his head from his shoulders?”

  “Because he is your man.”

  “So what? Honor is honor, neh? What does it matter who offended you? What does it matter who his friends are? You’re bound to defend your honor anyway, neh? So do it. Cut him down.”

  “I’m afraid my lord regent may not understand honor the way I do. When you treated with the united lords of Izu, you treated with my father. That means I am to regard you as my ally. Honor forbids me from crossing an ally.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even if the ally sends assassins to your house?”

  “They were his, not yours, my lord regent. Dismiss General Shichio and I will cut him down on the spot. Otherwise he is your man and the treaty between our houses remains.”

  Hideyoshi laughed. Shichio most pointedly did not. He narrowed his eyes at Daigoro and said, “Did I just hear you threaten to kill me?”

  “It was no threat. If your master gives me the order, I will cut you in half. If he does not, then I have no course left but to parley.”

  “You? Parley with me?” Shichio sneered. “Do tell! Just what would a worm like you have to offer the likes of me?”

  “It was you who wrote Soshitake into the Sword Hunt, neh? Koyasan and Tonomine I understood; the regent has enemies there. But you were the one who slipped a third mountain into the edict, neh? In fact, I should not be surprised if the edict delivered to my family’s compound were the only copy to list Soshitake by name.”

  It was a guess, an arrow loosed in the dark, but Daigoro could see from the way Shichio’s jaw hardened that his arrow struck the mark dead center. “Little Bear Cub,” Shichio said stiffly, “you will address me with respect or I’ll have your head.”

  “You can claim my head whenever you wish. You have no honor; any
pretended slight is warrant enough for you. And since there is nothing I can do to change that, I might as well say my piece. You tried to disarm my family, General. But in truth I think you want less than that. House Okuma owns a sword you want—one sword in particular. Is that not so?”

  “What if it is?”

  “Then in exchange for a written declaration that neither you nor the lord regent will make war against my clan, House Okuma will surrender its Inazuma blade.”

  Over his left shoulder Daigoro heard a gasp from General Mio. “No,” Mio whispered. “That sword was your father’s.”

  “Whose side are you on?” snapped Shichio.

  Mio ignored him. “Think carefully on this, my boy. There must be another way.”

  “I stand by my word.” Daigoro said it quickly, decisively. He could not afford to think it over as Mio advised. He had already taken the plunge; there was no room for hesitation.

  A sly smile crept across Shichio’s face. “The sword and the monk.”

  “The monk is already dead to the world,” Daigoro said. “He will never leave his monastery again. When he dies, I hope his spirit haunts you for the rest of your days, but in this life he is no threat to anyone. And the Inazuma is a onetime offer. Take it now or show me to the door.”

  “You presume a great deal, little cub.”

  He was right and Daigoro knew it. Shichio could have him killed with no more than a word. He wouldn’t even have to do it here, where fortune might turn against him long enough to see Glorious Victory’s razor-sharp edge find his throat. Shichio had only to wait until Daigoro and Katsushima were safely outside the palace, then order an entire regiment to run them down.

  Daigoro had only two things in his favor. The first was greed. He’d seen it before in his brother, whose lust for the Inazuma had killed him. If Shichio were as mad for the blade as Daigoro suspected he was, his need for it would blind him. Even now Shichio’s eyes were fixated on it; perhaps his thoughts were equally fixed, equally immune to distraction.