by Steve Bein
Kaida watched the light play on them as they came up. They were the strangest school of fish she’d ever seen.
Genzai rumbled like distant thunder, and his anger seemed to lessen somewhat. His breath was less audible, at any rate, and his shoulders and jaws relaxed. Perhaps it was relief at seeing the sword, and no abatement in his anger at all. Kaida wondered if he still meant to kill her.
At length, begrudgingly, he said, “I suppose you’ll be wanting me to make good on my word.”
“And then some,” Kaida said.
He grunted again. “You press your luck too far, little girl.”
“You said whoever got the sword could name her reward. And you promised to take me with you if I told you how we could dive better. So I did. I told you to tether the mask, not our ankles.”
“What of it?”
The strange fish were almost to the surface now, close enough that she could make out the fangs and horns of the mask. “So you were sworn to take me with you even if the sword remained at the bottom until the ocean dries up. Now you owe me my reward as well.”
He grunted again, almost growling. She didn’t look up, but she could hear him scratching behind his beard. “This one’s too clever by half,” Tadaaki said.
“She is. And damn it all, I’m a man of my word. Name your price, Kaida-san.”
“Not here,” she whispered. “There are too many people listening.”
She wasn’t wrong. Every last villager fixated on her, agape, stunned into silence. Not only had Kaida spared the village from Genzai’s wrath, but she’d also pulled off the impossible, diving deeper and longer than the best ama in the village. She did not meet their stares, and did not speak again until all the other boats had turned in to shore. She waited until the wild-haired grandfather had his iron mask back in hand and Tadaaki had bound the Inazuma blade to his own body, so that even if he were killed it would not sink out of reach again. All the while Genzai scowled at her wordlessly.
At last she asked him, “You’re shinobi, neh? Men of magic?”
“There are no magic men. The only place you’ll find shinobi is in fairy tales.”
“Fairy tales and in this boat. You said it earlier. ‘Spoken like a true shinobi.’ That’s what you said.”
“Too clever by half,” he muttered, frowning at her. “If I were any other man, I’d drown you here and now.”
“But you’re not. You’re a man of your word.”
His grimace became a squint-eyed scowl. “Name your price, then.”
“I want to be one of you. A shinobi. I want you to train me.”
He scratched behind his beard. “You do not know what you ask.”
“What need is there to know? I know I cannot stay here. I know my father would do better to see me go than to see me killed by his own stepdaughter’s hand. And I know if I go with you, you’ll sell me off as a whore at your first opportunity. Neh?”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“Then I need you to make me one of your own. I cannot dive and fish for the rest of my life. Now I see how much more is possible. I don’t want to be pushed around ever again. Nobody pushes you around. You overpowered my whole village with six men. I want to learn how to do that.”
Genzai scowled. A guttural growl rumbled out of him.
The wild-haired one finally broke the silence. “She has her uses,” he said, caressing the mask in his hands. “She has proven her fortitude. And cripples pose no threat. We can put her close to targets we could not otherwise approach.”
“Nonsense,” said Genzai. “There is no place the Wind cannot reach.”
Kaida had no idea what that meant. They didn’t give her time to puzzle it out. “She did retrieve the sword for us,” said Tadaaki, seeming to meet Kaida’s gaze with his missing eye.
“And you would speak to me of what? Debt? Morality?” Genzai scoffed. “The Wind recognizes neither. We have the sword in hand. What is past is irrelevant.”
“Your word isn’t,” said Kaida. All this talk of wind made little sense to her, but she understood moral obligation well enough. “Your word may be in the past, but it matters in the present. You said I could name my reward. Do you stand by that or not?”
“Watch your mouth or I’ll sew it shut,” said Genzai. “Do not take that tone with me again.”
There was an uneasy silence, broken at last by the old man with the wild white hair. “There is another consideration. We have achieved our ends, yes. With or without the girl, we can deliver the Inazuma to whomever we wish. But when that man falls, or when his ambitions no longer coincide with our own, we must place the sword in new hands.”
“What of it?” said Genzai.
“For that we may require the mask again. The other divers did not succeed with it. Can we say with certainty that we know why? Perhaps this cripple was the stronger swimmer, or perhaps her spirit has an accord with the mask, one we do not yet understand. This girl may be a tool for us, just as the sword and the mask are tools.”
“Then we will forge another tool. I will not be a wet nurse.”
“Masa spoke highly of her,” said Tadaaki, seeming to study her again with that empty pit that should have been an eye. “Sharp ears and a strong heart, that’s what he said.”
“He did,” said Genzai.
An image flashed in Kaida’s mind: Masa’s drowned body falling lifelessly to the sand. Then came another image: Masa falling to the sand in a fit of laughter. She’d felt embarrassment at the time, but now she understood that he hadn’t been mocking her; he’d merely been taken aback by her naïveté. If he was mocking anyone, it was Ama-machi.
Hearing he’d spoken up for her gave Kaida a little surge of pride. It also gave her hope. Masa had perceived Ama-machi’s true nature; he understood why it could never be Kaida’s home. His vote of confidence in her said she could find a home among these men. And Masa and Genzai had been good friends. Kaida was sure of it: she’d seen Genzai’s distress when Masa died. Genzai would take Masa’s word seriously. He just had to take Kaida in. She had no other prospects for survival.
“No,” Genzai said. “I cannot. I will not.” Kaida thought he meant to speak with finality, but she also thought she heard a hint of doubt in his deep, grating voice.
“Consider it this way,” Tadaaki said. “You may get lucky. Like as not she’ll die in the training.”
That got an appreciative nod out of Genzai. “What do you say to that, little girl? He has it right: you may not become one of us. You’re far more likely to become a corpse.”
“Better than dying in Ama-machi.”
“Is it?” He scratched behind his beard. “I suppose it may be at that.” Then he shook his head, as if snapping out of a bad dream. “No. You will find no place among us.”
“Then you lose nothing by taking me in,” Kaida said.
“We have no soft futon for you, only a dirt floor. We would sooner serve you shoe leather than fish. Do you think your sisters torment you? Our sensei are worse. Do you think it was difficult, diving for Glorious Victory Unsought? We will push you into the depths of hell. Do not underestimate the comforts of home.”
“A crippled girl is not at home anywhere. My mother is gone and my father has turned his back on me. My village is a prison and my house is a cage of predators. If a cold corner on your dirt floor is all the home you can offer me, it is still more than this crippled orphan can expect.”
“You may live to regret those words.”
“Then make me regret them. Take me with you.”
The two of them studied each other a long time. Kaida could not put her finger on what it was—a slight relaxing of the shoulders, perhaps, a hint of resignation in his breath—but she knew it the moment he changed his mind.
“You cannot kill me willfully,” Kaida said. “You must swear to do your best to train me. If I die anyway . . . well, that’s the fate I get.”
“We shall see soon enough. Welcome to the Wind.”
BOOK
NINE
AZUCHI-MOMOYAMA PERIOD, THE YEAR 21
(1588 CE)
50
The brothel in Minakuchi was called the Bridge to the Other Shore and it was true to its name. The broad reception room was in fact a bridge: a narrow brook bisected its floor, burbling pleasantly and giving the building an unusually cool atmosphere. The brothel itself was unusually long and unusually narrow, extending from the road over the brook and deep into the bamboo grove flanking the road. The interior walls were reminiscent of a covered bridge in their construction, just substantial enough to contain the milder air within them.
After a long day of hot late summer riding, Daigoro knew he should have found the Bridge to the Other Shore refreshing. Instead, he felt no less embarrassed than the first time he’d entered a pleasure house. Evidently these things grew no easier with time.
Nevertheless, he knew Katsushima had advised him rightly: he could only afford to stay with those who would not betray his presence. He had even hoped to find Katsushima here, though that was all but hopeless. The brothels along the Tokaido were countless, Katsushima could have chosen any one of them, and none of them would disclose the fact that he was there. That was precisely why wanted ronin took their lodging in a house that knew the value of discretion.
As Katsushima did not happen to be dangling his feet in the brook, Daigoro had no way of knowing whether his friend was under the same roof. He saw only the girls, so delicate that they almost seemed weightless. One of them bowed as he entered and escorted him across the zigzagging slate bridge in the center of the room. “Welcome to the Other Shore,” she said.
Daigoro endured the standard conversational gymnastics, deflecting her flirtations and bandying about food and comfort as an indirect way of discussing the price of a room. Katsushima had always found the game exhilarating, but as Daigoro had no intention of laying claim to one of the girls in the end, he only found it tiresome. He was scarcely a day’s ride out of Kyoto, he’d already gone two days without sleeping, and there was yet more to do before bedding down tonight.
But his rooms were comfortable, the food was warm and filling, and the very walls were redolent with perfume and incense and spice. He almost nodded off while drinking his tea.
It was the sensation of slipping into sleep that caused him to snap back, wakeful and wary. He’d escaped the sprawling capital, but Minakuchi and the Other Shore were still in the heart of the Kansai, and visions of General Mio’s mutilated body left Daigoro feeling cold. He would not feel safe until he was well clear of Shichio’s hunting grounds.
He called for the madam and asked for a girl who was skilled in conversation. It was one of the geisha arts, and an expensive one at that. Daigoro wasn’t sure what he’d do when his money ran out—he’d never been paid to work in his entire life, and hadn’t the slightest idea of how to go about seeking employment—but he needed to gather information and he remembered Katsushima mentioning on their long ride from Izu that this was the best way to do that. Daigoro wished he had Katsushima with him now.
The girl’s name was Hanako and her kimono was of the palest blue silk, tastefully embroidered with parasols the color of cherry blossoms. She was tiny, not as pretty as Aki but shapely enough to make Daigoro remember how long he’d been away from home. They talked about trivia first, but only long enough for Daigoro to steer the conversation toward politics. “I hear the regent has been beset by something of a storm,” he said. “One of his chief advisers retired or was sent away, I’m told.”
“Oh yes, quite the to-do,” said Hanako. “Only the adviser did not take his leave; Toyotomi-sama executed his adviser on grounds of treason. Can you believe it? It was one of his generals as I recall, a man called Mio.”
“Is that so?”
“Neh?” Hanako clearly found the whole affair terribly scandalous, and all the more delicious for that. “They say Mio-sama was caught with letters to Tokugawa Ieyasu. You know who he is, of course. Well, the regent couldn’t very well have the likes of Tokugawa killed, neh? Think of the message that would send to all the other great houses! So he ordered Mio-sama to open his belly.” She giggled. “And it was quite a belly. As I heard it, this General Mio could have swallowed a whale.”
“I heard something similar.” Daigoro forced a smile, but his mind recalled images of Mio’s terrible, gaping wounds.
“Can you imagine the mess, Daigoro-sama? A big, disgusting man like that. Not like you, my lord.”
So it’s back to bantering, Daigoro thought. He said just enough to keep the conversation going. His mind was elsewhere, trying to get the measure of Shichio. The man was as comfortable with deceit as Daigoro was with breathing. He used his lies as deftly as a sword, cutting down his enemies while defending himself. Katsushima’s suggestion of resorting to shinobi no longer seemed desperate at all. Shichio was a foe unlike any Daigoro had ever faced. Squaring off against an enemy with a sword was simple—terrifying, yes, but simple. But Shichio didn’t square off with his enemies; he maneuvered and manipulated, always from the shadows, and if a steadfast retainer was sometimes killed in the process, so be it.
Daigoro didn’t know how to fight an enemy who wouldn’t come out of the shadows. The only recourse he could see was to hire shadow warriors to fight in his stead. It shamed him even to think of it—his father would never have allowed someone else to do his fighting for him—but Daigoro didn’t see what else he could do.
“Tell me, Hanako, have you ever heard of the Wind?”
She giggled. “Have I ever heard the wind? Silly man. What kind of question is that?”
“Magic men. Shinobi. You’ve heard of them?”
More giggling. “Of course. And tengu and kappa and snow-women too. What do bedtime stories have to do with hearing the wind?”
“Shinobi are more than bedtime stories. Many daimyo hire them, especially in the Kansai.”
Now Hanako laughed out loud. “Ah! And now I understand. You aren’t from around here, are you? I knew it! It’s your accent.”
“Be serious.”
“How can I, with you toying with me like this?” She giggled, or at least pretended to in order to take the focus away from Daigoro’s hinterland gullibility. “You’ve heard about our local legends and you’re trying to scare me. The wind! Honestly, Daigoro-sama, you’re too much.”
Daigoro swallowed his frustration along with the last of the sake. Pointless, he thought; it’s all pointless. Maybe back in Izu he might have known which ears he ought to whisper to if he wanted to hire shinobi, but finding them here was like finding a snowflake in a waterfall.
He dismissed Hanako and doused the lantern. As tired as he was, he found he couldn’t sleep, which only added to his frustration. It was shameful enough that he’d resorted to hiring someone else to fight his battles for him. Simply attempting it already betrayed his father’s principles. Worse still was the fact that he’d betrayed his principles and hadn’t accomplished anything by it. He’d compromised his conscience, and his reward was exactly what his father would have said it would be: nothing. Nothing but guilt and disappointment.
He lay in bed for an eternity before the weight of his shame lifted enough that he could sleep.
• • •
When he woke he saw a man sitting at the foot of his bed.
Daigoro recoiled, his heart a ball of ice. The man did not react. He was barely visible, a presence felt as much as seen, for although the moon was three-quarters full, she shed little light through the room’s only window. The door had not opened. Daigoro was certain of that. And the window was nothing more than a long, narrow transom running along the top of the back wall; nothing bigger than a finch could get through it. Yet there the man sat, cross-legged, looking at him.
Daigoro reached for Glorious Victory and could not find her. His wakizashi was missing as well. He carried no knife and his armor was bundled in the corner. He was naked, defenseless, and alone.
“You seek the Wind,” the man said.
; His voice was low and gravelly, the voice a boulder might have. Daigoro found it eerie that even when he spoke his body did not move at all. Daigoro could not even see him breathing.
“I do,” Daigoro said, and the pleading tone in his voice shamed him.
“For what purpose?”
“I have an enemy. I want him dead.”
“Then kill him.”
Daigoro swallowed. “He is beyond my reach.”
“Name him.”
“Shichio.”
Daigoro’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. He could just make out the whites of his visitor’s eyes, though he could discern no other features. The man did not blink. Ever.
He stared at Daigoro, silent for so long that Daigoro wondered whether he’d actually managed to say Shichio’s name, or whether he’d heard himself in his mind but hadn’t mustered enough self-control to voice it aloud. “General Shichio,” he said. “He is Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s man.”
“He is known to us.”
“Us?”
Those eyes shifted to a point beyond Daigoro’s right shoulder. Daigoro twisted where he sat, straining in the dark to see what his visitor might have been looking at.
More eyes stared back at him.
Daigoro all but leaped out of his skin. Three more figures sat behind him, silent as statues. He could only make out their eyes. A chill washed over him, goose bumps too, despite the heat of the night. He scrambled away from his futon, crab-walking until his shoulder blades struck a wall panel. Not one of the four figures moved. Only their eyes followed him.
“Expensive,” said the only one who had spoken.
“But you can do it?”
“There is no place the Wind cannot reach.”
Daigoro’s eyes strained against the dark, trying to make out something, anything, of his interlocutor’s face. It was not lost on him that there were four shinobi, and that four was the number of death. It was a symbol; these men had brought death to Daigoro’s bedchamber.
