Year of the Demon fb-2

by Steve Bein

  52

  Lightning struck like Raijin’s own fist, so close that the thunderclap shuddered every timber of the inn. The bolt threw a rhombus of white light through the open shoji, causing Daigoro’s bloody form to glow like a foxfire where it lay on the floor.

  In the next instant all was black, darker than it should have been even for an inn nestled deep in the pines in the dead of night. That instant of brightness made the ensuing darkness impenetrable.

  A lone figure stepped over the prostrated body. It opened Daigoro’s unresponsive mouth and forced a vile, poisonous liquid down his throat. Then, with fingertips striking as hard as hammers, it drove penetrating blows into vital nerve centers and pressure points. Each strike landed expertly, in precisely the right sequence, to ensure that the task was finished.

  It was the last blow that forced Daigoro to vomit. His body twitched and heaved, splattering the rain-slicked floorboards with poison and blood and counterpoison. Pain bent him into a fetal position. With one arm he clutched his aching belly, and with the other hand he pressed down on the seeping wound in his neck.

  Lightning flashed again, illuminating the little glass bottle that the figure astride him had emptied into his gullet. “What was that?” Daigoro groaned, his reeling eyes trying to focus on the bottle.

  “Antivenom,” said the shinobi crouching above him. “An old formula. We carry it often. Too easy to be cut on one’s own blade.”

  “No. I mean, what—what poisoned me?”

  His shinobi did not deign to answer, leaving Daigoro to piece things together himself. He recalled collapsing to the floor. That explained his throbbing forehead, but not the sharp pain in his throat bones. Something hard and thin had struck him there.

  A knife-hand strike. He remembered now. It was meant to crush his windpipe, to keep him from vomiting. And there was the vile taste a moment before, burning his tongue like fire. He’d been asleep, and he’d opened his eyes to see a shadow-clad figure above him.

  They’d struggled. Daigoro could still feel it: the panic of being entangled in his bedclothes. Pain rupturing through his right hand as he landed a punch. Poison raging through his guts like wildfire. He remembered the world slowing to a crawl. His senses took on the preternatural clarity of the dying. A hissing noise like an arrow in flight, audible even over the wind and the rain. A glimmer of steel flashing past his face. A tiny thunk when it caught his assailant behind the ear.

  The shuriken wasn’t fatal. It had only driven the assassin back. Daigoro had finished the rest, grabbing the shuriken with his good hand and ripping it across his assailant’s throat. The wounds went numb where he’d cut his fingers on the shuriken. Venom. He remembered stumbling toward his cabin door, delirious. Then nothing.

  “You,” Daigoro said, his throat still burning with bile, “you saved my life.”

  “Yes,” said the shinobi. “Most uncautious. Should learn not to sleep so soundly.”

  Daigoro looked at the dead man sprawled at the foot of his bed. He recognized his face: another ninja, one of six he’d hired from the Wind. This one had been masquerading as Daigoro’s palanquin bearer. For three days Daigoro had traveled with him, even shared meals with him, and tonight he’d killed him.

  Daigoro struggled to his feet. The wind knocked him over twice before he managed it, and when he stiff-armed the doorjamb to steady himself, his right hand recoiled in pain. His fingers were broken again, the same ones Sora Samanosuke had broken in their duel. Hot lines of pain burned in his left hand too, across the palm and the pads of the fingers, everywhere the shuriken had left its mark.

  “What’s the time?” he said.

  “Time to flee,” said the shinobi. “This inn, no longer safe.”

  “No,” Daigoro said, frustrated with his inability to communicate. The attack, the poison, the shinobi’s violent curative, they’d conspired to beat his brain into something approaching drunkenness. “What I mean to say is, why were you in my rooms at this hour? How did you know to look for an assassin?”

  The shinobi grunted. “Sent message to Shichio. Confirmed assassination of Bear Cub. He responded with pleasure, not confusion. Only one explanation.”

  Daigoro stepped out on the veranda, hoping the cold rain whipping his face might also whip the fogginess from his mind. “How did you know?”

  “Didn’t. Shichio’s reaction proved it. From there, only a matter of waiting.”

  Daigoro tried to make out the shinobi’s face, but it was too dark. He was certain this was the shinobi he’d first spoken to—that lupine voice was unmistakable—but somehow he’d still never gotten a clear look at the man’s features. They’d traveled together for three days and three nights, but this one had always ridden ahead as a scout until sundown, and from sunrise onward Daigoro had always been confined to his palanquin. The Wind had chosen to disguise him as a junior emissary of Tokugawa Ieyasu, on the assumption that no one would molest even the lowliest lickspittle of such a powerful lord. Daigoro could not begin to guess how they’d stolen a palanquin bearing the triple hollyhock leaves of the Tokugawa, with uniforms and weapons to match. It was enough that the emblems were authentic, and that the six ninja in his employ were utterly fearless, even of the most powerful warlords in the empire.

  “What’s your name?” he said.

  “Stupid question.”

  “I just wanted to thank you.”

  “The Wind is without name. I am of the Wind.”

  “Well, thank you anyway,” Daigoro said, choosing not to add, you stubborn son of a bitch. “For saving my life.”

  “Too early to be thankful. Now matters are worse.”

  “Why?”

  The shinobi looked at him as if Daigoro were holding his sword backward. “Well?” Daigoro said. “Am I wrong to think I’m better off now that my assassin is dead? Does that make me an idiot?”

  “We do not know how many Shichio has in our company. We do not know whether this one prearranged a second message to Shichio. We know nothing.”

  “Second message?”

  Even over the storm, Daigoro heard the ninja grumble. “No fool, your assassin. Must have anticipated a false report to Shichio. True confirmation of your death would be followed by a second message, verifying the authenticity of the first. A code phrase, something no one else could guess. I could have extracted it from him. You killed him too soon.”

  Daigoro didn’t like the way he said extracted. He didn’t like being blamed for defending himself either. What was he supposed to do, lie back and let his assassin go about his business?

  Even as these irritations crossed his mind, he also felt ashamed. Not only had he killed their only source of intelligence on the enemy, but he’d even managed to poison himself while doing it. He squeezed his left hand into a fist, mashing the open cuts in his palm. Let this be a reminder, he thought. You’re alone now. Self-pity and impetuous action are luxuries you can no longer afford.

  In his mind he could hear the same warning, the same lesson, summed up in a single word: patience. He missed Katsushima more than ever.

  “So what now?” he said.

  “You already know.”

  There was that look again, as if Daigoro were a wayward schoolboy. “All right,” Daigoro said, “I’ll work that one out for myself. You said Shichio was happy to hear I’m dead. That means the one you sent to confirm my death must have reported back to you already. When?”

  “Last night.”

  A rush of righteous anger hit Daigoro like a slap. This man—his hireling, bought and paid for—had let an entire day slip by with no mention of the threat on his master’s life. No samurai should brook such an offense; Daigoro had the right to behead a servant just for spilling his tea.

  But Daigoro had given up his station. His highborn instincts would not serve him anymore, and in any case, this shinobi had taken heroic efforts to keep Daigoro alive. Had the man slept last night, or had he kept a vigil just like tonight, waiting for the assassin to strike? Daigoro ass
umed the latter—and if he was right, then this hireling of his was forged out of pure steel. As the company’s outrider he would have covered twice the distance of the palanquin bearers he scouted for. He’d been riding hard for three days in a row, he hadn’t slept in two nights, and not only did he show no sign of tiring, but he was the one saving Daigoro’s life, not the other way around.

  “Last night,” Daigoro muttered absently, working out the logistics in his head. Traveling by palanquin was cumbersome. As of last night they’d been two days on the road—less than a day’s ride on a fast horse. If the shinobi’s messenger could report from Kyoto in that time, then Shichio’s second message, the one confirming Daigoro’s death, could have reached him in the same time. That meant the second message was already at least a day overdue, and maybe two. “Oh, hell,” Daigoro said. “Shichio already knows his assassin failed.”

  A mute nod.

  “And that means more assassins are already on our heels.”

  “Amateurs. The Wind would already have killed you.”

  Daigoro found it hard to take comfort in that. He was a novice at this game himself. Shichio wasn’t. If he knew his newest henchmen were not up to the task, he had only to send them in greater numbers.

  “We’ll have to abandon the palanquin,” Daigoro said. It was too slow, and even if it were not, Shichio’s informants might have told him of it already. Shichio was no simpleton; as soon as he learned Daigoro rode not a horse but a sedan chair, he would understand why. It wasn’t enough for Daigoro to travel disguised; he needed complete invisibility. He was a runt who walked with a distinctive limp. His odachi was famous, and even those who knew nothing of swords could see it was too big for him. His tack alone was enough to give him away: Daigoro could not ride without the special saddle crafted by Old Yagyu, the one that accommodated his lame, wasted leg.

  The only way for Daigoro to conceal his size, his leg, his saddle, and his father’s sword was to box them up and keep them out of sight. A sedan chair was the perfect solution, and traveling under Tokugawa insignia afforded an extra degree of protection. To leave it behind was to abandon his best chance for speed and secrecy, but Daigoro could see no other choice.

  “To hell with it,” he said, trying to sound confident. “It was hot enough in that palanquin to boil noodles. And my mare never cared for you anyway; she’ll be happy to have me back in the saddle.”

  He beckoned the shinobi into his rooms and closed the shoji behind them. It did nothing to silence the raging storm, but at least they wouldn’t get any wetter. They sat in the center of the bedchamber, farthest from the walls, where prying ears couldn’t hear them over the weather. “I wanted us to sail from the beginning. You overruled me. Why?”

  The shinobi said nothing; he only nodded toward the dead man lying on the floor.

  “You knew Shichio had an agent in your ranks?”

  “Knew it was possible. That was enough.”

  Daigoro looked at the body and shuddered. He’d contracted six men to deliver him to Izu in secret. At present he only could trust two of them. One had just saved his life. The other lay staring at the ceiling, his throat ripped open, proof positive that the other four could also be Shichio’s. Daigoro’s savior had anticipated that possibility, and that was why he’d refused to sail. Maybe the palanquin allowed him to keep his charge boxed up and safe, or maybe being trapped aboard a ship would have left him fewer avenues of escape if fortune turned against him. Daigoro didn’t need to understand his reasoning. It was enough to know that his last remaining shinobi was trustworthy, and that Shichio’s knives might be in the very next room.

  But if the other four ninja were Shichio’s men, wouldn’t they have struck by now? Daigoro almost voiced the question, but then thought better of it. He was not like Shichio. Deceit did not come naturally to him, and that left him defenseless. Better to trust no one than to risk another attack. “We must leave the rest of your clansmen behind,” he said.

  “At last your mind is clear.”

  Daigoro was hardly accustomed to being spoken to in this way, least of all by a hired hand, but in this case he was proud he’d finally gotten something right. “Like it or not, you’re the one man I have to trust. And since neither of us is a traitor, we can travel by sea again. Unless . . . no. It’s too late for that, isn’t it?”

  The shinobi made a grunting noise that Daigoro took for assent. It made sense. Ships were faster than horses. If Shichio’s riders were already on Daigoro’s heels, then his sea captains might well have reached Izu by now. Daigoro had no doubt that Shichio would send ships. He had the might of Toyotomi Hideyoshi behind him, and a fleet to rival the Mongol hordes of old. Daigoro could not set sail until this storm blew itself out, and by then, the swiftest sloop ever put to sea would not be fast enough for him.

  “But where do we go now?” he said. “If the sea and the Tokaido are barred to us, the only paths I can see are to travel overland or to sprout wings—and I’m not sure the former is any more realistic than the latter.”

  “You overlook the obvious.”

  “Do I?” Daigoro scrunched his eyebrows and thought about it. The back roads were laid not by the great houses but by farmers. They connected villages, not cities or ports. Some ran nowhere at all; they tapered out halfway up a mountain, for reasons only the local grandfathers could remember. Few were charted, all were winding, and none were well maintained. A night like tonight would wash many of them out of existence.

  “I give up,” he said. “What is so ‘obvious’ here? Where the Tokaido has bridges, the lesser roads have fords. If this storm topples trees, they’ll be cleared from the Tokaido. Not so for the other roads. Shichio will hasten his wedding plans the moment he learns I am still alive. So tell me, how am I to outrace him by clambering over every obstacle between here and Izu? I don’t even know where here is.”

  “Childish. You have a mind like thin ice. No flexibility.”

  “And afraid it might crack? Is that what you think? That I’m afraid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then teach me to think like water, damn you. Show me what leeway I have to adapt. My enemy commands the oceans, riding the back roads will take weeks I do not have, and the Tokaido is watched.”

  “Not the Tokaido. You.”

  Daigoro’s shoulders slumped and his head sagged. “What difference could that possibly make?”

  “Obvious. Send me in your stead.”

  “That’s no solution. What I’m going to ask for is too outrageous for anyone but me to ask it.”

  “New disguises, then. Your limp, easy to hide. Your weapon, impossible. Do what must be done.”

  “Oh, no. If it weren’t for this sword, I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. I’m not getting rid of her now.”

  The shinobi snorted. “Then your mind is not clear after all. You are a child. As well ask for a square egg as to ask me to deliver you to your family’s home. You wish to be there without going there. You refuse straight paths and then complain of curves and corners. You would go without being seen, without surrendering that which makes you seen. Pah!”

  Daigoro made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Pain and weariness and despair bore down on him, so heavy that he wasn’t sure he could stand. He was desperate, he’d run out of options, and now he’d managed to aggravate even his unflappable companion. He’d never seen anyone display as much anger as this nameless man now captured in a single scowl. And this was his last friend in the world.

  He wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. Even an hour would be enough. He was so tired he could hardly think. But Shichio’s riders could arrive at any moment. For the hunted man, rest was an enemy, not an ally.

  He forced himself to his feet. “You’re right,” he said, marshaling what little energy he had left. “I ask the impossible. But we have three advantages in our favor.”

  “Optimistic. Stupid.”

  Daigoro would not be deterred. “First, any good knife can ma
ke a round egg square. Second, my family’s compound is not our destination.”

  “I am to deliver you to Izu. To prevent your enemy from wedding your mother.”

  “Yes, but doing that from my mother’s house is impossible. The answer to that riddle lies in the house of Yasuda.”

  The furrows between the shinobi’s eyebrows grew deeper and darker. “This clan is unknown to me.”

  “To Shichio too. They’re just up the road from my family’s compound. Trust me; Shichio may have men on the road, but he won’t be watching House Yasuda itself.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Of course. Why waste the manpower? The Yasudas are no threat to him.”

  The shinobi breathed loudly through his nostrils. “You said three advantages. You named only two.”

  “Ah, yes,” Daigoro said with a smile. “The third is that I have you with me. And there’s no place the Wind cannot reach.”

  53

  Daigoro stood proudly at the wheel, his ketch in plain view of the fleet blockading the Izu Peninsula. His starched haori snapped in the crosswind, whose gusts were so powerful that Daigoro had to brace his feet against them. Sometimes he had to clutch the spokes or else be lifted bodily overboard. The storm he’d weathered had finally broken, but by no means had it blown itself out. There were still clouds all the way to the horizon, and all of them were in a foul, blustering mood.

  Another squall raked the ship, forcing him to hold tight to the wheel. His hands burned like hellfire. Fortunately his shinobi knew techniques for binding broken bones—techniques quite similar to Tomo’s, in fact—and like Tomo he’d bound Daigoro’s two broken fingers to a little curved splint. It allowed Daigoro to hold things like sword grips and the spokes of a ship’s wheel, but Daigoro feared the bones would mend in a curve, so that he’d never be able to fully straighten his right hand again.