by Nick Lake
Shusaku looked at Taro, who was bedecked now in the opulent clothes, and whose feet had disappeared entirely beneath a flowing pool of silk on the ground, his hands concealed by great wide sleeves.
The ambassador was a lot bigger than him.
Shusaku adjusted one of the sleeves. “Hmm. Well, it might do, if you’re sitting down.”
He beckoned Hiro forward. “Bend your neck,” he said, then began to wrap his scarf around Hiro’s face, leaving only the boy’s eyes uncovered.
“What are you doing?” asked Hiro.
“We may not need it,” said Shusaku. “If they believe that Taro is who he is supposed to be. But if you hear me say the word ‘balance,’ straightaway you yelp as if in pain and drop the palanquin. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good.”
Shusaku bent down to the larger of the prone servants. He flourished a knife that seemed to have been conjured from nowhere. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, then cut off the man’s left little finger. The prostrate man did not stir, still sleeping soundly from the drug in the dart.
Taro could hardly believe what he had just seen. “Hey!” he said. “What are you doing?”
Shusaku weighed the finger in his hand. “It is not much to him, the smallest finger of his left hand. Its loss will not prevent him from wielding a sword, or a pen.” He reached inside his kimono and removed a gold coin. Once again Taro wondered how the ninja was able to secret such things about his person, as if his clothes, whether borrowed or not, were capable of producing on demand the items of his requirement. Taro had seen Shusaku replace his clothes after swimming to the small boat the previous night—and had seen no evidence of the swords, blowpipes, coins, and gods-knew-what-else that the man apparently carried.
Shusaku tore a length from his cast-aside ninja’s scarf, bandaged the servant’s stump with it, then curled the man’s fingers over, like a small octopus closing over its prey, and slipped the coin into the grip so created. “A small compensation for your loss,” he murmured to the unconscious man. “You see, to us your littlest finger is much indeed, if it keeps us safe tonight.”
“How would it keep us safe?” asked Taro. He was, despite himself, impressed by the ninja’s generosity, even if he had just maimed a man for no clear reason. A gold coin of that size could buy a small holding of several square ri.
Shusaku ignored him, handing the finger to Hiro. “When you drop the palanquin, you also drop this, all right? And you look at it, so as to make sure that others notice it too.”
Hiro took the finger with a disgusted expression and tucked it into a pocket in his robe. “If you’ll just tell me why I must carry this finger and cover my face, then—”
Shusaku put a finger to his lips. “An old man must have his secrets,” he said.
Shusaku moved toward the palanquin, stretching the muscles of his arms and shoulders. Taro climbed inside the little carriage, and felt it rise into the air. He sat back. He was proud of Hiro’s strength, and grateful for it. If Hiro had not been as large as he was, Taro didn’t know how they would have disguised themselves to get into the town.
Two slits had been cut into the front of the palanquin so that the person inside could see out, without anyone being able to easily see in. Taro looked through these eyeholes as the palanquin turned around, and he saw the bodies of the men Shusaku had knocked out.
“Wait,” said Shusaku. “Put the palanquin down.”
Taro leaned out of the door. “What is it?”
Shusaku had lifted up one of the bodies by the armpits. “Help me hide these in the undergrowth,” he said to Hiro. “They won’t stir for many incense sticks, but we don’t want anyone seeing them. With any luck, they’ll realize what happened and get safely away before Oda finds them, and punishes them for letting us overpower them.”
Taro rolled his eyeballs. “Lord Oda is merciful,” he said. “They’re just servants. They can’t be expected to defend themselves against a trained ninja. A person cannot be killed simply for failing in the face of impossible odds.”
Shusaku came back for the third man, the ambassador himself. “Usually,” he said softly, “that is just what gets people killed.”
CHAPTER 12
Ito Kazei walked down the long corridor, the echoes of his tabi on the stone floor seeming to measure out the remainder of his life. He would have liked dearly to dawdle, but when Lord Oda Nobunaga requested one’s presence at one’s soonest convenience, it was a request in name only, and was rarely convenient. It was said that when a distant family member had been too slow to offer his condolences at the funeral of Oda Masahine, Nobunaga’s father, Nobunaga had forced the miscreant to commit seppuku right there, disemboweling himself with his own ceremonial sword.
Ordinarily, a samurai committing this most sacred of ritual acts was accorded the courtesy of a second—another samurai who would stand behind and decapitate him as his blade cut through his guts, allowing him to escape much of the terrible pain.
Nobunaga always refused.
Many had wailed for Nobunaga’s father that day. But their sobs had been drowned out by the cries of the dying man, who’d knelt by the pyre with his guts at his feet for hours before death had come for him, too.
Ito was carrying the sword as he walked—not sheathed, as that would be an unforgivable presumption, but wrapped in oiled cloths and cradled in his arms. He increased his pace, careful not to drop the precious package. This sword had cost him several months of work, with him beating and re-beating the three steel bars that made up the blade, hammering and cooling them with great precision in order to achieve a shinogi line that undulated along the dull edge of the blade, a pale blue wave against the gleaming silver.
It was the finest blade Ito had ever made. And he had instructed his artisans to create the finest tsuka hilt and the most beautifully decorated tsuba hand guard ever produced, to complement the sharp metal and create a weapon of the most extraordinary beauty. An excellent nobleman’s sword might take several days to make. Lord Oda’s had been three months in the workshop.
When one of Lord Oda’s retainers had presented himself to Ito and asked that he make a sword for the daimyo, Ito had been proud of the skill that he had spent so many years honing, perfecting it as the blade is perfected by the hammer and the forge. For his reputation to have reached the ears of the lord was praise indeed.
But he had also been terrified. Oda was known to have acquired the title of sword saint, or kensei . Various sword masters from the length and breadth of the country could attest to his skill—if they still lived. But everyone who had ever dueled with Oda was dead, and they had been many too.
A door opened ahead of Ito, and a girl’s face of astonishing beauty looked out. Ito almost gasped out loud. He had heard of the legendary looks of Hana, Lord Oda’s only daughter. But he had assumed them to be exaggerations—obsequious flattery disguised as gossip, in order to keep the lord happy. Ito stopped, without even being aware of it. He stared at the girl. She truly was exquisite: her dark, limpid eyes were as midnight pools, and her long eyelashes strands of weeping willow. Her skin was white with blushes of pink, like the blossom that was her namesake. There was a nervousness about her, a restless kind of grace, but this only made her more attractive. Ito had heard that Lord Oda feared for her safety. He wondered what could possibly threaten this beautiful girl, what kind of man—or demon—could possibly want to hurt her.
He was not aware that he was staring at her. She cast her eyes down, her cheeks flushing, and retired into the room. The door shut behind her. Ito, who had not even been aware he was holding his breath, let it out. He continued on his way.
The end of the corridor arrived too soon, and Ito could no longer delay. He stood in front of the heavy wooden door. Voices came from the other side. “Where is the boy?” Ito heard Oda say, in his unmistakable gruff voice. Ito had seen the lord only when he and his retainers had ridden past the workshop on one or other of their hunting exped
itions, but he had learned quickly to distinguish the man’s authoritative tone and deep timbre.
There was an indistinguishable mumble from someone else, then a clattering sound of metal on stone. “I sent you for the boy,” shouted Oda. “And you return with nothing but excuses. He’s nothing but a child! Children are easy to kill. It is one of their advantages.”
Then one of the other voices said, “The traitor ninja turned him, Lord Oda.”
“Turned him?” said Oda, horrified.
“Yes. It’s much harder to kill a vampire child than a human child.”
There was the sound of a person sucking on their teeth, thoughtfully, then a sigh. “Still,” said Oda. “You failed, whether the boy was turned or not. You have shamed your clan, and my family name.” There was a loud slashing sound, then screams, then silence.
Ito stood for a long time, worrying. He had been summoned; he was expected quickly. And yet Oda was clearly involved in some kind of dispute, perhaps with his retainers. Perhaps it would be best to come back later? No. His presence was requested. Ito swallowed, and found that his throat was constricted and dry. He raised his hand and knocked, lightly, on the door. A small part of his mind hoped that something was wrong, that he would be sent away and told that Oda was not available today. Then he could polish the sword a little more, work on the etching to the hand guard so that it caught the light just so.
“Come in,” said Lord Oda.
Ito entered, keeping his eyes low so as not to cause offense.
“Look up,” said the lord.
Ito looked up and saw, to his astonishment, that Lord Oda was smiling. The daimyo stood in front of a tall shoji window from which the paper had been ripped, so that he was lit by a shaft of light as sharp and narrow as the sword in Ito’s hands. Several retainers stood against the walls, watching. In the middle of the room was a shaven-headed man who stood with his hands bound behind his back, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. He was trembling.
Lying on the ground, curled in various attitudes of agony, were a number of men in black clothes, obviously dead, their faces obscured by black silk scarves and hoods. Smoke rose in lazy spirals from their bodies and hung in dark motes in the bright light.
Ninjas.
“Don’t look on them,” said Oda. “They are unworthy to be looked on, or remembered. They failed in their duty to me. I trust that will not be true of you. They say you are the best sword smith in the region. That had better be true.” He waved a hand, and retainers began dragging the bodies from the room.
Oda held out his left hand to Ito, and for a moment the sword smith just stood there, mouth open, staring at the lord’s shriveled right arm, which hung uselessly at his side. Ito saw that the rumors were true: Lord Oda was lame. They said he had been struck in the shoulder with a sword while fighting in the glorious rout of Yoshimoto’s larger army. The wound had severed tendons and nerves; now the arm was thinner than the other and Nobunaga couldn’t use it.
Someone had told Ito that it was a woman who had wounded Lord Oda—a ninja woman, at that. But he tried not even to think this idea, so blasphemous was the suggestion that a mere woman could inflict such harm on the great daimyo. Already, he had half-convinced himself that the report had been a dream.
It was also said—and Ito still remembered this part—that the lord’s private physician had begun the preparations for an amputation, Oda himself being unconscious at the time. When the unfortunate doctor began to cut into the flesh of the damaged arm, Oda had awoken suddenly and flown into one of his legendary rages. Taking his sword, with which he had killed so many sword masters in so many duels, granting him the title of sword saint, he had chopped off each of the physician’s limbs, leaving only his head and torso. Then he had cauterized the wounds with a brand from the fire, and instructed his servants to bring the doctor back to the castle, there to prop him on a seat behind a curtain and feed and water him whenever required. In this way, said Oda, he would have the perfect physician: one capable of dispensing advice but not action. For action was the preserve of the samurai class, and was only to be entered into on the express orders of the lord.
After that, Lord Oda had canceled all his activities other than the most essential, such as eating, sleeping, and torturing informants. He had dedicated his waking hours to training his left arm, making it as strong as his right had been. After a month, the great sword fighter Musashi had sought Oda out, thinking the time had come for the greatest of sword saints to be brought low. Oda had disarmed him, then dishonored him by ordering him to remain alive, and refusing him the release of suicide.
The sword saint had discovered something new: His left hand might be weaker, but it was faster.
Lord Oda coughed, and Ito, startled, raised his eyes from the wasted arm to the lord’s face. Oda glowered at him, proffering his hand, and Ito understood that the lord wished him to hand over the sword. He unwrapped the soft oiled fabric and took out the sword, giving it to the daimyo.
“A sword of blood, or a sword of peace?” asked Oda. “Should I find a stream in which to test it?”
Ito thought how to answer. He had trained under the great sword smith Muramasa, who was known for creating bloodthirsty blades. But Muramasa himself had trained under Masamune, known for his peaceful weapons. It was said that one day Muramasa grew too bold and claimed that he was as good as his master. So Masamune took him to a stream in the mountains, next to a forest of great fir trees. He lowered his best sword, Yawakara-Te, or Gentle Hands, into the water, and bade Muramasa do the same with his own blade, Juuchi Fyu, or Ten Thousand Winters. The pupil’s sword cut everything that flowed toward it. Fish, leaves, twigs were all severed and split asunder. Yet nothing was cut by Gentle Hands—indeed, the leaves and fish simply swished around it, unharmed. Even the air hissed as it glided gently past the blade.
After a while, Muramasa began to scoff at his master: Surely no one could claim to be a great sword smith, whose swords would cut nothing, not even the air. But just then a monk was passing on the opposite bank. Masamune hailed him, keeping Gentle Hands all the while in the current next to his pupil’s sword.
When they had exchanged pleasantries, the monk asked Masamune if he knew of a way to cross the stream, for it was very deep in parts and not easily traversed. “I’m afraid not,” said Masamune. “But please, tarry awhile to judge a contest between myself and my apprentice. Which of these swords would you say is greater?” The monk kneeled on the bank and watched as Ten Thousand Winters sliced through frogs, fish, and leaves, and Gentle Hands only stirred up eddies in the water. Threads of blood billowed in the water from Ten Thousand Winters, as if red silk ribbons had been tied to the blade.
“That sword is greater,” the monk said, pointing at Gentle Hands. “The other is a brutal sword, good only for killing, and indiscriminate. It will cut a butterfly as happily as it will sever a head. But this sword”—he gestured again at Gentle Hands—“is more thoughtful. This is a sword that would hesitate before cutting that which is innocent or undeserving of harsh treatment.”
Muramasa scoffed again and drew Ten Thousand Winters from the stream, sheathing it. “My master has simply made a sword that is blunt,” he said. “Anyone could do that.”
At that, Masamune turned suddenly and whipped Gentle Hands around in a circle. The blade passed through the trunk of a great oak tree behind the pair, as if the trunk—which was as wide as two men standing side by side—were made of water. Masamune sheathed the sword, then walked to the other side of the tree and, very gently, pushed. It fell over the stream with a loud crash, its trunk neatly severed. The monk bowed, and used the new bridge to cross to the side where the two sword smiths stood, one a little more flushed than the other.
Lord Oda blinked, and Ito realized that he had taken too long to reply. A sword of peace, or a sword of blood? If he said “peace” he would be true to the legend about his master and his master’s own master, for had not Masamune won the contest with his sword of peace? And had n
ot Muramasa changed his style of construction in the years following, to make his blades more careful? Yet Oda was a fearsome general and known for his martial prowess. He might be insulted to be given a peaceful weapon. Worse, though, would be to call it a blade of blood and risk insulting the lord even more, for as a Zen Buddhist, Oda was supposed not to kill anyone.
Ito took a deep breath. “It is neither, my lord. That is to say, it is either. Whatever you wish it to be, this sword will become. If you wish it to kill, it will kill. If you wish it to be just, it will be just.” Ito was a craftsman, and saw no point in lying about his skill. “It is the greatest sword I ever made.”
Oda grunted and lifted the blade, examining the whole length of gleaming steel. He hefted it and gave it a tentative spin in his hand. Then, without warning, he turned and decapitated the prisoner standing in the middle of the room. The man’s body crumpled to the ground. His head hit the floor and bounced, surprisingly loudly, to the wall. When it stopped, the eyes were facing Ito. The sword smith saw them blink several times, even with the head separated like that from the body. Blood gushed from the neck. A thin line of drool hung from the lower lip. Then the eyelids froze and the open, staring eyes fixed Ito with a look that was part shock and part acceptance.
“Sharp enough,” said Oda. “How much do you want for it?”
Ito looked around wildly, yet everywhere he looked the eyes of the severed head seemed to follow him, challenging him to come up with an acceptable reply.
This was bad.
The retainer, when he had come, had agreed on a price, of course. This was why Ito was stumped. He had thought the deal was done.
An architect in Oda’s employ, hired to rebuild a shrine on the Oda land, had been stabbed to death when he’d requested an insultingly high price. A merchant had been killed for offering Oda a silk kimono for his wife that had previously been offered to Yoshimoto’s concubine.